Next Monday, both the twins were out of school. Tuesday, ditto. Then on Wednesday, halfway through homeroom, Adele slumped into class. She looked exhausted. There were heavy bags under her eyes, and her wrists were naked — no bangles today. Mrs. Bleyer nodded a wary welcome, and gestured at an empty seat near me. “Here she comes, boys,” Blake murmured, from the corner. “The Wicked Witch of the East.” Adele shut her eyes and slid into the desk, opening her notebook with a thud.

“Don’t eat anything she gives you,” Blake said, a little louder. Mrs. Bleyer sighed a loud and pointed sigh.

“What kind of witchy spell did your mom have to cast to get you into the family?” hissed Blake. “Huh? Huh? Look at me when I’m talking to you, housekeeper’s daughter.” Then, a ball of wadded paper sailed through the air and, with a soft thud, hit Adele on the back.

“Honor roll, you are not,” Adele growled. Her eyes were still fixed on her paper.

“What was that?” Suddenly, Blake was standing. He’d filled out over the summer, and didn’t seem to know how to hold his new muscular arms, or the excess energy that came with them. His eyes were so wide you could see whites all around his pupils. Finally, Mrs. Bleyer glanced up. “Alright, you two. That’s enough,” she said. rewrite is first preson