Color Coded

By Katie Proctor

At Mountain View Middle School, everyone knows everyone else's business.

 

Green. Yellow. Red. Regardless of what is happening in your life, your status and access are determined by the card that hangs around your neck. Principal Fowler delights in giving demerits and knocking her prisoners (students) down a color.

 

Five discouraged and beaten down students are thrown together one day when everything goes wrong, and they are locked in a closet during a tornado warning. Five strangers enter, but they leave as one—determined to bring down the system.

 

Color Coded is a don't-miss adventure of misfits and mettle in the vein of The Breakfast Club meets Louis Sachar's Holes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fawkes Press
• Release date: Mar 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781957529028

Book preview

Y ou’re late, Mr. Montrose.

My mouth goes dry and I find I am unable to respond to the large, sharp-faced woman standing in front of me, her bushy eyebrows raised, arms crossed over her chest. Mrs. Fowler’s words may sound polite, but the way her face is twisted into a gleeful sneer only intensifies my sense of impending doom. The triumph in her eyes makes me sick to my stomach.

You know what this means.

Next to me, Alli squeezes my hand. During the car ride, in which she drove way too fast and rolled through at least three stop signs, she’d explained that she couldn’t sweet talk us out of this one. Not only is Mrs. Fowler the harshest human being in the form of a middle school principal I have ever known, she is also my big sister’s boss. So, we are both late, but only barely. The tardy bell just rang one second ago.

The worst part is, this is my third strike. And you know what they say about three strikes.

Mrs. Fowler’s beady eyes glance down at the lanyard around my neck. My whole body is frozen, like I am watching the scene unfold from the outside. In my head, I’m screaming, don’t let her take your card! But I know my face shows nothing. No emotion, no movement, just frozen. Alli gently takes the lanyard from my neck and presents the barcode on my student ID to Mrs. Fowler. Alli’s eyes are full of apology and empathy—she knows as well as I do what is going on inside my mind.

I hear the beep of Mrs. Fowler’s handheld scanner and can’t look as it brings up the results of the scan. I know what it’s going to say. But knowing something dreadful is about to happen doesn’t ever soften the blow when it actually does.

Alli squeezes my hand again but stays quiet. She’s in trouble, too, and just because she’s a full-on grown up—and a mom—doesn’t mean she’s any less afraid of Mrs. Fowler. The woman is terrifying.

You see, Mrs. Fowler says, pointing to a poster on the wall displaying the rules of the school, three strikes and you’re demoted to a yellow card. You’ll do well to remember that in the future, Mr. Montrose.

She pauses, waiting for my response. Alli nudges me with her elbow, and I manage to squeak out a Yes, ma’am, before I take my lanyard from Alli with shaking fingers. I slip the green card of the plastic badge holder and hand it to Mrs. Fowler. We stand there in awkward silence as I stare at the yellow card left behind in its place.

And— Mrs. Fowler’s not done, apparently. Miss Montrose, how disappointed I am in you. This will go on your permanent record. The only reason I’ve been so forgiving until now is that you do not have a class first period. But, don’t you think the students of Mountain View deserve to have a librarian who is punctual and organized?

She over-enunciates the words punctual and organized to really drive the point home.

There are no words to fully express my dislike of this woman.

Alli looks down at her feet, my normally strong and independent sister put in her place by this monster. If I was able to focus on anything other than this stupid yellow card I have to wear around my neck for the rest of the nine weeks or the wrath I will face when I bring it home, I’d be so angry. Nobody treats my sister like this.

Even if this is all her fault in the first place.

Yes ma’am. It won’t happen again. Satisfied, Mrs. Fowler walks away from us, scanner in hand, searching for her next victim. Tardies are her favorite thing to monitor. You might think she’d be more forgiving because of the raging thunderstorm and pouring rain outside, but you’d be wrong.

I look at Alli, who says, William, I’m so, so—, but I cut her off.

I have to get to class. I know it’s cruel to dismiss her like that, but I can’t help it. It’s not fair that I’m getting punished for something that is completely out of my control.

It’s our second tardy in two weeks, and I am never the reason that we are late. Getting my nephew Mac out of the house in the morning lately is a challenge bordering on impossible. He’s doing this new thing where he just sits on the floor and refuses to move, refuses to put shoes on, refuses to open his mouth to get his teeth brushed. Alli says it’s only a phase, but I think the actual reason is that three-year-olds can just be real jerks sometimes.

On the way to class, I practice the breathing techniques that Mr. Burke taught me for when I start to panic. Breathe in, count to three, breathe out, count to three. I drop my cello off in the orchestra room, my arm numb from holding it so long while standing with Mrs. Fowler. Now, I’m really tardy. The breathing helps the knot in my chest loosen, but just before I push open the door to my homeroom class, I see the yellow card hanging from my neck and I stop to run a hand through my hair.

This is not happening.

Not only is my dad going to be livid, but I am also dreading what my classmates will have to say about it.

Someone comes up behind me and practically pushes me through the door. I walk to my seat, not looking at any of the other kids who are sitting on desks and popping gum and passing notes, waiting for announcements to start. I put my backpack down and take out last night’s homework, relieved that no one seemed to notice my late arrival.

But then I feel a tug on my neck and look up to see my ID holder in Butch Garner’s hand. Ooooh, looky looky! Perfect William Montrose lost his green card! What’d you do? Run over Fowler’s cat?

The class erupts in laughter before Mr. Middleton shushes them and we hear the obnoxious jingle signaling the beginning of the morning video announcements. I glance at the clock; announcements are getting started later today. I guess a lot of people were tardy. Mrs. Fowler must have had a field day with that scanner.

My cheeks burn with shame and I clench my fists so tight, I can feel my nails biting into my palms. I hold my breath for so long that I gasp after a minute. I pull a sweaty hand through my hair, tugging it hard enough to feel the pain. I snap the rubber band on my wrist, welcoming the fresh sting.

When student council announcements are over, Mrs. Fowler comes into view on the screen and begins to speak. I stand up on shaking legs, pull my backpack onto my shoulder, and walk out of the room before anyone can say another word to me. I cannot bear to hear the sound of her voice again this morning.

In the hallway, I slide down the tiled wall and cover my ears. Out here, her grating voice is muffled, but not enough, so I shove my pointer fingers in there as hard as I can. I barely register the door to my homeroom class opening, but I do see Mr. Middleton lean down to hand me something—a hall pass with the word Counselor on it. I squeeze my eyes tight.

This can’t be happening to me.

I’ve only flipped out at school once before, and I swore it would never happen again. I’m always the guy who has everything together.

When I hear Mr. Middleton begin class by asking people to turn in homework, I open my eyes. The pass for the counselor is on the floor, between my feet. I take a few more deep breaths before I pick it up and head to Mr. Burke’s office.

I’m almost there when the tornado sirens go off.

Islide into my seat in homeroom with just seconds to spare before the tardy bell and let out a big sigh of relief. I was (almost) late for two reasons. Number one was that the sky outside looked so cool. It was all green and menacing and for a moment, everything was totally still. Of course, that’s usually the time when normal people run for shelter because things are about to get bad.

But I’m not a normal person.

Instead, I stood under the awning outside the front of the school and used my phone to film the sky, the trees, the cars sloshing through the rain, windshield wipers on full blast. I don’t know how I’ll use the footage, but I’ll find something awesome for it.

The second reason I was almost late was that I had to run to the library. Last night I finished an absolutely amazing book and I needed to return it because it was due soon. Also, I needed the second one in the series, like ASAP. But the doors to the library were still locked for some reason, so I walked to homeroom instead.

Take out your homework before announcements, please, so we can get started right away, Ms. Kapoor says. I’m actually pretty pumped to turn in my English paper. I worked really hard on it—analyzing the book I just finished, Cinder, outlining the traits it shares with other fairy tales while highlighting how completely awesome and stereotype-defying Cinder is as a character. Ms. Kapoor’s going to eat it up.

But when I reach into my backpack, all I find is my phone, a sleeve of graham crackers, a half-full jar of peanut butter, and one notebook. Ugh. My paper was tucked into my library book. Then I remember the curve my dad took too tight this morning, the way the tires squealed and we slid for a second in the rain. The book must’ve slid out of my backpack then.

I send a quick text to Dad:

I NEED MY BOOK IT’S IN YOUR CAR BRING IT TO SCHOOL PLEASE!!!!

I know this is a long shot. Dad’s a lawyer and told me he had some big important trial starting today, but I send it anyway.

Phone away, Sophie, Ms. Kapoor says, standing right next to my desk. You know the rules. If I see it again, it’s mine.

Sorry, I mumble, tossing it back in my backpack.

‘Where is your paper? she asks. I know you were looking forward to writing it."

Umm, I, ummmmm. I stumble on my words. She’s a good teacher, and kind, but strict. I sigh, there’s nothing I can really do but tell the truth.

It’s in my dad’s car, I say. I don’t have it. What I want to say, but don’t, is if you weren’t so old-school and demand that our papers be handwritten, I could go print it off of Google Drive and have it here in two seconds.

Instead, I keep my mouth shut and Ms. Kapoor frowns. I’m sorry to hear that. Then she holds out her hand for my lanyard with my student ID and Honor Card.

I hand it to her, although I’m not happy about it. I should still be okay. I only have one strike so far, so this won’t cost me my green card. Ms. Kapoor walks around and collects a couple more lanyards—looks like I’m not the only one who doesn’t have the homework.

Ms. Kapoor’s scanner goes beep, beep, beep, beep, but I barely hear it. I duck down under the table to check my phone again, but Dad hasn’t responded. Typical. Just before the chimes play to begin announcements, Ms. Kapoor walks back to my desk to hand back my lanyard.

But no, there has to be a mistake. It’s my badge holder. It’s my face on the ID card. But the Honor Card in it is a yellow one.

Um, Ms. Kapoor? I have a green card, remember?

She bites her lip and gives me a sad little look. "You did have a green card, Sophie, but this strike was your third. I’m so sorry."

I stand up, What? I’ve only had one tardy so far!

Calm down, please. Do you have a late library book or anything that might have gone on there as well?

My heart drops. I forgot the library computer system automatically updates the Honor Card database when books are late. I thought I had another day.

No! I say, louder than I mean to. You can’t do this to me, Ms. Kapoor! Please, take it back! Undo it! I’ll get you the paper! I’ll rewrite it right now, I remember most of it, just give me a few minutes! Please!

I absolutely cannot have a yellow card. I don’t even care that the rest of the class is staring at me like I’m a complete psycho.

Sophie, you need to calm down.

"I will NOT calm down! Do you even realize what you’ve done? My life is RUINED!"

That’s when she hands me a hall pass to go see Mr. Burke, the guidance counselor who I have only met one time. Not sure how he’s gonna help me through this mess of a situation. And unless he can magically get my green card back, I really don’t care what he’ll have to say. Ms. Kapoor shifts her eyes to the door, a silent command.

This is total crap. I mean sure, Harry Potter had that crazy detention with the bleeding arm tattoos from Dolores Umbridge, the most evil character ever written, in my humble opinion. And sure, when Percy Jackson got in trouble, his teacher turned into a flying demon who tried to kill him. But, getting my green card taken away for having a late library book and a missing English paper is worse than both of those things combined.

It’s bleak.

And, like I said, total crap.

Fine, I say through clenched teeth. I grab my mostly empty backpack and storm out the door.

I think about the film club, about how I’ll be totally ousted now that I have a yellow card. I know it’s a little dramatic to say my life is ruined, but film club is my life. Even if Rachel and Myles really made me mad yesterday and I screamed at them, film club is still my thing. I don’t even know who Sophie Kim is without film club.

There’s a loud crack of thunder outside that I feel inside my chest. Rain starts to pelt the windows from a vertical angle. I think about the green sky that morning and I start to run. The sirens go off just a second later, but they’re hard to hear over the pounding of the wind and rain.

Right before I get to the office, Mrs. Fowler’s voice crackles through the loudspeaker. We are under a tornado warning. Take shelter. Cover your heads. Get as far away from windows as possible. I look around to find the nearest classroom to duck into, but strong arms grab me and pull me into a very small room with no windows. Two more kids come in after me, and we hear another crack of thunder and wind gusts as loud as a freight train coming right for us.

The last kid shuts the door—wait, is that Jay Baker?!—and all the lights go out.

Asecond before the lights go out, I hear a loud clunk behind me and someone gasps. I use the flashlight on my phone to walk over to the door. I know it’s locked—we all heard it. But I give it a slow tug anyway. Yep. Locked.

The light from my phone lets everyone find a seat. This must be one of those janitor’s closets they turned into a makeshift tornado shelter after that big storm last year. I don’t know why they bothered with this room, though. It’s super small, only two benches with a couple feet of space between them. But there are no windows, the walls seem pretty solid, and I guess it’s good that it’s not an actual janitor’s closet, so we don’t have to deal with the smell of bleach or wet mops.

I think of Grams. I hope she’s safe at home. She has to be safe at home. She’s so fragile right now. I hope Betty Jo made it to the house in time and got her into the bathtub or whatever you’re supposed to do during a tornado.

Well, this sucks, I say, loud enough to be heard over the howling of the wind and the whine of the tornado siren.

Sophie Kim snorts and says, Thanks for the update, genius. I glare in her direction, but she flips her long black ponytail and ignores me completely. I set my phone in the middle of the room on the floor so the light shines up at the ceiling, making it feel like we’re in a cave around a weak campfire.

I look around. I’m stuck in here with Sophie. Great. She’s a total nerd, always hanging out with those film kids and dressing up in weird costumes for themed days. She has a lot of opinions and she’s never quiet about them.

William Montrose is here, too. He’s super smart and plays the cello. We haven’t had any classes together since elementary school. He’s all honors and pre-AP. I’m in classes for regular people. William looks like kind of a mess today, though. One of his shoes is untied, and his normally perfect hair is standing up in all directions. The plaid button-up he’s wearing has come half-untucked from his skinny jeans. And his mouth is set in a hard line, his eyes puffy. This unsettles me, but I couldn’t really say why.

Then there’s Xavian Hernández, who is rocking back and forth against the wall in a rhythmic thud, thud, thud that I feel rather than hear because he is right next to me. I only know Xavian because I play basketball with his twin brother Isaac. The two could not be more different.

And the last one in this tiny room with all of us is Lizzy… something?… on the other side of me, not making a sound. Long,