Chasing Xaris Read Online Free

Rollins,” Jordan yelled after us. “Let’s do it again sometime.”
    Winnie whirled around. Her glossed lips formed a perfect “o.” She snapped her head around to see who had heard. Judging from the cheers at the picnic tables, most of the surfers had.
    “’Bye, Jordan,” I said, turning Winnie away. I steered her down the sidewalk to the front doors.
    “I don’t get why you’re friends with him,” she said.
    “I swear you guys would get along if you gave each other a chance.”
    “It’s too late for that.” Winn ie proceeded to explain the many ways Jordan Lane had offended her over the years as we walked through the front doors and down an open-air hallway. “And I know he was the one who put that snake in my pool.”
    “Winnie, that was like seven years ago. And the snake put itself in your pool.”
    “He talks weird,” Winnie said.
    “He talks like I do,” I said.
    “You don’t sound as weird as he does.”
    Since she meant this as a compliment, I didn’t press the issue.
    Winnie marched up to our classroom door and pulled open the door. Artificially cold air blasted my face and arms.
    “Winnie, I’ve got to ask you something,” I said.
    “Can it wait?” Winnie asked. “I have to give my report today.”
    “Oh. No problem.”
    Winnie made a beeline for her desk on the left side of the room. I followed and sat behind her in the last row. Our teacher, Mr. Whitaker, sat just behind me on a stool, bent over his book. He was so into his reading that he didn’t even notice us.             
    I sank into my chair and watched people trickle into class. Jordan gave me a grin as he headed for his seat on the opposite side of the room.
    “Win,” he mock-whispered.
    Winnie’s back stiffened, but her gaze stayed focused on the note cards in her hands.
    Behind me, Mr. Whitaker sneezed.
    “Bless you,” I said, turning to look at our teacher.
    Most of us called him Mr. Whit, which Winnie found hilarious. Apparently “whit” meant some version of little, and Mr. Whit was definitely not little. The stool made his tall body look even longer, like a giraffe on stilts. His customary blazer and wool scarf looked totally out of place in the eighty-degree weather. Personally, though, I liked his offbeat outfits better than the khakis and polo shirts other teachers wore.              
    Mr. Whit smiled, and his brown eyes crinkled in the corners. “ Gracias , Chandler.” He laid the book open on his lap, revealing a yellowed map of Florida on its pages.
    “Researching?” I asked, pointing to his book.
    “Of course,” he replied. “Research builds bridges from the past world to ours.” His gaze shifted to my band-aid. “What happened?”
    “Surfing accident, ” I said.
    “I see. But you are doing well otherwise?”
    “Um…” I had narrowly escaped a shark attack and launched an investigation into my parents’ deaths. “Sure,” I said.
    “Glad to hear it,” Mr. Whit said. He pulled a gold pocket watch from his blazer and clicked it open. Its tarnished surface matched his blond hair.
    “I suppose I have to teach now,” he said, with a resigned expression.
    “It’ll go by fast,” I assured him. “And you could always let us out early.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, smiling slightly.
    He’d been my teacher last year too, so now we bantered.
    The bell rang and Mr. Whit strolled to the front of the class. He rested his arms on the oversized lectern.
    “ Buenos días , class,” he said. “Today we continue our reports on famous shipwrecks. After we finish the reports tomorrow, we’ll cover Native American archeology for about two weeks. This should lead us right up to Thanksgiving break.”
    The beauty of being an upperclassman at my high school was you could take elective classes like “Archaeology.” Most of the students in here were juniors like Winnie, Jordan, and me.
    “As we’ve discussed the past few weeks,” Mr. Whit said,