Cheating for the Chicken Man by Priscilla Cummings Page B

include plot, setting, and dialogue,” Mr. Ellison said, his deep voice upbeat, enthusiastic. He didn’t refer to notes as he spoke. “You’re also going to keep journals.”
    This class would be amazing, Kate thought. She had read on the school website that Mr. Ellison was new to Corsica High School. Previously, he’d been a middle school English teacher in Montana. Kate had never been farther west than Toledo, Ohio, where her grandparents once lived. Reading Mr. Ellison’s bio on the website, she had pictured snowcapped mountains with snarling cougars and open plains with wild horses running.
    â€œEvery day we will begin this class with fifteen minutes of freewriting,” Mr. Ellison announced. “I’ll give you a prompt. I may write a word on the board or put an object on my desk, and you’ll respond by writing continuously for fifteen minutes. The whole idea is to move that pen in your hands and see where you end up.”
    He pushed aside some papers and sat on the corner of his desk. Kate was surprised, but she liked his informality.
    â€œThis will help you get in the habit of writing every day,” he said. “Second, it will help you get in the writing
mood
.”
    Honors English and Creative Writing were going to be her two favorite classes; she could feel it already.
    â€œLet’s start right now,” Mr. Ellison said. “Take out your journals. If you don’t have one, raise your hand, and I’ll give youa piece of paper. Write about what you’re thinking right now. What do you expect from this class?”
    Kate rummaged through her backpack and took out the notebook she had carefully chosen as her journal for Creative Writing class. It was identical to the one in which she’d written all summer. She liked that notebook. It had a dark blue cover, narrow lines on the pages, and three cardboard inserts that divided the notebook into sections. Each insert had a pocket that Kate imagined using for ideas she had jotted down on colored index cards.
    â€œEveryone—
p
lease
—begin,” Mr. Ellison said. “I’m not going to collect and read these journals. Just relax and write whatever comes into your head.”
    Kate began:
    I’m going to
love this class, be
cause I hope to be a
writer. I mean, fir
st of all I want to
work with animals so
mehow, like maybe sa
ving endangered anim
als. But I want to b
e a writer, too. I l
ove finding the righ
t word to describe s
omething. Like stoic for my father durin
g his years of kidne
y dialysis. And indefatigable for my gra
ndmother, who is sev
enty and never seems
to run out of energ
y.
Kate paused.
    â€œBe honest!” Mr. Ellison encouraged them.
    It
’s my brother
, Kate began slowly.
It’s l
ike a nightmare comi
ng true. At lunch to
day someone threw a
carton of milk
 . . .
    *
    After school, Kate met up with Jess for junior varsity field hockey practice and was relieved to hear Olivia didn’t want to join the team after all. She felt a little guilty thinking this, but now, she figured, she could totally focus on the game. All of theeighth-grade season she’d been the goalie, and she was excited that the high school coach was letting her try out for a different position. Halfback, maybe, where she could actually run and drive the ball. Their first game was coming up in a couple weeks, and Kate hoped she’d be one of the starters in a new position. For nearly two hours, Kate focused only on the drills, driving the ball up the field and whacking it into the goal. Afterward, Jess’s mother gave Kate a ride home.
    As she walked toward the house, Kate could hear Kerry’s singsong voice from inside the house. Her little sister had been so excited about second grade. Was it all she expected? Kate was eager to find out what was for dinner, too, and hoped it was her grandmother’s spicy stuffed peppers she smelled.
    J.T. sat on the front steps, but