The Paladin Prophecy

#27: THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS COINCIDENCE.

Mrs. Filopovich launched into her daily drone. Today’s subject: the Napoleonic Wars. The annoying buzz that leaked from the intercom on the wall above her desk sounded more interesting. Half the class struggled to stay conscious; he saw two wake-up jolts as chins slipped off propped-up hands. The air in the room curdled, like even the oxygen had given up hope.

Will’s mind drifted to the last thing Dad had said before leaving two days ago: “Pay attention to your dreams.” Suddenly he flashed onto the dream that had eluded him earlier. He closed his eyes to reel it back in and caught a single, fleeting image:

Snow falling. Stillness in an immense forest, large trees laden white.

For all their moving around, he’d never once seen snow in real life until that frosting on the mountains this morning. But this felt more real than a dream. Like a place he’d actually been before.

The door opened. The school psychologist slipped in, making an exaggerated effort to not be noticed, like a mime overacting a burglary. Will knew the man vaguely. He’d conducted Will’s new-student orientation tour three months ago, in August. Mr. Rasche. Midthirties. Pear-shaped in corduroy and loud plaid, a prickly academic’s beard fringing a cascade of chins.

Rasche whispered to Mrs. Filopovich. The class stirred to life, grateful for anything that spared them from Death by Bonaparte. The adults scanned the class.

Mr. Rasche’s eyes settled on Will. “Will West?” he asked with a weird lopsided smile. “Would you come with me, please?”

Alarms tripped through Will’s nervous system. He stood up, wishing he could disappear, as a gossipy ripple of intrigue ran through the class.

“Bring your things,” said Mr. Rasche, as bland as milk.

Rasche waited at the door and then led the way, springing up on his toes with every step.

“What kind of trouble is this?” asked Will.

“Trouble? Oh, no, no, no,” said Rasche, forcing a canine grin. “It’s ‘all good.’ ” Rasche hooked his fingers around his words with air quotes.

Yikes.

“But I feel you, dawg,” said Rasche. He offered a fist bump to show he was on Will’s side. “It’s all pret-ty awesome and amazing. As you will see.”

As they walked past the long counter outside the principal’s office, the staff behind the counter beamed at Will. One even gave him a thumbs-up.

Something’s totally messed up.

Principal Ed Barton bounded out of his office. The hearty, pie-faced man pumped Will’s hand, as breathless and buoyant as if Will had just won the state science fair.

“Mr. West, come in, come in. Good to see you again. How are you today?”

Even weirder. On any other day, armed with Will’s class photo and a bloodhound, Barton wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a three-kid lineup that included Siamese twins.

But then Will always made a point of missing school photo day.

“To be honest, I’m kind of worried,” said Will as he and Mr. Rasche followed Barton into his office.

“About what, Will?”

“That everyone’s being so nice because you’re about to lay some tragic news on me.”

Barton chuckled and steered him inside. “Oh, no. Not at all.”

Rasche closed the door behind them. A woman stood up from a chair in front of Barton’s desk and extended her hand. She was as tall as Will, athletic and lithe, wearing a dark tailored suit. Her straight blond hair was pulled back in a crisp ponytail. A pricey leather briefcase rested at her flashy spiked heels.

“Will, this is Dr. Robbins,” said Barton.

“Really nice to meet you, Will,” she said. Her grip was strong, and her violet eyes sharp.

Whoever she is, Will thought, the doctor is smoking hot.

“Dr. Robbins is here with some incredibly exciting news,” said Barton.

“You’re a hard-core facts and numbers guy, aren’t you, Will?” asked Robbins.

“As opposed to …”

“A sucker for marketing slogans and subliminal advertising designed to paralyze your conscious mind and shut down rational impulse control by stimulating your lower brain?”

Will hesitated. “That depends on what you’re trying to sell me.”

Dr. Robbins smiled. She leaned down, picked up her briefcase, and slipped out a sleek black metallic laptop. She set it on Barton’s desk and opened it. The screen lit up with a waterfall of data that arranged artfully into animated graphs.

Principal Barton sat down behind his desk. “Will, do you remember the standardized test you and your classmates took in September?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Will.

Dr. Robbins said, “That test is conducted by the National Scholastic Evaluation Agency. On every tenth grader at every public school in the country.” She pointed to a large cluster of squiggling lines in the middle of the chart on her laptop’s screen. “These are the nationwide average scores they’ve collected over the last five years.”

Robbins punched a key; the image zoomed in on the top of the chart, which blossomed into a smaller group of what looked like dancing sixteenth notes. “These are the scores of National Merit Scholars,” she said. “The top two percent of the database.”

Dr. Robbins punched another key, and the image moved again, zooming in on a single red dot above the highest cluster. Alone.

Tendrils of fear wrapped around Will’s gut. Uh-oh, he thought.

“This,” she said, “is you. One in, to be precise, 2.3567 million.” She cocked her head to the side and smiled again, dazzling and sympathetic.

Will’s heart skipped a beat. He tried to hide his shock as a single thought raced through his mind: How did this happen?

“Attaboy, Will,” said Barton, rubbing his hands with glee. “What do you think about that?”

Will had attended the man’s stunningly average high school for less than two weeks when he took that test, but Barton clearly intended to grab whatever credit he could for his results.

“Will?” asked Dr. Robbins.

“Sorry. I’m kind of … speechless.”

“Perfectly understandable,” she said. “We can go over specifics if you like—”

A buzzer on Barton’s console sounded. Barton snapped his fingers at Rasche, who turned and opened the door. Will’s mother walked in wearing a scarf around her neck, her eyes hidden behind her big sunglasses.

Will looked for some indication of her disappointment—he had screwed up big-time and blown his anonymity—but his mother just smiled at him. “Isn’t it exciting?” she said, rushing to give him a hug. “I came as soon as Dr. Robbins called.”

Will pulled back and caught his reflection in his mother’s mirrored sunglasses. That was odd. She never wore sunglasses indoors. Was she wearing them now so he couldn’t see her eyes? She was acting all excited for the benefit of the other adults in the room, but Will knew she had to be really angry with him.

As Belinda stepped back, Will caught a faint trace of cigarettes. Odd. She must have been around some smokers at her office. Could workers in California legally light up anymore?

Will’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Dad: CONGRATULATIONS, SON! Mom must have called him with the news.

Will’s mom shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with everyone in the room. Then Dr. Robbins took charge again. “If you’d indulge me, Will,” she said, “and if everyone will excuse us, I’d like you to take one other quick, simple test.”

“What for?”

“Curiosity,” she said simply. “When somebody shatters the existing statistical model, scientific minds crave confirmation. What do you say? Are you up for it?”

“If I say no, what’s the worst that could happen?” asked Will.

“You go back to class, finish your day, and forget we ever had this conversation,” she said.

Talk about a convincing argument. “Let’s do it,” said Will.

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