The Blood River Chronicles: Book 1: The River Remembers

The first thing Lizzy Carter heard that Friday morning was not her alarm clock. It was the sharp clatter of a pen hitting the hardwood floor. Half asleep, she groaned and pulled the blanket over her head. A loud meow followed. “No.” Another meow. Lizzy cracked open one eye. An orange tabby sat on her nightstand, staring at her with the unwavering confidence of a creature who knew he was entirely in charge of the household. “You did that on purpose.” Cat blinked. Lizzy sighed and pushed herself upright. At twenty-six years old, Elizabeth “Lizzy” Carter had somehow become the kind of woman who argued with her cat before sunrise. Not that Cat seemed to mind. The orange tabby let out another satisfied meow before leaping gracefully from the nightstand, as though knocking pens onto the floor was a perfectly reasonable way to start the day. “Fine,” Lizzy muttered. “I’m up.” Cat pranced out of the room with the confidence of someone who had accomplished exactly what he'd set out to do. Lizzy shook her head and dragged herself out of bed. A few minutes later, she caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror while brushing her teeth. Her wavy brown hair looked as though it had spent the night locked in a losing battle with her pillow. It stuck out in several directions at once, completely unconcerned with her plans for the day. Lizzy wasn't surprised. She rarely wore it down for work anyway. By the time she left for school, it would be twisted into the same ponytail she wore almost every day—a style chosen less for fashion and more for practicality. A ponytail was simple, reliable, and one less thing to think about before facing a building full of middle schoolers. Her brown eyes still looked sleepy, and faint lines marked her fair skin where her face had been pressed into the pillow. She splashed cold water on her face and studied her reflection for a moment. Not bad. Not great. Functional. Which, honestly, was how she approached most mornings. Teaching middle school had long ago convinced her that spending an hour on makeup was a poor trade for an extra hour of sleep. She reached for mascara. Then chapstick. Done. That was the entire routine. Good enough. Her students barely noticed when she got a haircut. The only appearance-related topic they seemed genuinely passionate about was pointing out when another student wore socks with sandals. Then suddenly everyone became a fashion expert. Lizzy pulled her hair into a ponytail and gave her reflection one final look. “Professional enough.” The woman in the mirror appeared unconvinced. Fortunately, she didn't get a vote. Today wasn't just any Friday. It was the Friday before a four-day weekend. Even Lizzy couldn't deny that made getting out of bed considerably easier. By 7:30 a.m., Lizzy unlocked her classroom door and stepped inside. The room was quiet, still untouched by the energy that would fill it within the hour. For a teacher, it was one of the best moments of the day. She dropped her bag onto her desk and reached for a purple dry-erase marker. There were certain traditions that mattered, and this was one of them. Before writing the learning target. Before posting the agenda. Before doing anything else. She walked to the board and wrote one giant word across the top. FRIYAY! A smile tugged at her lips. She had started writing it every Friday during her first year of teaching. Now her students expected it. Some of them looked for it before they even said good morning. Lizzy stepped back and admired her work. Then she wrote the day's learning target beneath it. I can solve one-step algebraic equations and justify my reasoning. The district required learning targets. The district required standards. The district required success criteria. The district required pacing guides. The district required benchmark assessments. The district required enough paperwork to bury a small village. Lizzy loved teaching. Truly loved it. Most days, the paperwork was simply the price she paid for getting to do the part that mattered. She just wished the people making decisions trusted teachers a little more. Sometimes she comes up with incredible lesson ideas. Projects. Competitions. Outdoor activities. Real-world applications that would make math feel less like a worksheet and more like something students might actually use. Then she'd look at the pacing guide and watch those ideas die a slow, painful death. At 7:45, the first students began arriving for homeroom. One boy spotted the board immediately. “She wrote it!” Several students rushed through the doorway. “FRIYAY!” “It’s finally here!” “We made it!” Lizzy laughed. “Good morning to you too.” The room gradually filled with the familiar chaos of middle school. Backpacks hit the floor. Conversations overlapped. Someone immediately asked to go to the restroom. Someone else wanted to know if they had homework over the weekend. “No.” The room erupted into cheers. “Best teacher ever!” Lizzy pointed toward the board. “Let’s not get carried away.” At 8:05, the morning announcements ended, and students immediately began gathering their things. Backpacks zipped. Water bottles disappeared into bags. Chairs scraped against the floor. “Alright,” Lizzy called. “Go learn something.” Several students laughed. As they filtered toward the door, a few paused to say goodbye. “See you second period, Ms. Carter.” “See you then.” A girl grinned. “See you fifth period.” Lizzy pointed toward the hallway. “Try not to cause problems before then.” “No promises." Another student waved. “I have you sixth period!” Lizzy groaned dramatically. “My condolences.” The student laughed. “You love us.” “Unfortunately.” Students that heard this erupted into laughter. One of her homeroom students paused in the doorway. “At least you only have us once today.” Lizzy raised an eyebrow. “I teach four math classes.” The student winced. “Oh.” “Exactly.” A few students offered sympathetic looks before disappearing into the hallway. The last of her homeroom students had barely cleared the doorway when the first students from first period began filing into the room. One of the less glamorous realities of teaching was discovering exactly how many different ways you could explain the same concept in a single day. By the end of sixth period, she'd probably have three new examples, two revised explanations, and at least one joke she hadn't planned to make. She reached for the half-finished can of Cosmic Stardust Alani sitting on her desk and took a long drink. The sweet, fruity caffeine hit was immediate. Some teachers survived on coffee. Lizzy survived on Cosmic Stardust. At this point, she was fairly certain the bright purple and pink can was responsible for at least thirty percent of her personality. Maybe forty. She glanced at the can sitting beside her lesson plans. “Don’t fail me now.” The Alani, as usual, offered no response. Showtime. First period began in a burst of energy. The noise level immediately tripled. “Good morning, Ms. Carter!” “Morning.” “I forgot my pencil.” “I’m shocked.” A boy grinned. “You don’t sound shocked.” “That’s because I’m not.” The classroom erupted in laughter. Standing at five feet eight inches tall, Lizzy had learned that height meant absolutely nothing to sixth graders. She could be standing directly in front of the board giving instructions and a student would still cross the room to ask a question she'd already answered twice. Sometimes three times. Occasionally while the answer was still written on the board behind her. One of her students had once told her she didn't look like a math teacher. Lizzy had asked what a math teacher was supposed to look like. The student had stared at her for nearly a full minute before admitting they had no idea. To this day, she still isn't sure what that meant. Lizzy raised her hand. A few students noticed. Then more. Eventually, the room settled. “Okay, mathematicians.” Several students groaned. “We’re doing algebra today.” More groaning. “Oh, come on. Algebra isn’t that bad.” “Yes, it is,” Marcus announced. The class laughed. Lizzy shook her head. “You know what I'd rather be doing today? We could go outside, play basketball, and use our scores to make equations. That's way more fun than page 247.” Immediately, Emma raised her hand. Emma was one of those rare students who genuinely liked math and wasn't afraid to admit it. “See? That's what I've been saying all year.” Several students murmured in agreement. “Exactly.” “That would be way more fun.” “I'd actually like math.” “You already like math,” Lizzy said. The student frowned. “Okay, I'd like it more.” The class laughed. “Can we do that?” Marcus asked hopefully. Lizzy sighed dramatically. “No.” The room instantly filled with complaints. “Awwww.” “Why not?” “That’s not fair.” Lizzy shrugged. “Because apparently I’m supposed to be responsible.” Several students groaned. “I vote we don’t do page 247.” “I second the motion.” A chorus of agreement spread through the room. Lizzy smiled. “Motion denied.” The students looked personally betrayed. Honestly, she couldn't blame them. Given the choice between algebra and almost anything else on a Friday before a four-day weekend, she probably would have voted with them. She turned toward the board and wrote: x + 7 = 15 “Who can solve this?” Several hands shot into the air. “Marcus.” Marcus sat up proudly. “The answer is eight.” “Correct. How do you know?” Marcus looked personally offended. “Because it is.” The class burst into laughter. Lizzy crossed her arms. “That’s not how math works.” “It should be.” “Unfortunately for you, I require evidence.” A dramatic groan escaped him. “Show your work?” The entire class groaned in unison. Lizzy laughed. “You all act like showing your work causes physical pain.” “It does,” Kayla announced. “Emotionally.” The room erupted. Lizzy shook her head. “Show me how you got eight.” Marcus reluctantly explained subtracting seven from both sides. “Perfect.” She wrote his steps beneath the equation. “See? You survived.” “Barely.” --- Twenty minutes later, the complaints continued. “So we have to write all the steps?” “Yes.” “Even if we know the answer?” “Yes.” “Why?” Lizzy smiled. “Because I need to know how your brain got there.” “My brain doesn’t know.” The room exploded with laughter. Lizzy pointed toward another equation. 2x = 18 “Kayla.” Kayla sighed dramatically. “Nine.” “How do you know?” Kayla stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. Lizzy waited. The class waited. Finally Kayla said, “Because nine times two equals eighteen?” “There you go.” “I still don’t want to write it.” “Life is full of disappointment.” The students laughed. Even Kayla smiled. --- By lunch, Lizzy had repeated the same instructions dozens of times. “Put your name on your paper.” “Put your name on your paper.” “Put your name on your paper.” A hand shot up. “Do we put our name on our paper?” Lizzy stared. The room erupted. Even she couldn’t help laughing. “Yes.” “Where?” Several students nearly fell out of their chairs laughing. Moments like that happen often enough that they probably shouldn't have been funny anymore. Somehow, they still were. The day continued. And then repeated itself. Four times. The same lesson. The same algebra. The same jokes. The same questions. The same complaints about showing work. By sixth period, Lizzy felt like she could teach the lesson in her sleep. She was also overstimulated. The talking. The questions. The scraping chairs. The humming. The pencil tapping. The constant need for her attention. Teaching required her brain to be engaged every second of the day. Twenty-eight students at a time. One hundred and twelve students before the final bell. She loved them. She truly did. But some days, by the end of the afternoon, it felt as though her brain had become a radio stuck between stations. Today was one of those days.