Page 1 of Warrior

Prologue

Colt, age 8

Numbers are the worst. Being in second grade is even worse. School just stinks. All I want is to be at home, hanging out with my older brother, Alex, and his friends. Alex is done with school now and laughs at me all the time about how much school I have left. He’s eighteen and I’m eight. My mom likes to joke about how much of a surprise I was. I never minded having an older brother. I always get to see his baseball games and he’s been showing me how to throw a football. I don’t care that I can’t share his clothes or that we can’t watch the same movies. He watches what I want anyways. Alex lets me hang out with him and his friends. Some of them have college classes that don’t start until noon and Alex is taking a semester off while he saves money. So they’re at our house all the time, drinking my juice boxes and playing poker. Now that summer is over, my mom put the kibosh on how late I can stay up with them.

No offense to Ms. Butterfield, my teacher is actually very nice, but numbers are not my strong suit. All my friends agree with me that having math first thing in the morning is horrible. I’m not even sure my brain is awake half the time when I first get here. She’s at the white board with her back to us and missesthe cross-eyed look I give to my best friend Zane Thompson, who then pretends to flick boogers at me. He’s disgusting. My hand covers my mouth to hide my laugh, the desk shaking from holding it in, and Zane’s face is scrunched up from trying to hold his own laugh in.

I’m about to burst when Mr. Cobb, the other second grade teacher next door, comes flying into our room. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar and he looks upset. Are those tears in his eyes? Ms. Butterfield looks startled. He walks up to her and they talk in whispers. Our classroom starts to get antsy, everyone shifting in their seats. I have to fight the urge to turn to Zane and start talking.

Ms. Butterfield’s face turns pink and her head falls to Mr. Cobb’s chest; she makes a noise that sounds like what my mom does when she’s watchingSteel Magnoliasfor the hundredth time. Mr. Cobb pats her on the back before she steps away and grabs her purse from under her desk.

“Ah, class, Ms. Butterfield is going to be leaving for the rest of the day. I will be sitting in until your substitute can arrive.” Mr. Cobb is talking, but I can’t take my eyes off Ms. Butterfield. Red splotches are decorating her cheeks and tears are just running down her face. With her bag over her shoulder, her free hand twists the ring on her finger over and over while she walks past all our desks and leaves the room. The door smacks shut and the room quiets.

“Well, I need to make you all aware of what is going on. Something terrible has happened in the State of New York. This may be hard for you to understand, but it’s going to be something you hear about all day. Someday your children will learn about it in a history book.” He paces in front of our class before pulling down the huge United States map from above our white board.

“Now...” He takes a look at us. “Which state do we live in?”

Cherise Mobile, our class know-it-all, raises her hand first. I roll my eyes when she’s called on. “We live in Tennessee, Mr. Cobb,” her sickeningly sweet voice answers.

He nods his head. “We do. And can anyone point out on the map where New York is?”

To my surprise, Zane’s hand flies up in the air next. Mr. Cobb raises his brow, like he’s about as unsure as I am that Zane actually knows the answer. “Come point it out for us, Mr. Thompson.”

My friend whispers “yes” under his breath and swaggers his way to the front of the class. Yes, for an eight-year-old, he has swagger. I think it looks like he’s limping, but he gets touchy about it when you ask him. When he gets in front of the map, his eyes trail over it before he jumps off his feet and his hand slaps the top right corner. “There.”

Mr. Cobb nods his head approvingly. “That is correct, Mr. Thompson. Please head back to your seat.”

With a giant smile on his face, Zane sits down next to me. Cherise looks over at him and humphs, just jealous he got the answer I bet. Her hand shoots up again.

“Yes, Miss Mobile?”

“What happened in New York? Why did Ms. Butterfield leave?” she asks. It’s an innocent question, yet Mr. Cobb’s face becomes grim. He looks sad and I swear I see tears in his eyes too.

“We live in America, correct? What do you know about our country?” he asks, hands sliding into his pockets.

Andy, the kid behind me, raises his hand. “My dad says we’re the best country in the world.”

Mr. Cobb chuckles. “While some may feel that way, there are countries and people in the world who don’t agree. Sadly, some groups of people chose to act on their dislike for our country. This morning two airplanes crashed into the WorldTrade Center Twin Towers. People are hurt, and the news is broadcasting this heavily. It is not believed to be an accident. As you move about the school today, you’re going to hear more and more about what happened, what’s next, and the tragedy that will be left. My job as a teacher is to make sure you’re safe and protected. If you have questions, I will try my best to answer them. I also encourage you to talk to your parents when you get home.”

Mr. Cobb ends his speech, his chin to his chest; the man looks defeated. I heard every word he said. My brain is scrambling to picture a plane crashing into a building. In the next minute, our classroom television is turned on to the news station.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur. I don’t remember learning much. Each hour, the news reports something different. Teachers are in and out of our classroom all day, covering for Ms. Butterfield, and using their lunch time to sit with us. A few of the teachers attempt our lessons, but they can’t hold our attention. Seeing a plane crash into a building over and over again is not something I can forget. My eyes widen. I feel instantly terrified for my dad who works in a tall building downtown. I keep hearing words I don’t understand. Terrorists. Death. Patriotism. I know my goldfish died once, and my mom said it went to heaven. Are these people like my goldfish? What if they don’t believe in heaven like my mom? At the end of the day, our principal comes in to tell us that Ms. Butterfield’s father worked in one of the towers in New York. She will be on leave, and we will have a substitute teacher until she returns.

Zane is just as quiet as I am by the time our bus picks us up to take us home. His brow is tense, like he’s thinking really hard. I hand him half of the granola bar I had saved and he takes it, eating without speaking. His eyes just remain focused on theground. I cannot wait to get home. My mind is screaming with questions. I hope Alex is around.

I jump off the bus as quickly as possible and run into the house. The door closes loudly behind me. I wince, waiting for my mom’s reaction, but I don’t hear anything except for the television coming from the living room. Walking quietly into the room, I see my mom standing in front of the screen, a dish towel wrapped in her hands.

“Mom?” I say quietly, almost afraid I’ll spook her.

She turns to me, wiping tears off her cheeks. “Hey, honey.”

“Why are you crying?” I ask, concerned. My head swivels to the table where I usually have a snack waiting for me.

“Oh, honey.” She moves to me and her arms pull my body into a hug. “I just can’t believe this. I’m so happy you’re okay.”

I shift back and see she’s crying again. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

She sniffles and stands up, a watery chuckle leaves her lips. “How about a snack?”

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