Over the Line

By Jean Ziegler

Sixth graders Max and Brett are starting middle school with great expectations. Theyre lucky enough to be in the same homeroom with their teacher, Mrs. Dempsey. The boys quickly become the teachers pets while pulling typical teen pranks in the classroom and on field trips. They seem to be able to get away with quite a bit, even when they step over the line. While Mrs. Dempsey appreciates their intelligence, humor, and compelling personalities, the school year quickly becomes a nightmare for them. Mrs. Dempsey is being watched by someone who will ultimately place them all in inexplicable danger. Max and Brett must rely on their quick thinking and ingenious ideas, all while hoping to stay alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 18, 2005
• ISBN: 9781467065962

Jean Ziegler

Jean Ziegler is a middle school teacher in Madison, Wisconsin.  She is a veteran teacher of more than 15 years, and teaches reading, language arts and social studies at Toki Middle School.  Over the Line is her first novel for teens, and was inspired by two former students.   She lives in Dane, Wisconsin with her husband. 

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© 2005 Jean Ziegler. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/14/05

ISBN: 1-4208-8500-6 (sc)

ISBN: 9781467065962 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2005908314

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

EPILOGUE

For my family.

And for Max and Brett-

Thanks for the inspiration and for being my first editors.

Chapter 1

BRETT

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My dad says he can’t remember much from his childhood. He claims that the older we get, the more our memories fade. He says not to worry, because with time, what happened to me will seem like some dream I had. You know, the kind of dream you wake up from, and although the details are blurry, you still know that you were scared, or angry, or being chased, or laughing, or crying. Or the kind of dream that seems so real at that exact moment in time, right when you become conscious of your sleeping thoughts. But later the same morning, you can’t even remember what you were acting like such a baby for, turning on the light and checking behind the closet door. I know our parents are supposed to know more than we do, but I have to say, I really don’t agree with my dad on this one. I can’t imagine not remembering sixth grade. Most people say that school days seem to run together from one monotonous year to the next. Maybe I can’t remember when I first learned to read or write my name. Maybe I can’t remember who sat next to me on the bus to kindergarten. Maybe I can’t remember how much it hurt when I broke my arm in third grade. Maybe I can’t remember the kid’s name who threw up on the teacher’s desk in fifth grade. But I swear to you, I remember sixth grade. I remember every detail like it happened to me yesterday. I remember walking into the classroom on that first day of school. I remember my teacher, Mrs. Dempsey, and how at first, I thought her class would be hard. Don’t get me wrong, she gave us tons of work, but she was also hilarious, and cool, and sometimes strict, and well, she ended up helping to save my life. So, maybe that’s why I remember sixth grade. What happened to us was traumatic as the psychologist who treated me said. We all suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. At least that’s what every doctor and professional said. But they had no idea what it was like for us that day. No one could know unless they lived it. And no amount of talking about what happened, no matter how many times we had to relive the details for the cops, or tell the lawyers in the courtroom exactly what happened, the memories don’t fade. They don’t become fuzzy and they certainly don’t seem like a dream. The day the incident happened is as clear to me now as it was when we were sitting there in the classroom hoping to come out alive. Sorry, Dad, you aren’t right about this.

Chapter 2

MAX

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I hate my older brother. No, seriously, he’s a huge jerk. Last year I kicked him so hard I broke his hand. Now today, my dad can’t take me to school like he promised he would, so he’s put my brother in charge of making sure Maxwell gets to his class for the first day of middle school. God, how totally humiliating. Who wants to be seen with their older brother in middle school? I might as well call my mom and have her hold my hand. It would be the same level of embarrassment. My parents are divorced, and actually my mom probably would take me to school, but this week we’re staying with my dad. My dad doesn’t get it. I’m sure he was totally cool when he was in school, and never worried about stuff like finding the right classroom or how to survive the next year with a stupid eighth grade brother watching everything you do.

When we get off the bus, I tell my brother to, Leave me the hell alone, I can find my own way. Secretly, I’m hoping to immediately find one of my friends, because only a total loser walks through the hallway by himself. I see a few kids I know from elementary school, but I see even more kids I don’t know from all the other schools that feed into Ridgeway Memorial Middle School. I feel someone shove me from behind. It’s Brett, who I’ve known since kindergarten. Thank God it’s him, and not my stupid brother. When we check the class lists in the gym, we find out we’re in the same homeroom, Mrs. Dempsey. I never heard of her. My brother had Mrs. Bronson when he was in sixth grade. She was old and everyone hated her. My brother actually got suspended for a day for telling her to f-off.

Please, please, let my teacher not be old and boring. Please! When we find room 15, this lady, who we guess is the teacher, is greeting some parents and kids at her door. She seems young, but not too young and she’s smiling at the parents and shaking their hands. Well, I’m not fooled by that. Teachers always act all nice around parents, but believe me, when the door closes, they can turn into a completely different person. Turns out Brett and I make an awesome first impression on the rest of the class, because we arrived without our parents. We look totally cool and unbothered about starting middle school. If only they knew what we were really thinking.

Chapter 3

MRS. DEMPSEY

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Okay, chalk, overhead markers, tape, glue sticks. Better take some extra glue sticks, those always run out before anything else. I’m in the supply room fifteen minutes before my new class of 25 students arrives for the first day of school. Middle school. The ego-centric years, as teachers so fondly call them. Girls are worried about who’s gossiping about them. Or worse yet, if no one is gossiping about them at all. Boys are in a perpetual fog. They’ve discovered girls, who could potentially like them, so being cool is of the utmost importance. Clothes, hair, locker partners, who’s going to sit with me in the cafeteria? All these seem much more important than the academic part of middle school. As a veteran teacher of 10 years, I know this. And not surprisingly, I can remember my own painful years in middle school. People say I’m crazy to teach pre-teens. Adolescence is so horrible, they all say with disgusted looks on their faces.

Yes, but it’s so much more horrible for the parents. My kids won’t talk to me. They roll their eyes at me. They say I don’t understand. I can’t help them with their homework anymore, it’s too hard. They spend all night on the phone or on the computer with their friends. My daughter cries at the drop of a hat. My son won’t be caught dead in public with me anymore. They’re rude, they talk back. Where are the manners I know I taught them? What happened to the sweet, adorable, lovable child who would hold my hand and hug me just a few short years ago?

I’ve heard that all a thousand times from parents. I, myself, am not a parent. My husband John and I are not able to have children. Perhaps this is what drew me to teaching in the first place. Each year I meet about 50 new students who become like my own children. At least for six hours a day and 182 days out of a year. Some I love, some I hate. Some make me laugh, some make me cry. Some nights I lose sleep worrying about them and the choices they make, much like I imagine their parents do. At times I am sure that I know more about what their kids are up to than they do. It’s a strange phenomenon, these middle school years. Surprisingly, kids often confide more in their teachers than they do their own parents. Perhaps it’s because there’s no chance I will tattle on them to their parents. Perhaps it’s because I do not have the authority to punish them as their parents surely would, if they only knew. Maybe it’s because at times, I don’t feel like a grown-up myself. Grown-ups have kids of their own and go to soccer games, Girl Scout meetings, doctor’s appointments, and swimming lessons. Since I don’t have kids of my own, I don’t always feel like a grown-up. Sure, I have the husband, the mortgage, the taxes. But not having kids of my own has led me to become the kind of teacher that knows things about her students, that maybe another teacher who is also a parent, might not know. I believe that if my time outside of school was filled up with activities for my own kids, I would leave all thoughts of school behind when I left each day. But since that is not the case, I spend time wondering what my students are up to after they leave me and hoping I made even a slight difference to somebody, anybody that I taught that day. Mostly I find out things about my students because I ask them. It’s that simple. I really care about what they’re doing and I know that what happens outside of school can have a huge impact on what happens in my classroom.

People who are not, or have never been a teacher, don’t get the magnitude of a first day of school. I meet 50 new kids every September 1st. Twenty-five are in my homeroom, and 25 I have later in the day whom I share with my teaching partner, Frank Randel. I can think of no other job where you meet 50 new people one day, work along side them for nine months, then start all over again with 50 new people. Sure, in the medical profession, a doctor might see, what, 15 to 20 patients each day? They may even follow their patients from year to year as they grow up or grow old. But they don’t see them every day for a stretch of two or three hours. They don’t know when their patient has a birthday party, or gets a new pet, or wins a football game. They don’t know when a girl has her first kiss or a boy gets contact lenses after begging his parents for two years. They might know who just got braces, but they don’t know who’s succeeding in school or who’s always in trouble. They say good-bye at the end of an appointment and probably forget that patient’s name until the next time he arrives in his office and his name is printed at the top of a medical chart.

They’re funny things, those first days of school. Within the first 45 minutes, I can tell what kind of a school year I will have with a group of kids. I can tell who’s going to be funny, who’s shy, who’s bold. I can tell who will drive me crazy with incessant questions. I can tell who will succeed and who will fail. I can even catch a glimpse of who will become a successful or famous adult. I can tell if I will be stressed time and time again, or if I will have the kind of year that will just fly by.

So, on this first day of school, when the bell rings and I introduce myself to those twenty-five anxious faces, I knew this would be a year with incomprehensible consequences. Why? I’m not sure I can even put my finger on it. What I do know is that my hands are shaking as I pass out my getting to know you questionnaire. This is ridiculous, because this is my eleventh first day of school. I have been here and done this many times before. There is something in the air this year. Right now there are not one or two students who are standing out in the crowd, but I feel something. A presence maybe, that can’t be explained. Mostly it’s excitement about making a fresh start, but then something outside catches my eye. I swear it’s just the wind, blowing something by the window, but why do I feel a chill run up my spine for just a moment? It passes quickly, but it’s filled with a sense of apprehension. The kind of feeling that makes your heart skip a beat and makes you look behind you. It’s the adrenaline rush that brings on the fight or flight response. It passes so quickly, that I’m not sure it even really happened. It’s probably just the nervous energy in the room that’s magnified by the twenty-five kids who are scared to death about starting middle school. Maybe it’s just the heat, since the temperature in the room is already rising in our non-air conditioned school. Whatever it is, it slips out of my mind as quickly as it arrived and doesn’t return until weeks later.

Chapter 4

BRETT

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Mrs. Dempsey just passed out some kind of questionnaire to the class. This is supposed to help her get to know us. My philosophy about these kinds of things, is to write down what