“What you want me to do, walk around with a mirror?” Weed sassed him.

Mr. Pretty might have let Weed go on to class, but Mr. Pretty was pissed and decided to draw things out.

“Let’s see, I believe you’re in my third period,” he said. “You remember what we talked about on Friday?”

Weed didn’t remember anything about Friday except that he wasn’t looking forward to spending the weekend with his father.

“Ah. Maybe this will jog your memory,” Mr. Pretty said curtly. “What happened in 1556?”

Weed’s nerves were tangling and popping. He could hear Mrs. Fan’s voice through her shut door. She was passing out the quiz and going over instructions.

“Come on, I know you know it.” Mr. Pretty picked on Weed some more. “What happened?”

“A war.” Weed threw out the first thing that came to mind.

“A fairly safe guess since there were so many of them. But you’re wrong. Fifteen fifty-six was when Akbar became emperor of India.”

“Is it okay if I go in Mrs. Fan’s class now?”

“And then what?” Mr. Pretty demanded. “What happened next?”

“What?”

“I asked you first.”

“About what?” Weed was getting furious.

“About what happened next?” Mr. Pretty asked.

“Depends on what you mean by next,” Weed smarted off.

“Next as in what’s next in the chronology of events that I handed out to every person in my class,” Mr. Pretty answered with an edge. “Of course, you probably never looked at it.”

“I did too. And it says right on it we don’t have to memorize nothing unless it’s in bold, and the India thing and what happened next ain’t in bold.”

“Oh really?” Mr. Pretty got haughty. “And how can you remember whether something was in bold or not if you don’t remember anything in the first place?”

“I remember when something’s in bold!” Weed raised his voice, as if he were suddenly talking in bold.

“No you don’t!”

“Yes I do!”

Mr. Pretty angrily grabbed a ballpoint pen out of his shirt pocket. He began scribbling words on the Hall Duty passes and no passes sheet.

“All right, smarty pants,” said Mr. Pretty as self-control slipped further out of reach. “I’ve written down ten words, some in bold, some not. You get one minute to look them over.”

He handed the list to Weed: forfend, effigy, pogrom, Versailles, mead, Fabergé, Fabian, Waterloo, edict, pact.Not one word was familiar. Mr. Pretty snatched back the list.

“Which words were in bold?” Mr. Pretty demanded.

“I can’t pronunciate them.”

“Versailles,” Mr. Pretty prodded him.

Weed looked at the list in his head and located the only word that began with a V.

“Fourth one, not in bold,” he said.

“Pogrom!”

“Third, not in bold.”

“Fabian!” Mr. Pretty fired back.

“He’s four before last. Not in bold, either.”

“Effigy!” Mr. Pretty blurted out, his attractive face distorted by anger.

“It’s in bold,” Weed said. “Just like five and ten are.”

“Oh really?” Mr. Pretty was beside himself. “And just what are five and ten since you think you know so much?”