* * *
In the locker room everyone gave Alex a wide berth, as if his perceived cowardice was toxic. The only looks he received were of dislike and disgust. How had he become a pariah to so many? Did they all see him the same way PJ did—like he was a spoiled rich boy with his nose turned up? He wasn’t, but then again he never made any attempt to show them otherwise either.
Alex sighed. He truly hated high school.
His face still burned from where he’d been struck by the ball. He hadn’t gathered enough courage to look in a mirror yet, but he was sure it had to be black and blue.
Out of the corner of his eye he felt someone staring and looked up to see PJ at the end of the row of lockers. PJ leaned there, arms folded, looking at Alex with a wooden expression. Finally, he pushed away from the locker and walked away.
“Croatoan!” Alex heard his last name called.
Mr. Tomes stood just inside the locker room, chewing rapid-fire on a piece of gum. His nose was wrinkled as if entering the room had been repulsive. For him, it probably was. He peered around, a small piece of paper in his hand. “Croatoan!” he hollered again. Alex was less than a dozen feet away.
Finally, Alex raised a hand. “That’s me,” he said. “I’m Alexander Croatoan.”
Mr. Tomes squinted at him like he’d never seen him before, chewing even faster on the gum. He looked down at the paper and gave a small shrug. “Follow me, Croatoan.”
Without waiting to see if Alex was behind him, Mr. Tomes marched from the room.
What was this all about? Alex hadn’t even thrown a punch! Was he in trouble? Had PJ somehow managed to make it look like he had started the fight? Or maybe Mr. Tomes had seen what happened after all and decided to intervene, but not in a good way.
Alex shoved his feet into his shoes without worrying about the laces and threw his backpack over his shoulder, hurrying to catch up.
Once they’d turned down the hall that led to the front office, Alex began to get nervous. The way PJ had been staring at him in the locker room, it seemed pretty likely that Alex was in trouble. This was great, just what he needed. Fighting would earn him suspension, or worse—detention. He didn’t want to spend so much as an extra minute at school.
“Mr. Tomes, what’s going on?” Alex asked. “Am I in trouble?”
Mr. Tomes didn’t turn around. He just held up the paper and rattled it in his hand, never breaking stride. “No idea, Croatoan. This says to deliver you to the main office pronto, and what do you know, here we are.”
Mr. Tomes opened the door and ushered Alex in with a wave of the paper. He placed it on the desk in front of the office aid working there and gave Alex a salute with his pointer finger. “Good luck, Croatoan.”
Alex stood awkwardly, waiting at the desk with no idea who he was supposed to speak to or why he was even there. The office aid was so engrossed in whatever was on her cell phone, she hadn’t even looked up yet. Finally, he cleared his throat. “So…”
The office aid raised her head like she was surprised he was still there. “Oh! You need to go in and see Ms. Hurt.” She pulled a chewed-up pen out of her mouth and pointed off to the all-too-familiar door of the vice-principal’s office. She said the last word with widened eyes, like he already should have been moving. She motioned impatiently with the pen for him to hurry.
Ms. Hurt. Perfect. She and Alex were old “buddies”. With a tingle of trepidation, he went to her office, but when he reached the door he missed a step. She wasn’t alone.
One of the last people he ever would have expected to see was waiting with her.
There was no mistaking him: Silas Smithson, his father’s right-hand man and the managing director at EMIT. Silas was one of a kind. He had the palest skin Alex had ever seen and jet-black hair that hung stiff and straight down to his shoulders. Alex would have thought Silas was albino, but for his black hair and piercing, dark eyes.
What was Silas doing there, and why had Alex been called down to the office to talk to him?
Suddenly, he didn’t want to take another step. With a rush, he remembered his father’s visit that morning—the tears, the pronouncements of love. It had seemed strange then, and he hadn’t been able to put his finger on why.
But now he could.
It had felt like his father was saying goodbye.
Ms. Hurt looked up. The naked pity in her eyes confirmed his worst fears. Something had happened.
Silas turned, his pale face and penetrating eyes unreadable.
“Your father has been involved in an accident,” Silas told him emotionlessly. “Time may be crucial. You must come with me.”
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