The Paladin Prophecy

#40: NEVER MAKE EXCUSES.

“How big a loser am I?” he whispered.

“We don’t have units of measurement that size,” Brooke whispered back.

“I am so doomed with this guy.”

“Probably so.”

“Thanks, I feel better now,” said Will.

“Are we finding the accommodations satisfactory, Mr. West?” asked Sangren.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now please refrain from speaking unless you’re struck by either an original thought or a meteorite. The odds of which I would estimate are about even.”

An even bigger laugh. Even Elise gave a little smirk at that smack-down.

God. Just. Kill. Me. Now.

Sangren ran his fingers over the console on his lectern. Overhead lights in the room dimmed; the louvers on the windows closed automatically. The blue screen behind Sangren transformed into a map of Europe that took up the entire wall.

No, much more than a map, Will realized. Some kind of hybrid satellite image: intensely photo-real, with precise topographic three-dimensional contours. Engraved borders defined countries. Names of important places and geographic features conformed to the shapes of the ground below. Mountains jutted straight out of the surface toward them: The line of the Alps plowed south toward Italy.

Every detail looked startlingly vivid. Large cities—Rome, Vienna, Paris, London—appeared as broad flickering pockets of light, teeming with life. Currents and tides animated oceans, rippling and swelling around ports and shorelines. No map he’d ever seen more plainly showed the influence of geography on the creation of societies. Clouds drifted overhead, and sunlight and shadows played across the entire continent in a way that only an astronaut, or maybe God, could have seen them.

Will glanced around; the same map appeared on the tablets of all the other students. Astonishing.

“The name of the class, Mr. West, is Civics: Profiles in Power and Realpolitik,” said Sangren. “The point of this unit is to look back and grasp what’s relevant to us as Americans—at this moment in time—about the struggles of our human predecessors. Are you with me so far?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sangren moved his hands on his console. Animated three-dimensional images blossomed all over the map; time came to life before their eyes. Roman legions advanced on barbarian camps. Napoleon’s Grand Army rode toward Moscow. Dust rose from ancient roads to the drumbeat of hooves on paving stones, the clang of weapons, gunfire, and artillery. Merchants loaded sailing ships in harbors. Armadas clashed on open seas.

“We don’t teach history here; we let history teach us. The way it did the people who lived it: the way you experience the present, as a living field you can reach out and touch. The human story. A long compelling tale fueled by one common theme: the lust for power. Driven by men and women who understood the tools and the rules of the exercise of power. What might those be, Miss Moreau?”

Elise glanced at Will as she answered. Biting off each word with a snap. “Brutality. Terror. Corruption. Greed. Bloodshed. Deception.”

“Don’t forget obsession, madness, and seduction,” said Sangren.

“Oh, I never do,” said Elise.

The class chuckled.

“In other words, we look for the truth behind the common assumptions,” said Sangren. “And the truth isn’t very pretty, is it, Miss Moreau?”

“No, sir. But it sure is interesting.”

The class laughed again. All except Brooke, who rolled her eyes.

“Empty your mind, Mr. West. Forget those nice stories you’ve been told about history as ‘progress’ and the ‘goodness’ of humanity. Chock full of idealism, fairness, decency, the innate nobility of man, all that heartwarming flapdoodle. Nothing wrong with it, by the way. And if you’re interested, you can learn all about it in another class just down the hall. It’s called fiction.”

The class laughed again. Will’s eyes felt stuck wide open. He’d never heard a teacher chomp into the neck of a subject like this before. In the schools Will had attended, Sangren would have been banished for opinions this outrageous.

His floppy hair waving as he moved around, Sangren continued with the passion and energy of a conductor driving an orchestra to the end of a symphony.

“This is the big con of the ruling classes. The one they’ve convinced the masses to buy since the dawn of time, that submitting to the will of those in charge is in their best interests. Even if it costs them their cash, their livelihood, or their happiness. Even if it kills them, which more often than not is exactly what happens.”

On the map, more images appeared: battlefields littered with casualties. Wagons carrying stacks of wooden caskets. Military graveyards. Rows of white crosses fading into the mist.

“So ask yourself, Which of these ‘demographics’ do you aspire to? Spending your life at the nickel slots in a cut-rate casino? Or at a table in the high-roller penthouse where the game’s really played? That’s the velvet rope of the great divide. Which side are you on?”

The question hung in the air. Sangren looked directly at Will.

“Don’t answer yet. Pay attention. You’ll be shocked by what you learn. Before the penny finally drops, there will be nights when you want to cry yourself to sleep. Then, one fine morning, you’ll wake up, look around, and see the world the way it really is. Lucky, lucky you.”

The dire images faded away and a breathtaking image of the earth floating in the dark void of space appeared on-screen.

“After all, this lovely, fragile little blue sphere is going to be your amusement park someday,” said Sangren. “Isn’t it in your best interest, before that comes to pass, to learn how it really works?”

When class ended, Will staggered down the risers toward the door. In one hour, Sangren had stretched his mind in directions no teacher had taken him before. He felt invigorated, but overwhelmed: He had a world of catching up to do. Brooke waited for him outside, but before he reached her: “Mr. West!”

Professor Sangren, packing his valise at the lectern, beckoned Will over.

“We’ll talk later,” said Brooke, squeezing his arm. “Hang in there.”

Will walked back to Sangren and realized he was actually taller than his teacher.

“I frightened you today,” said Sangren.

“That’s all right, sir—”

“I’m not apologizing. That was my intention.” Sangren regarded Will with a patronizing smile. “We need to determine, rather quickly, if you belong here. Not many do, and there’s no shame in that, but this will be trial by fire. Get that through your head: The Center is a meritocracy, not a charity day-care facility.”

Will felt his guts churning and struggled to hold in his anger.

“Do you know what’s at stake? We’re in a global knife fight. Will America and the Western democracies remain the most powerful, resourceful, and innovative force on earth? Or are we just going to wave China and India on ahead and say, ‘Yo, catch you later.’ Your generation’s going to make or break this battle. You’re either smart enough and strong enough to lead on the front lines, or you’re not. As teachers, we need to state the stark reality of what’s expected and demanded of every student. You’ll have to do whatever it takes to survive here, and it is going to be hard.”

Will noticed something peculiar about Sangren’s eyes. His left iris was solid black, as if dilated by an optometrist. Something about this weird contrast made it feel as if two different people were looking at him through the same set of eyes.

Sangren smiled again. Will didn’t like it. “I’m guessing none of our cuddly old softies in administration explained it this way.”

“Not in so many words.”

“Then let me be the first to use this many words: You have five weeks to make the grade. Best of luck to you. It appears you’re going to need it.”

Sangren strolled away, lifting onto his toes with each step, swinging his case, whistling “Singin’ in the Rain.”

Will watched him go. The little professor had just dumped ice water all over his sense of security. If Sangren was telling the truth, what if he didn’t make the grade? If they showed him the door five weeks from now … where in the world would he go?

Will wandered out into the hall. His only class for the day over, he felt lost and a little helpless, and paid no attention to where he was. He heard piano music from down the hall, classical, expertly played. A woman joined in, singing in a foreign language—French, he thought. Her voice stopped him cold; powerful but restrained, it was deeply emotional. He tracked it to a room and opened the door.

A grand piano stood in the center of the room. Sitting at the piano, both singing and playing, was Elise. She stopped when she heard him come in.

“Sorry,” said Will. “Please, don’t stop.”

She scowled at him. “You’ve never heard Lakmé before?”

“I’ve never heard anything like that before.”

“Well, don’t get all moony over it, Jethro,” she said. She started again, improvising the classical phrase she’d been playing into effortless jazz.

“Where did you learn …?” he asked, astonished by her skill.

“Dad’s a first violin. Mom used to headline at a nightclub in Hong Kong. So it’s not as if I had a choice, okay?”

“You sound embarrassed about it.”

“If you’re not embarrassed about your parents at our age,” said Elise, “you’ve got a plate in your head.”

Will listened as she riffed the same melody into pop, R & B, and hip-hop idioms. Dazzling.

“You ought to just turn pro,” said Will. “I mean it. Right now.”

Elise laughed. “And then what, spend my life giving piano lessons to the tone-deaf spawn of suburbia to subsidize my passion? No thanks.”

“So what is your passion?”

“The usual,” she said, running glissandos up and down the keyboard. “Writing. Recording. World domination.”

She looked straight into him with that wide-open unnerving gaze, but this time Will didn’t look away and he was struck by a feeling he’d seen her eyes before.…

“I saw Sangren grab you after class,” she said, turning back to the piano. “Did he gut-punch you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb, West. You know what I’m talking about.” Will fidgeted. “I guess he said a few things that caught me off guard—”

Elise slammed down the cover on the keys. “Would you just stop?”

Will jumped. “What? Stop what?”

She locked eyes with him. He tried to make himself blank, unreadable, which only seemed to make her angrier. “Stop hiding. Maybe that’s how you survived with the hicks back at Nowheresville High, but you’re not the only smart kid in the room now. And you’re not gonna make it unless you come out from under your rock.”

He realized she was trying to be helpful, reach out to him in her own complicated way, just as Ajay had earlier at breakfast. He took in a deep breath and tried to let down his guard as he exhaled: “I’m not sure how to do that.”

“Show yourself,” said Elise urgently. “Trust somebody. Lose your game face. Figure out who your friends are—that would be us, by the way—and ask for help. Be real with us, be who you are, or be gone.”

Part of him appreciated the advice. But the way she so effortlessly sliced through his defenses infuriated him. Before he even knew what he was saying, he heard himself lash back at her: “Is that what happened to Ronnie Murso?”

Elise flinched, as if the question had cut her physically. It came as a surprise that Miss Above-It-All could be wounded. Will immediately regretted it. He braced for a counterattack, but instead of baring her claws and striking back, she just looked at him, completely unguarded, and let him see how much he’d hurt her.

“Someday you’ll realize just how unfair that was,” she whispered.

Elise left the piano and brushed past him, out of the room, leaving him holding a big bag full of What the hell did I say that for?

“Damn it,” he said.

Will looked at his watch: He was due at the field house to meet the coach. He needed a run more than ever. He hurried outside and struck out across the commons for the field house. Elise’s voice echoed in his head: “Show yourself. Trust somebody.”

He’d been taught, trained, and conditioned to never trust anybody. Drop his game face? He’d been living with his guard up for so long that if his game face was taken away, he wasn’t completely sure who he’d find underneath.

After everything he’d learned the last two days, he wasn’t even sure he could trust himself.

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