Killing November

by Adriana Mather

  I exhale. “I said essentially the same thing.”

  “I know you did. I could tell by her expression,” he says.

  I shake my head. “I’m a little jealous of you right now. You know these people. You know how to be strategic in a situation like this. And here I am left spewing half-truths and blabbering confusion to get through it.” I rub my forehead near my eyebrow.

  He considers my words. “I’m pretty sure I know most of what you said, and you didn’t do as badly as you think you did.”

  “How do you know I think I did badly?”

  “Are you saying I’m wrong?”

  “No, I’m saying you’re annoyingly right.”

  “The way you just touched your forehead.”

  I stop fidgeting. “What?”

  He imitates my gesture. “This. You did it with your fingers out, shielding your eyes. It’s often linked with the shame of lying—metaphorically trying to hide yourself from being looked at.”

  My eyes widen. “Doesn’t it get old always knowing what people are thinking? Don’t you want to be surprised sometimes?”

  He scans my face. “The third mark I got was for conspiring to date another student. Now that was a surprise.”

  “Oh man,” I say, and laugh, even though there is nothing funny about this situation. “Yeah, well, telling them I was breaking the rules because you are attractive seemed less likely to cause a tizzy than telling them I wanted to learn as much as I could about the other students.”

  Ash looks far too pleased. “So you told Blackwood you’re attracted to me? I have to say that’s not a usual tactic. I’m fairly impressed.”

  I put up my hands. “I totally see what you’re doing, changing my words and then watching my response. I said you’re attractive, not that I’m attracted to you. There’s a big difference.”

  By the look on his face I can tell that he’s used to girls admiring him and that this whole situation just became more interesting. And I know this, because I would do the exact same thing. In some ways Ash is more similar to me than I would like to admit, and I want to tell him to step off my personality. I’m supposed to be a snowflake.

  “I want to propose something to you,” he says, turning serious as he sits down on my bed.

  I give him a wary look. “The last time you proposed something we wound up sneaking outside on the same night someone got murdered.”

  “That’s exactly my point,” he says. “As of right now, I don’t know who killed Stefano or why.” I can feel him reading me. “But I do wonder about the timing. Strategia are never random, and I would bet anything that you were meant to find Stefano.”

  My stomach drops like I’m on a bad carnival ride. “You think someone is setting me up?”

  “Or me. I don’t know. I’m just saying that we can’t ignore that possibility.” He looks way less put out about the whole thing than I am feeling.

  I brush some flyaway hairs back from my forehead. It’s suddenly hard to breathe. “I’m stuck here,” I barely whisper, thinking back on Blackwood’s refusal to contact my dad.

  “Pardon?”

  I rub my hands over my face. “Nothing. What are you proposing?”

  “That we find Stefano’s murderer,” he says.

  My heart thuds. I’ve always thought of myself as a thrill-seeker, but in less than one week here that’s been proven wrong in every conceivable way. “You want to actively seek out the person who stabbed another person with a knife and possibly has reason to set me up for it?” I pace back and forth. “Can’t we just, I don’t know, let Blackwood do her investigation? If she’s half as good as you are at reading people, don’t you think she’ll be able to sort it out? If we just keep our heads down and don’t break any more rules, as difficult as that might be for you, don’t you think it will get resolved?”

  Ash’s expression turns hard. “I know you use your open and seemingly trusting demeanor to disarm people, but if you actually believe half of what you just said, you’ll without a doubt take the fall for this.”

  I don’t need Ash’s people-reading skills to know that this time he means exactly what he says. The room spins and I sit down next to him on the bed. Under normal conditions, if I were sitting on my bed with a boy who looked like Ash, all I’d be able to think about would be flirting. But right now all I’m thinking about is whether I could be executed for a murder I didn’t commit.

  “We’re going up against the best-trained deception and tactical experts in the world. So I suggest you get in the game immediately. Everyone else is on the playing field and you’re sitting in the stands eating popcorn. Don’t think for a minute that your interview today with Blackwood was the end of it. The worst is coming.” Ash’s usual smooth-talking charm is absent.

  I nod, because as much as I’d like to hide under my bed until this all goes away, his point is fair. “Okay. I’m obviously going to do what I have to in order to avoid taking the fall for murder. But I’m not going to do this dance with you, where you try to pull information out of me in ten kinds of sneaky ways. First nice, then serious, then pushy.” I pause. “If you’re right that someone wanted to implicate me, then someone knows or thinks they know something about me personally. And yes, gathering that same information is probably ninety percent of the reason you’re here right now, offering to work with me on this.”

  Ash opens his mouth, but I raise my hand before he can say anything.

  “No, let me finish. You know this school and these people better than I ever will. You’ve also had the training to give you tools to deal with this. You don’t need my detective skills; you need information on me. But I need information, too. You said you would tutor me in history if I told you personal things. Well, I’m not going to make it that easy. If I agree to do this with you, you’ve got to give something up, too. And you need to stop manipulating me.”

  He watches me closely with his “I see your inner soul” expression that drives me nuts. “Perhaps.”

  “I’m serious. No more toying with me. The first day we met you told me that I shouldn’t trust you, but here you are asking me to work with you to find a murderer.” I point at him. “And I don’t like that you look at me like you’re reading my mind. I feel like I’m always on the edge of a cliff when I talk to you.”

  For a split second there’s something akin to shock in his expression. “You really enjoy bringing things out into the open, don’t you?”

  “As much as you enjoy hiding them.”

  He spreads his hands and holds them out like he has nothing to hide. “What do you want to know?”

  I look at him pointedly. “Something of equal value to whatever I tell you.”

  “As long as I get to be the one who decides what is equal,” he says.

  “You are a piece of work,” I say.

  He smirks. “At least I’m not predictable.”

  “You can say that again.” I chew on the inside of my cheek and shift my focus to the flickering candle on my bedside table, watching it cast shadows on the maroon blackout curtain behind it. Part of me fears I’m making a huge mistake. But if I’m stuck here with no way to talk to Dad and the administration suspects I was involved in a murder, I can’t just sit around and wait for the chips to fall. Especially after what I learned from Ash last night: Strategia have managed to shape world events for the past two thousand years. Compared to manipulating world leaders, I must seem like easy pickings. I sigh and look back at Ash. “So, who was his roommate?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Stefano’s roommate. If we’re going to figure this thing out, wouldn’t that be a logical place to start?”

  Ash looks at me sideways, like he’s surprised I had to ask. “Matteo,” he says, and the moment his name comes out of Ash’s mouth I’m positive this is the worst deal I’ve ever made.

  LAYLA AN
D I walk toward class, and even though I’ve been up for some hours now, I still feel groggy from lack of sleep. Also, I’ve been getting more looks than usual all day, making me wonder if my conflict with Brendan and Charles is now public knowledge. And as though they knew I was thinking about them, I hear Brendan’s and Charles’s voices behind us.

  Layla pushes through a classroom door and I exhale in relief. But it’s short-lived, because not five seconds later Brendan and Charles enter, too. And to make matters worse, Nyx is with them.

  The five of us are the first ones in the classroom, where the desks, if you can call the large wooden tables that, have all been pushed to the edges of the room. There are two ropes tied securely around a thick dark wood ceiling beam, and hanging between them is a flag bearing the school crest.

  “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, Layla,” Nyx says, and her gaze is direct and probing. “I thought you were the smart twin. But every time I turn around I think you’re less neutral than the day before.” There is no showmanship in Nyx’s approach the way there is when Brendan is toying with someone. And she doesn’t look back at her friends for approval and solidarity the way Charles usually does. She’s direct. You can tell she says what she means and a threat is a threat.

  I look from Nyx to Layla, and it’s obvious by Layla’s expression and rigid posture that whatever Nyx is talking about is important. Then it clicks. Neutral. Ash used that word when he asked me about my Strategia Family politics—he said “for, against, or neutral.”

  Charles is standing next to Nyx, and he’s a good foot and a half taller than she is. He’s also right between us and the door. “I think maybe Layla always fell on the wrong side of politics, and that it just took her sloppy friend here to shine a light on it.” The contradiction between his silky voice and the words he chose makes me do a double take. He’s like a toddler, cursing with a smile.

  One look at Layla and it’s clear she wishes she could disappear.

  “Sloppy?” I say, boisterously enough that the whole ominous mood breaks. “Pshhht. If you’re trying to insult me, you’re going to have to be more creative than that.” They all look at me with dagger eyes, but I don’t care. I’m just happy to take the heat off Layla for a second. I owe her that much at least. “I met an eight-year-old a couple of weeks ago who called me a Skittle fart. Now that’s creativity.”

  “Every time you open your mouth,” Brendan says, spreading his hands out like he has an audience of four hundred instead of four, “it only confirms the fact that you don’t belong here.”

  “Just because you—” I start, but the door opens and a middle-aged woman I’m assuming is the professor walks in with three more students behind her. I shut my mouth and the five of us break apart, like we were never talking in the first place.

  I knew these three would be a problem for me, but I never thought they’d target Layla because of me. I watch Layla, who seems to be just as uncomfortable as I am, and wish I could apologize. But I know that at this point the situation has escalated beyond what an “I’m sorry” can fix.

  “So you’re all here but you’re still wearing your cloaks,” the professor says. “I shouldn’t have to remind you to always be prepared.”

  The room goes silent and we move quickly to hang our cloaks on the far wall. Everyone returns to form a line in front of the professor, who looks directly at me. “I’m Professor Liu, November. Welcome to your first day of psychological warfare—or, as we affectionately call it, mind games.”

  I nod my consent, careful not to speak out of turn like I did in Fléchier’s class. Liu—the name of the Chinese emperors of the Han dynasty…it means “destroy.”

  Professor Liu begins to roll up the sleeves of her black linen blouse in nice, even folds. “Last class we were speaking about perception—how reality can be immaterial because what matters is what your opponent thinks is real. For instance, if you can convince someone that you are more powerful than you really are, you can potentially scare them out of battle. Anyone?”

  Brendan answers before the others, which seems to be a pattern of his. “At night, Genghis Khan would order his soldiers to light three torches each to give the illusion of an enormous army and intimidate his enemies. He also tied objects to horses’ tails so that when they rode through dry fields they’d kick up clouds of dust and further enhance the impression of their numbers.” He delivers his answer with a clear voice and a smile. Upon first encounter, I thought Brendan, Charles, and Nyx were the equivalents of the popular crowd at Pembrook, but I’m now thinking Brendan’s confidence comes from being well trained and prepared.

  “Right,” Lui says. “Influence perception and you have the ability to change an outcome without fighting.” She clasps her hands behind her back and looks up at the ceiling. “Today, we’re going to do something unusual and start class with a physical challenge. As you can see, I’ve hung a flag from the ceiling beam. There are two ropes and eight of you.” She opens a container of what looks like hand chalk for climbing and walks down the line of us; I watch as the students dip their hands in and pat them together. “You’ll have to be fast and you’ll have to be smart. There are no rules about the types of tactics you might use against one another. The only rule is that the first person to reach the desk directly behind you is the winner.”

  I want to think I misheard her, but I didn’t. What I can’t wrap my mind around is the fact that Liu is encouraging us to fight our way up two ropes to a beam that’s at least fourteen feet off the ground. There’s no safety net, no rules. In fact, she gave us permission to fight it out any way we need to, which, knowing this bunch, probably means a lot of martial arts moves I’m not prepared for. Stealing a cloth in the dark was one thing, but this is something else entirely. And after last night and the conversation we just had with Brendan, Charles, and Nyx, this is basically worst-case scenario.

  “Boxing,” I say, and take a jab into the air on our front porch. “Or wushu.” I throw a kick.

  Aunt Jo sips her lemonade with her feet up on the porch railing.

  “You know defensive moves, Nova,” Dad says as he whittles away at a walking stick with his favorite knife. It’s got a silver handle in the shape of a wolf’s head. “And you know how to get out of someone’s grip if they grab you.”

  I groan. “Are you kidding? Those aren’t remotely the same as what I’m talking about. You’ve taught me about knives, swords, booby traps, and survival skills”—I count the items off on my fingers as I go—“but you won’t teach me boxing? Do you hear yourself?”

  “Christopher is probably scared you’ll kick his butt all over town,” Aunt Jo says, and I giggle. “Embarrass him in front of all his buddies.”

  Dad tries to contain his smile, but it sneaks into the corners of his eyes. “I’ll teach you when you’re older.”

  “How old?” I say.

  “Eighteen,” he says, and I nearly fall off the step I’m balancing on.

  “Seven years? Seven?” I look pleadingly at my aunt. “Aunt Jo?”

  “Don’t use that cute face on me,” she says. “I see what you’re doing.”

  “Nova,” Dad says. “I’m intentionally not teaching you how to fight.”

  “Because you think I’m going to get hurt?” I say.

  He pauses his whittling. “Because you already have the skills to be an excellent fighter. You’re fast and strong. You have good reflexes. You’ll pick up boxing easily. But I don’t want you to think like a fighter. I want you to think differently.”

  “Differently how?” I ask.

  “I want you to think of unusual and creative solutions. And I want you to see the world in your own unique way. If you learn to hit a certain way in boxing or to jump a certain way in wushu, your brain will immediately default to them as an answer. I don’t want you to rely on the same answers every other person does. I want you to make up your own. If you learn
how to approach a fight from an unexpected angle, you will become the weapon your opponent can’t predict.”

  Liu has stopped in front of me and offers me the hand chalk.

  “I…,” I start, but I have no idea how to tell her that I don’t know how to fight properly.

  “Afraid to join in?” she says, and everyone looks at me.

  “No, I just…” I look at Layla for help, but her expression is unreadable. Reluctantly, I dip my hands in the chalk.

  “Everyone stay where you are,” Liu says. “November, take three steps toward the ropes.”

  Nyx shoots me a disgusted look.

  Oh, this is just getting worse by the second. “I really don’t need an advantage,” I say.

  “Take three steps forward, like I said.” The professor’s voice has a commanding edge and I scoot forward.

  If I lose now, it’s going to be ten times more embarrassing. My whole body tenses as Liu drags out the next couple of seconds in silence.

  “And go!” she says loudly, and everyone makes a dash for the ropes.

  I don’t get two strides in when a boot strikes the back of my knee, sending me flailing onto the floor. Nyx snickers and all seven students pass me full-speed.

  Near the ropes, Charles takes a fast swing at Layla. She dodges gracefully, though I’m not sure how she could have anticipated his punch. But just as Layla eludes Charles, Brendan lands a kick to her stomach. She doubles over, and from the way she’s gasping, I know he knocked the wind out of her.

  I jump up from the floor and start to move toward her, but as I do Brendan turns to face me. I somehow see everything at once: Charles has reached the rope, and when he grabs for the guy who’s clinging to it, he gets a swift kick in the face. Layla is upright and her breathing seems easier, but then my view of her is temporarily blocked by Brendan, who is now running toward me. From the little I’ve witnessed of his fighting skills, there is every likelihood I’ll end up with broken bones if he attacks me. His eyes narrow as he closes in, and I don’t think anymore, I run, too—all the way back to the tables near the wall. I arrive a split second before he does.