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Henri isn’t my father, but I always say he is to allay suspicion. In truth he is my Keeper, or what would be better understood on Earth as my guardian. On Lorien there were two types of citizens, those who develop Legacies, or powers, which can be extremely varied, anything from invisibility to the ability to read minds, from being able to fly to using natural forces like fire, wind or lightning. Those with the Legacies are called the Garde, and those without are called Cêpan, or Keepers. I am a member of the Garde. Henri is a Cêpan. Every Garde is assigned a Cêpan at an early age. Cêpans help us understand our planet’s history and develop our powers. The Cêpan and the Garde—one group to run the planet, the other group to defend it.
Mr. Harris nods. “And what does he do?”
“He’s a writer. He wanted to live in a small, quiet town to finish what he’s working on,” I say, which is our standard cover story.
Mr. Harris nods and squints his eyes. “You look like a strong young man. Are you planning on playing sports here?”
“I wish I could. I have asthma, sir,” I say, my usual excuse to avoid any situation that might betray my strength and speed.
“I’m sorry to hear that. We’re always looking for able athletes for the football team,” he says, and casts his eyes to the shelf on the wall, on top of which a football trophy sits engraved with last year’s date. “We won the Pioneer Conference,” he says, and beams with pride.
He reaches over and pulls two sheets of paper from a file cabinet beside his desk and hands them to me. The first is my student schedule with a few open slots. The second is a list of the available electives. I choose classes and fill them in, then hand everything back. He gives me a sort of orientation, talking for what seems like hours, going over every page of the student manual with painstaking detail. One bell rings, then another. When he finally finishes he asks if I have any questions. I say no.
“Excellent. There is a half hour left of second period, and you’ve chosen astronomy with Mrs. Burton. She’s a great teacher, one of our very best. She won an award from the state once, signed by the governor himself. ”
“That’s great,” I say.
After Mr. Harris struggles to free himself from his chair, we leave his office and walk down the hall. His shoes click upon the newly waxed floor. The air smells of fresh paint and cleaner. Lockers line the walls. Many are covered with banners supporting the football team. There can’t be more than twenty classrooms in the whole building. I count them as we pass.
“Here we are,” Mr. Harris says. He extends his hand. I shake it. “We’re happy to have you. I like to think of us as a close-knit family. I’m glad to welcome you to it. ”
“Thank you,” I say.
Mr. Harris opens the door and sticks his head in the classroom. Only then do I realize that I’m a little nervous, that a somewhat dizzy feeling is creeping in. My right leg is shaking; there are butterflies in the pit of my stomach. I don’t understand why. Surely it’s not the prospect of walking into my first class. I’ve done it far too many times to still feel the effect of nerves. I take a deep breath and try to shake them away.
“Mrs. Burton, sorry to interrupt. Your new student is here. ”
“Oh, great! Send him in,” she says in a high-pitched voice of enthusiasm.
Mr. Harris holds open the door and I walk through. The classroom is perfectly square, filled with twenty-five people, give or take, sitting at r
ectangular desks about the size of kitchen tables, three students to each. All eyes are on me. I look back at them before looking at Mrs. Burton. She is somewhere around sixty, wearing a pink wool sweater and red plastic glasses attached to a chain around her neck. She smiles widely, her hair graying and curly. My palms are sweaty and my face feels flushed. I hope it isn’t red. Mr. Harris closes the door.
“And what is your name?” she asks.
In my unsettled mood I almost say “Daniel Jones” but catch myself. I take a deep breath and say, “John Smith. ”
“Great! And where are you from?”
“Fl—,” I begin, but then catch myself again before the word fully forms. “Santa Fe. ”
“Class, let’s give him a warm welcome. ”
Everybody claps. Mrs. Burton motions for me to sit in the open seat in the middle of the room between two other students. I am relieved she doesn’t ask any more questions. She turns around to go to her desk and I begin walking down the aisle, straight towards Mark James, who is sitting at a table with Sarah Hart. As I pass, he sticks his foot out and trips me. I lose my balance but stay upright. Snickers filter throughout the room. Mrs. Burton whips around.
“What happened?” she asks.
I don’t answer her, and instead glare at Mark. Every school has one, a tough guy, a bully, whatever you want to call him, but never has one materialized this quickly. His hair is black, full of hair gel, carefully styled so it goes in all directions. He has meticulously trimmed sideburns, stubble on his face. Bushy eyebrows over a set of dark eyes. From his letterman jacket I see that he is a senior, and his name is written in gold cursive stitching above the year. Our eyes stay locked, and the class emits a taunting groan.
I look to my seat three desks away, then I look back at Mark. I could literally break him in half if I wanted to. I could throw him into the next county. If he tried to run away, and got into a car, I could outrun his car and put it in the top of a tree. But aside from that being an extreme overreaction, Henri’s words echo in my mind: “Don’t stand out or draw too much attention. ” I know that I should follow his advice and ignore what has just happened, as I always have in the past. That is what we’re good at, blending into the environment and living within its shadows. But I feel slightly off, uneasy, and before I have a chance to think twice, the question is already asked.
“Did you want something?”
Mark looks away and glances around the rest of the room, scoots his weight up the chair, then looks back at me.
“What are you talking about?” he asks.
“You stuck your foot out when I passed. And you bumped into me outside. I thought you might have wanted something. ”
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Burton asks behind me. I look over my shoulder at her.
“Nothing,” I say. I turn back to Mark. “Well?”
His hands tighten around the desk but he remains silent. Our eyes stay locked until he sighs and looks away.
“That’s what I thought,” I say down at him, and continue walking. The other students aren’t sure how to respond and most of them are still staring when I take my seat between a redheaded girl with freckles and an overweight guy who looks at me with his mouth agape.
