“Miles, Monica’s been in the bathroom for almost a half hour,” my dad said sternly. “You’ve got to leave in fifteen minutes.”
I fought the urge to hang my head and stare at the floor. “Right. Yeah. I just overslept.”
His eyes never left mine as he leaned against the doorframe, blocking the escape I desperately wanted. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine, dad, I promise,” I said, forcing a smile. “I just overslept. I won’t be late for school, I’ve got tons of time.”
“Mm-hm,” he said doubtfully.
I hated lying to him, but I didn’t want to tell him all the things that were bothering me. He heard enough about my problems from my mom. And I definitely didn’t want to tell him why I overslept. Sorry, Dad, I didn’t take my sleeping potion on time in Midrealm.
“If you wouldn’t mention it to Mom, I’d appreciate it,” I said gingerly. “She’s got enough to worry about without me missing the alarm by fifteen minutes.”
“We both do,” he said, and his eyes filled with the concern I’d seen there far too often over the last couple of weeks. “I heard your alarm when it first went off. I went in and tried to wake you — nothing. I shook you so hard I was afraid I’d hurt you. I checked your pulse just to make sure you were okay.”
“It’s this sleeping thing,” I said with a shrug. “I’m sorry, dad. I don’t know what to say about it.”
He swallowed hard and looked away. “It’s just scary, son. You don’t know what it’s like for a parent not to be able to wake up their child.”
For the millionth time, I considered telling him everything. Midrealm, my “sleeping disorder,” my responsibilities on the other side. All of it. But that would have been idiotic. There was no chance he’d believe me, even if all of the others joined me and told him the same thing — and that was something they’d never do. We’d agreed in the beginning: we couldn’t tell anyone.
Dad saw my look and reached out to lift up my chin. He stared sternly into my eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, son. You’re still my boy. I don’t love you any less. If anything, all of this has made me and your mother realize just how important you are to us.”
I smiled weakly. “Thanks, Dad. I love you, too.”
He dropped his hand as his mouth twisted wryly. “Hey, now. That wasn’t an invitation to get all mushy. Get yourself to the kitchen and get some food before you go. I won’t talk to Mom.”
“Thanks,” I said, darting through the doorway and back to my room. I threw on my outfit, blue jeans and a polo. Papers were scattered everywhere across my desk and my shelves. I didn’t have time to organize them, so I shoved all of my homework into a pile and crammed it in my backpack.
Four bounding leaps down the hallway brought me to the staircase. I took them three at a time, sliding across the kitchen’s linoleum floor to plop down in a wooden chair at the head of our small table.
“Slow down, Miles,” my mom said sternly. She was standing at the sink in her suit, sleeves rolled up and arm pumping away as she scrubbed the dishes she’d used for breakfast. “You’re already running late, don’t make it worse by destroying my furniture.”
“Sorry, Mom,” I said, pouring a bowl of cereal and dousing it with milk. It spilled over the side, pooling around the bottom of the bowl.
“Miles!” she said, snatching up a paper towel and bringing it to the table. “Be careful!”
“I’s jus’ mirlk,” I mumbled through a full mouth of flakes.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she said, seizing my bowl and lifting it up to wipe away the milk on the table’s surface. I reached out with my spoon and grabbed another bite from the bowl as it hung in midair in her hand.
She glanced at her watch as she set the bowl back down and clucked her tongue. She moved quickly back to the sink to keep scrubbing. “Why are you running late, anyway?” she asked. “Did you oversleep?”
“No,” I lied, my second of the day. “I just wanted to triple-check my biology paper. It’s due today, and I wanted to make sure it was perfect before I submitted.”
“That’s my boy,” she said. “Triple-checks at least. Four or five checks are better. Nothing is as good as perfect.”
I shrugged and rolled my eyes. “That’s what people keep telling me.”
She narrowed her eyes at me and held out a soapy spatula like a fencing foil. “By ‘people’ you mean me, and you’d better listen. Nobody in the real world is going to let you get away with second-rate work, and I don’t plan to either.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, turning away so she couldn’t see another eye roll, which probably would have resulted in a thwack on the head from the spatula.
She checked her watch again, clucking her tongue. She passed a dishtowel hastily over the last plate and shoved it in the rack. “Speaking of running late, I’d better get out the door or I’ll be off schedule. Have a good day at school.”
I knew what that meant: Get good grades at school. She picked up her briefcase, gave her suit jacket a quick once-over, and darted out the door like the building was on fire.
“And have a good day at work,” I mumbled quietly, spooning in the last of my cereal. I wasn’t full yet. I jumped up and shoved two pieces of bread in the toaster. I’d have killed for some eggs, and I could have used the protein. But there was no time, and I was a terrible cook anyways. As the toast cooked, I carved off some thin slices of butter, ready for instant-melting as soon as the bread was horizontal again.
The toaster dinged, and the now-toasted bread shot into the air. I grabbed both pieces mid-flight and slapped them down, slathering them with butter while they were still hot. I shoved the two pieces together, butter inward, to make a sort of buttered-toast sandwich.
Monica came into the kitchen, her hair in perfect new corn rows. She’d gotten them done over the weekend. I thought they looked ridiculous, but I’d never tell her that. Girls her age had enough body image issues without me adding to the crazy.
I stepped past her on my way to the door, reaching out for a quick one-armed side hug. “Have a good one, Mon,” I said.
“Ugh,” she said, shoving me off. I shook my head as I hit the front hallway. They all got crazy at that age, but I knew my little sister. She’d figure it out. She was barely into her teens, and I was almost done with them, but really we weren’t that different. I’d acted the same way when I was thirteen.
I shot through the front door and ran to the used Corolla in our driveway — my seventeenth birthday present from my parents, even though I knew they couldn’t really afford it.
School was a quick drive away, and Clarissa was already waiting for me out front, books for her first class already in hand. She smiled as she saw me enter the school’s parking lot, then smiled wider as I got out and walked up to her. She stood on tiptoes to give me a quick peck on the cheek, but then the brightness on her face dimmed as she looked into mine.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
I could feel the sag in my cheeks, the gloomy twist of my mouth. I forced it into another smile. “Of course,” I said.
Lie number three.
She smiled back, content. She wrapped her arm around mine and we entered the school together.
“You’ve got a biology test today, right?” I asked. “You ready for it?”
She sighed with mock despair. “No, not really. We’re reading a whole book on cell mechanics, and I’m going out of my mind. I get a headache every time I read it. It’s like I understand the words, but I still can’t see what the heck they’re talking about.”
“That sucks,” I said, rubbing her shoulder gently. “Tell you what — we’ll trade brains today. You can have mine for your bio exam, and I’ll take yours for geography.”
She laughed. Then her eyes grew crafty, and she smiled up at me innocently. “Or…you know…you could just give me some pointers on my bio exam.”
My pulse quickened, and I looked around the hallway nervously. “No way,” I whispered
. “After last time?”
“Just don’t drop the answer sheet this time,” she whispered back, smiling disarmingly. “Please? I’m really struggling with that class.”
I shook my head. “I can’t. I’m on thin ice as it is. I can’t afford to take any more risks.”
“Fine,” she pouted. “I get it. I’ll just fail it then.”
I rolled my eyes. “You won’t fail. At worst you’ll get a C or a D. You can take it.”
Clarissa sniffed and turned away to head to her class. “If you say so. See you later.”
I watched her go, then ran to the locker room to get changed. I made it into my uniform and onto the field with thirty seconds to spare.
PE wasn’t the same class it used to be. My teammates and I used to hang, talk, joke around. Now, ever since my “sleeping disorder,” they tried to avoid me. Clarissa had reassured me that everything would die down after a few days, but now, two weeks later, I still felt like an outcast. But once I hit the track, nothing else mattered. Running had a way of clearing my head, purging it of unwanted thoughts in a way that meditation never did in Midrealm. For an hour there were no thoughts of Shadows, hellions, monsters or magic. It was just me and the dirt passing beneath my heels.
But PE was over all too soon. I hit the showers, relishing the chance to clean myself off, and headed for social studies. There were only a few classes that I really did well in, and social studies wasn’t one of them. If it weren’t for Sarah, I was certain I would have failed. As it was, I figured I had a fifty-fifty shot at scraping by with a C.
I came through the classroom door to receive a dirty look from Mister Schumacher. He was a thin, bald guy with a little mustache that looked out of place on his face. His glare was unpleasant and completely expected. Schumacher had been filling in during my biology class when I had been caught “cheating.” He’d found the answer sheet I’d written for Clarissa on the floor beneath my chair, and immediately assumed I’d been using it to pass the test.
That was a laugh. Biology was the one subject where I didn’t need anybody’s help. It was one of the few that I really liked. That’s one of the reasons I wanted USC so badly — their biology programs were stellar. I figured if I could get in on a track scholarship, I could try to use my time there to connect with my professors and professionals in the field.
I’d had this big dream, ever since I was a kid, of being a sea explorer. When I was really little, I wanted to sail around the world to places people had never been. When I got a little older, I found out that there weren’t any such places any more. But my dream morphed into a dream of sailing alongside dolphins, collecting and categorizing creatures from the depths of the sea. Maybe even getting into deep sea diving. That was pretty much the only unexplored territory left on Earth, and maybe I could find something down there that no one else had ever seen.
But none of that was going to happen if I didn’t get into a college with a good program. And ever since the “cheating” scandal, Schumacher had had it in for me. I’d explained to him endlessly how I hadn’t been cheating. I’d demonstrated all the reasons why I’d never need to cheat on a biology exam, out of all the subjects I was studying. Mister Oliver, the regular biology teacher, had even had a conversation with Schumacher to give him a glowing account of how well I did in biology. It didn’t matter. Schumacher looked at me like I was a roach he just couldn’t wait to step on. Fortunately, the principal had agreed to give me a second exam with random questions. It was administered by Mister Oliver, and I aced it — not a single question wrong. Rather than convince Schumacher, though, it seemed to solidify his dislike.
“Take a seat, Mister Grave,” said Schumacher, even though we still had four minutes before the beginning of class. Rather than respond, I just found a seat right in the middle of the room and sank into it, waiting for the rest of the class to file in.
I stared down at my desk, picking at the calluses on my hands, feeling Schumacher’s harsh eyes focused on the top of my head. I wouldn’t look up. Wouldn’t make eye contact. School was a lot like the jungle that way; if you just kept your head down and didn’t lock eyes with anyone, you could get by.
It seemed like an eternity before everyone came back in, but finally the room was full. The bell rang, and Schumacher took roll. I noted that Blade was missing. No surprise there.
Then Schumacher got up and picked up a pile of papers from his desk.
“Your exams from yesterday are graded,” he said.
That caught my attention. Usually Schumacher took a couple of days to grade tests from the class.
“Some of you have shown quite remarkable improvements,” Mr. Schumacher went on. “Others clearly aren’t applying themselves at all.”
He was going down the row furthest to my right, but his eyes snapped up to mine as he said that. I felt a sinkhole spring into existence in my stomach.
No.
“It’s shocking how unimportant some of you seem to believe the nineteenth century was,” said Schumacher, reaching the front of the second row. My row was next. “Many of the decisions and actions of that century have shaped, and continue to shape, your country.”
He dropped my test on my desk and stared at me with a curled lip. “But I suppose some of you are more interested in running in circles on a track than bothering to learn about the world around you.”
A giant, red F stared up at me from the paper on my desk. I picked up the paper, my hands shaking with anger, and turned to the first page. What famous French dictator was defeated in Belgium in 1815, marking the end of the Waterloo Campaign?
I’d written “Napolean.” Schumacher had marked it wrong, with a note in red ink: Perhaps you meant “Napoleon,” because no French dictator named “Napolean” has ever existed.
My hands shook harder. Question after question was like that. One tiny misspell, and the whole question was marked wrong. I’d leave out a historical figure’s middle name, and the whole question was marked wrong. A question asked which was the second war fought between America and England. I answered, “1812.” The question was marked wrong with the note, I asked for a war, not a year.
“Oh, come on!” I shouted, leaping to my feet and slapping the test down on my desk.
Schumacher stared at me nonplussed from the front of the room. “Is there a problem, Mister Grave?”
I thrust the test out, hearing my heartbeat thunder in my ears. “This! This is a problem! You’ve marked me wrong for the stupidest reasons! This is social studies, not a spelling bee!”
Schumacher looked idly down at his desk. “Wrong is wrong, Mister Grave.”
“This is a failing grade, Mister Schumacher!” I shouted. A voice in the back of my mind told me that everyone in the classroom was staring at me like I was insane, but a louder voice was screaming how unfair this was. “That’s going to kill my GPA.”
Mister Schumacher stared at me coldly for a minute before replying. “As far as I’m concerned, Mister Grave, this is the second test you should have failed this month. So let’s not cling to any illusions that your GPA would have lasted until next summer, anyway.”
My mind raced, trying to think of a reply. It didn’t come up with one.
So instead, I grabbed the edge of my desk, flipped it over onto the floor, and stormed out of the room.
MILES
I WOKE UP IN THE Runehold, my stomach still churning and my face still flushed with anger from when I had fallen asleep on Earth. I didn’t even get the quiet darkness of sleep to calm myself down anymore. Back in my life — my real life — my world was a wreck. USC was out. I’d been sent to the principal’s office for blowing up in Mr. Schumacher’s class, and my mom had ripped into me as soon as I’d gotten home. She and my dad had threatened to take away my car privileges, and I was grounded for a week.
The worst part was that when I tried to tell them what Schumacher had done, my mom wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise — It was like she didn’t even care. My mom had just said, “There
are no excuses for blowing up like that,” and my dad had looked disappointed. It had been an hour before they’d finally let me escape to my room. But I hadn’t wanted to be there, I’d wanted to be out.
And I definitely didn’t want to be here in Midrealm.
I could stay in my room all day. Melaine definitely wouldn’t disturb me. The others might, but it wasn’t like they could force me to leave. Greystone might, but it might be worth it just to tick that old geezer off.
I cracked my knuckles in frustration. No matter how angry I was, I wasn’t going to spend all day lying here. I’d probably feel better if I got moving, anyway. That’s how it usually went.
I forced myself up and put on my robes, despising every stitch of them. I was here playing at being some stupid wizard, and back home my life was crumbling around me.
I went out into the hallway to find Melaine waiting for me, tapping her fingers against her vambraces, shifting her weight back and forth from foot to foot. She flipped her hair back as I emerged from my room, acknowledging me with barely a nod. “Lord Miles,” she said. “The others await you in the great hall. We’re visiting the Royal Palace.”
That made me stop in my tracks. “The palace?” I gaped. We’d never been there before. It had been brought up a couple of times, but Greystone seemed hesitant. Heck, he seemed hesitant to even talk to us about it. I knew he had some kind of beef with the Queen, but I’d never been able to find out anything more than that. It wasn’t the kind of thing I felt comfortable asking Melaine about. And even Calvin, who was all chummy with his bodyguard Darren, couldn’t get any more information about it.
“So I have been told,” Melaine said. “That is, if my Lord desires to travel?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Let’s go.”
We descended the stairwell to emerge into the vast expanse of the great hall. The others were seated and looked to be mid conversation, but all talking stopped as soon as I stepped into the room. It made me feel suddenly out of place, as though they were nervous I’d overhear them.
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