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Show Actually, Dyna knew what she was doing. She was setting the props in place. If she could get through period one, listed on her schedule as Creative Writing, K. Simpson, 112, she was apt to make it through two, then three, then four . . . To contemplate six classes a day for 180 days was too depressing. "One step at a time," Gram told her often enough. Dyna's hand tightened on the money in the pocket of her plaid smock as the instant replay engaged in her head. There they were, she and Gram, at the school district office practically begging for a transfer. "Why not try a new school?" Gram had told the personnel people, her eyes snapping. "Look at her test scores, for once, instead of her police record. This is a girl who can excel. What's she going to learn at that drop-out place?" Gutsy Gram! There was no stopping her once she had a conviction. Three days ago, the computer god at Alternative High School had Dyna's enrollment card punched and waiting. Today, instead of walking the halls of "Thugville," as Gram called it, she was sauntering through "Snobville," reading labels on all the designer clothes. She wondered bleakly if the school a person attended ever made that much difference. A line had formed inside the glass partition marked "Office" by the time Dyna got there. A very agitated man was trying to squeeze through the gate that separated the office itself from the waiting area. "No class changes until Wednesday!" he told the students, waving both arms in the air, "absolutely none. You're wasting your time here if that's what you want." There were groans as the line broke up, and one kid swore under his breath as he cut out past Dyna. Only two remained ahead of her at the counter. Waiting her turn, Dyna scrutinized her reflection in one of the glass panels. Quickly, she anchored a strand of frizzy blonde hair behind one ear- How was it she always needed a haircut? Her reflection scowled back, accusing her of being fat as well as shaggy. |