Relic by Steve Whibley Page A

to me. “You almost ready? I’ll drop you three off at your group meeting a little early, and you can swing by the museum on your way home.”
    My dad came in from outside a second later. He had a newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He folded the paper in half, took a careful sip of his coffee and said, “So you say you didn’t try to hurt that monk yesterday?”
    I sighed. “C’mon, Dad. I already told you I didn’t. Ask anyone.”
    My dad nodded. “Anyone?” He seemed almost amused as he dropped the paper to the table so we could all see the front page. The headline made me groan: “Local Hero Attacks Monk.” Underneath was a picture of me connecting a wicked elbow to the side of the young monk’s head.
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    After a week of protests over the Abbotsford Museum’s new Buddhist exhibit, tensions reached a boiling point when local hero Dean Curse got into a fistfight with one of the protestors: a Cambodian monk. Witnesses say it was unclear who started the scuffle, but there was no question who finished it.
    â€œ I think the monk tackled Dean to the ground,” one bystander reported. “But that boy wasn’t going down without a fight.”
    This reporter managed to speak to one of Dean Curse’s schoolmates, Eric Feldman, who said, “Dean’s unstable. He killed an animal with a fork once and bragged about it. I’m not surprised at all that he beat up a monk.”
    The curator of the museum, Mr. Jonathan Overton, said that the boys got into a little scuffle that was settled by their respective families. No property was damaged, and no one was injured.
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    Lisa looked at me pitifully. “Why the heck did they interview Eric?”
    â€œI’m sure he volunteered,” I said, groaning.
    â€œAt least it’s a great shot,” Colin said. “And to be fair to Eric, you do look like a crazy person.”
    â€œGreat,” I said. “Just great.”
    Becky shouldered her way past me holding a pair of scissors, and in a flash, she chopped the article out and held it up with a smirk. “I think I might keep a collection of crazy things Dean does,” she said. “That way when the judge asks why we think he needs to be locked up, we’ll have lots of proof.”
    â€œCan we please just go?” I asked.

Chapter 11
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    Group therapy was held in a dance studio, which, I have to admit, always worried me a bit. Our psychologist, Dr. Mickelsen, was a bit of a weirdo and I constantly wondered if he’d try to get us to dance about our feelings. Colin used to joke that a dance about an exploded teacher would be hilarious, but Lisa didn’t really like those jokes so he only said stuff like that when we were alone. Most of the other therapy kids were already in the studio when we arrived, milling around, chatting near the circle of chairs.
    â€œHi, Dean.” I turned and found myself facing Rylee Davis. She was a year older, in the tenth grade. She had dark hair with blonde streaks, and really big green eyes.
    â€œOh, hi, Rylee.” I swallowed. “How’s it going?”
    She smiled. “Good.”
    Colin stepped closer to me. “Hi, Rylee.”
    She nodded to Colin and gave Lisa a little wave. Then she pointed at my leg. “You got your cast off.”
    â€œOh, um, yeah. Doctors said it was all healed up, so…”
    Rylee leaned close. Close enough that I could smell her watermelon lip gloss. “I saw the paper,” she whispered.
    I winced.
    â€œDon’t worry,” she said, “I know they exaggerate. It’s good to see your leg’s okay, though.” She smiled again and then turned and joined up with a couple other girls from the group.
    â€œI can’t believe Rylee Davis just came over and talked to you,” Colin said. “She approached you . And that’s sweet for two reasons.”
    I laughed nervously.