The three girls stand in the back alley, surveying Mister Faraday’s house.
“Well, let’s see what our school tuition pays for,” Eva says.
“Uh, we go to public school,” Dany reminds her. She is holding Mac’s hand in a firm grip.
“Whatever,” Eva says. “I think he’s in there.”
Banging noises float out of the garage. Dany leads the way through the door, and there, in the middle of chaos, they find him. Their history teacher, Faraday, is sitting cross-legged on an oil-spattered floor. He looks less like a history teacher than a mechanic, one who has been set down in the midst of an exploded three-dimensional diagram. All of the small parts that belong inside of his VW Bug are strewn around him. Dany takes the whole of the scene in at a glance. To one side of Faraday, there is a vintage s
