The Paladin Prophecy

#86: NEVER BE NERVOUS WHEN TALKING TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL. JUST PRETEND SHE’S A PERSON, TOO.

“So this is your idea of a good time,” said Will. “Pushing guys around.”

“Hush,” whispered Brooke. “They’ll think you’re still woozy.”

“Let’s meet in my office tomorrow morning at nine, Will,” said Robbins as they stepped outside. “We’ll go over your schedule and curriculum. Mr. McBride’s volunteered to be your faculty counselor for now.”

“If that’s all right with you, Will,” said McBride.

Will said that was more than all right. He stood up, shook hands with both adults, and they walked the wheelchair back inside. Brooke pointed to an electric golf cart parked nearby, bearing the Center’s crest and colors.

“Your chariot awaits, sir,” she said.

Will’s duffel sat in a basket in the back. He eased himself into the passenger seat while Brooke slipped behind the wheel. Will’s forehead pulsed with pain, his side ached, his left ankle throbbed, and even though the sun had warmed the air into the low thirties, he was still absolutely freezing. But after all he’d been through, these discomforts rooted him firmly into his body and felt oddly reassuring.

“This is all you brought,” she said. “You travel light.”

“Habit, I guess.”

“So tell me: What’s your first impression?”

“At six I could do a pretty awesome Scooby-Doo.”

She frowned at him. “How many head injuries have you had?”

“None that I remember. Is that a bad sign?”

“I meant your first impression of the school, you goof,” said Brooke.

She twisted her hair into a ponytail, secured it with a clip, slipped the cart into gear, and steered them onto a crosswalk. She wore gray suede high-top cross-trainers with a school logo.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“We’ve lived all over.”

“Military family?”

“No. Where are you from?”

“I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Newbie.” She waved at some buildings they passed, like a model on a game show pointing out prizes. “Those are the kitchens. That’s security, transportation. This, as you may have gathered, is the more quotidian side of the campus.”

Like I don’t know what quotidian means. A spike of irritation prompted Will to say, “Would you like to hear what I know about you?”

She glanced sideways at him and instead of “Oh, please”—which Will knew she was thinking—said, “What could you possibly know about me?”

“You’re fifteen,” said Will. “An only child. Wealthy family. You play the violin. You grew up in suburban Virginia, but you’ve lived in at least two Spanish-speaking countries because your father works for the State Department—”

Brooke slammed on the brakes and looked at him in alarm. “How could you know that? Did you read my dossier?”

Will shook his head and smiled. Brooke’s eyebrows knotted, her eyes flashing. She drummed her fingers on the wheel, expecting an explanation, letting him know she didn’t like waiting.

“I study regional accents,” said Will. “You have calluses on the fingers of your left hand consistent with playing a stringed instrument. I speak Spanish, and you sound like you learned it as a second language. I put that together with proximity to DC and came up with ‘State Department.’ ”

All of which would be much easier for her to accept than My parents trained me to obsessively observe and assess every stranger I meet for reasons they never bothered to explain. And it’s a hard talent to turn off, especially when the “stranger” is a beautiful girl.

“How did you know I’m an only child?” she asked.

“Takes one to know one. Am I right?”

“Yes. And Dad was the ambassador to Argentina. But I don’t play the violin. I play the cello.”

Brooke drove on, pretending he hadn’t freaked her out. But she didn’t seem to be looking at him from quite as steep an angle down her narrow, patrician nose.

“There’s the Administration Building—pay attention, Captain Concussion, you’re meeting Dr. Robbins there in the morning.”

“Got it.”

“And this is the main campus coming into view on our left—”

Brooke kept up her museum guide patter, naming every building—including three different libraries—as they tooled around the commons. Will paid zero attention. The girl behind the wheel was much more fascinating, someone from a world of money, privilege, and power, a million miles from his own. He’d never met anyone like her. She was gorgeous, and her confidence was stunning, but not in the manipulative way of a girl who relied solely on her looks. Her poise and intelligence impressed him even more. He decided that since she didn’t know the first thing about him—and how his pedigree paled in comparison to hers—it might be best to keep it that way.

As they made their way around, other students waved, regarding an obvious newcomer with friendly smiles. Brooke waved back, as serene and elegant as the Queen of the Rose Parade, even at the carts driven by smiling security guards, who all looked like Eloni: heavyset, with round faces and curly black hair.

“Is every security guard here Samoan?” asked Will.

“You noticed already,” she said, then glanced at him again. “Not that I should be surprised.”

“What’s the reason?”

“Aside from the fact that they’re huge and agile and strong enough to tear a bus apart with their bare hands?”

“Why? Is this a high school or an NFL team?”

“It’s a private school for kids from high-profile families with legitimate security issues. Plus they’re friendly, trustworthy, and incorruptible.”

“What’s the deal? Are they all from the same family?”

“They’re from the same aiga, or clan,” said Brooke. “My favorite theory, although it’s probably an urban legend, is that they’re reformed gangsters from South Side Chicago. Eloni is their matai, or chief. My father says that because of their great warrior culture, we should be glad Samoa is on our side. And if that ever changes, be grateful that Samoa’s just a tiny speck in the South Pacific.”

They followed a path away from the commons through a birch forest on a narrow plateau. Along a winding lane stood four identical redbrick buildings, each four stories tall with gabled roofs and lots of ornamental detail. They looked more postmodern in style than anything else Will had seen at the Center, pleasing to the eye and welcoming to the spirit.

“These are the residence halls,” said Brooke. “Bring your bag.”

Brooke parked in front of the last building in the row. He followed her to the front doors. A sign on the wall read GREENWOOD HALL.

“Looks different from the rest of the school,” said Will.

“Big-bucks architect,” said Brooke. “Winner of many awards.”

He followed her down a wide empty hallway with stone floors and light pine woodwork to a door with a sign: GREENWOOD HALL PROVOST MARSHAL. She pushed the door open and pointed to a table in the square, wood-paneled room.

“Put your bag down there,” she said. “And stand back.”

OceanofPDF.com