The Thief

by Aine Crabtree

  “Course it matters,” I say, shutting it and following him down the hall. “Girls don’t like guys who are shorter than them.”

  “Never heard you say that either.”

  “Just like you’ve never used sarcasm.”

  Destin sighs. His thick curtain of bangs hides half his expression, but his body language is always clear. “You always joke about your height.”

  “Because it’s hila-a-rious,” I stretch out the word, “and I might as well make the joke before someone else does. And it doesn’t help standing next to the Empire State Building all the time,” I gesture at him.

  “Fair enough, but are you sure she’s even coming to our school? She could be at public. You’re more than usually bent out of shape about this. Over a girl you’ve never even seen.”

  “It’s this huge mysterious thing!” I say defensively. “I mean nobody says anything about her, even though there was supposedly this whole big ordeal about her parents eloping - old Ms. Graham doesn’t even have pictures of her - and blammo, her dad vanishes and now here she is. Was her dad tall? Do you know?”

  If he rolls his eyes, no one could possibly know. His hair obscures it completely. “I have no idea,” he says calmly. “But my guess is that she’s either your height, or about half a foot taller.”

  “Why would you say that?” I gasp. “That’s too tall! She’ll think I’m a midget!”

  “You can find out for yourself, I guess,” Destin says, “because there are two girls I’ve never seen before.”

  “What! Two?”

  I peer around the corner into the foyer, where he’s looking. He’s not kidding; two unknown girls stand among the mix of people. One is short, blonde, and surly looking.

  The other is a goddess. She has skin the color of pale milk chocolate, hair that gleams near-black, and smooth, delicate features. She’s looking around in a sort of controlled terror, pursing her plush lips. A flightless angel lost in the woods. I have to help her. My life has no other purpose.

  My feet start moving me forward. But before I can even get around the corner, a large, thick-fingered hand reaches out to shove me, and I slam back against the lockers. I glare up at Chase Armstrong, a senior the size and shape of a bear. His name is a little too appropriate.

  “You been having fun with my locker, midget?” he rumbles at me.

  “Not in recent memory,” I snap, peeved that he’s blocked my view of my Reason For Existence.

  “That’s funny. You’re funny. So funny I think I’ll take it out of your hide. Hope that soda was worth it.”

  “Soda?” I object. “What soda? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “The one you swiped from my locker, dork. It was in there last night, and now it’s gone.”

  “Do I look like I’m stupid enough to smash open the locker of someone who could sit on me to death?”

  “It’s not smashed, the lock was picked or something,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “Nerd territory.”

  “Our lockers were hacked last night too,” Destin speaks up, though he cringes when Chase’s attention moves to him. “We didn’t do it.”

  He regards us both with suspicion. “If you didn’t then who did?”

  “Ninjas,” I say offhand, ready to be far away from this conversation.

  “Ninjas,” Chase repeats.

  Destin coughs. “Yes, our current theory is ninjas,” he says. “It’s part of a conspiracy involving the school’s foreign investors, and it’s only just now starting to affect the students. This is the first of many manifestations to come. It seems you’ve been chosen, just as we have. You’re one of us now,” he says solemnly, patting Chase on the shoulder.

  “That’s it, I’ve had enough of you two freaks,” he growls, smacking Destin’s hand away. “Just keep away from my stuff alright?” He storms off down the hall, big arms swinging.

  “Nice save,” I tell Destin.

  He sighs. “Ninjas? Seriously? Were you trying to get hit in the face so you could show your imaginary girlfriend your manly scars?”

  “For the last time, she’s not imaginary, she’s - oh!”

  I quickly round the corner, looking for the girl of my dreams, but Principal Umino has already captured her and is leading her away to her office. Opportunity missed. But there will be others. I swipe my unruly blonde hair out of my eyes. The gears in my head start turning.

  “Whatever you’re thinking of, it’s a bad plan,” Destin warns.

  “Go on to class without me, then,” I say. “Because I think it’s a great plan.”

  Chapter 4

  Jul

  earlier that morning

  The rising sun glinted off the hood of Bea’s ancient Cadillac as she drove me to school. The drive had been silent but for the rattling of the engine and a back hubcap that occasionally jangled. I should have been used to being ignored, but was I crazy to hope for some kind of conversation?

  The first day of school loomed ahead, a monolith in my mind. Well, not the first day of the school year - the semester was already well underway. But it would be the first day for me to attend. Transmute had been the word of the day on my calendar, and the chance to be someone else was not lost on me - a new place meant the opportunity to make new first impressions. Trying to invent a better impression than I usually made, however, was agony.

  I had spent hours last night trying on every single piece of clothing I owned about twelve times each, desperately hoping that the next time I went to my closet I would have something magical and wonderful inside that would prepare me for today. It had taken me so long to fall asleep I’d overslept and ended up having no time to get ready anyway. I’d settled with a blouse and capris, hastily pulling my hair into a loose ponytail over my shoulder. Transmutation, it was not.

  “There may be afternoons where you’ll have to walk back,” Bea said, finally breaking the long silence. “It’s not all that far, and on Thursday and Friday afternoons I work at the library. It’s a straight walk through the woods. Here’s the school, on the left - someone spent a pretty penny on that place, that’s clear.”

  She was not lying. Though it had been nothing but the same two-lane road surrounded with trees since we’d left her house, the car rounded a corner and suddenly a school stretched out in front of us, a giant building of grey stone that looked very out of place for the deep south. The combination of brick and stone in the architecture lent it a kind of earthiness, and the drab grey tones and stiff geometry gave an air of prestige. The climbing vines and loosely manicured shrubberies added to an overall vibe that put words in my mind like “east coast” and “Ivy League.” It did not look like it had only been built a few years ago – whoever maintained the landscaping had to be very good. I had to forcefully remind myself that, though not in eyeshot, not three miles away was a dying strip mall housing an adult video store, two barbecue joints, and a check-cashing service. It had taken less than ten minutes to drive, and most of that had been to skirt the forest – loathe as I was to walk, the forest path Bea had talked about would certainly be a more direct route, though it would probably still take longer.

  Bea pulled her ancient Cadillac into the parking lot, and my nerves resumed jangling where the hubcap left off, compounded by the sudden feeling of awe. Somehow, I got out of the car, staring up at the three-story edifice as I hoisted the strap of my book bag over my shoulder. Three stories is nothing to a New Yorker, but I was far, far from home, and compared to the rest of this town I’d seen, the school was practically a castle.

  “I’ll be back to get you at 3,” Bea said, starting the engine back up.

  “You’re not going to walk me in?” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice.

  “This ain’t preschool,” Bea said. “Main office is just inside, they’ll get you set up. I’d just be in your way.” And with that she pulled out of her parking space and left me.

  I swallowed my abandonment and approached the building, feeling subdued and a little sorry that I hadn
’t tried harder to find something for breakfast. Butterflies had hatched in my stomach. I self-consciously clung to the strap of my bag. It was liable to fall off my shoulder from being so empty. All it contained was a spiralbound notebook, and my mother’s blank journal. I just couldn’t leave it behind.

  Some older students were walking leisurely into the building from the parking lot, pocketing keys from what were probably their own cars. I felt a stab of jealousy, and was reminded of my own mode of transportation.

  Hello, I’m Jul Graham. What’s that? Oh yes, I’m chauffeured in a death trap by an old lady who hates me. When I’m not on foot. My hands were sweating so I wiped them discreetly on my capris before opening the front door.

  The interior was more modest, and school-like. The hallway was bright and clean – and loud. Students were everywhere, walking through the enormous atrium entryway, down the huge corridors on either side that apparently housed the lockers. I hesitated in the atrium, as students swarmed around me, up the stairs that climbed either side of the entry. I clutched my bag, peering around at the signs on the walls. My fear compounded.

  Oh god, I’m lost already, I thought. I don’t know where I’m supposed to go. I won’t get my schedule. I won’t find my classes. I’m going to be late. I’m already late by three months! I’m going to look like an idiot!

  “Ladies,” said a smooth woman’s voice, “you look as if you could use some direction.”

  I turned and saw an Asian woman in a skirt suit. Perfect manicured nails curled around the tablet she carried. The bottom edge of her chin-length hair was impeccably straight.

  “Camille Teague, I see you at least made it through the doors without incident,” she said, offering a hand to another girl, who I hadn’t noticed close by. She had been leaning so casually against the edge of the stairs, she had looked like she belonged here. She was short and pale, with long, unruly blonde curls. She gave the woman a wary look, but shook nonetheless. She was new as well? Was I miraculously not alone?

  “And you must be Juliet Graham,” the woman said, turning to me.

  “Yes ma’am,” I said, shaking her offered hand.

  “I’m the principal of Havenwood School,” she said, inclining her head to us both. “Rin Umino. Ms. Umino, to you.” Other students flowed around us like a river around a boulder. “We are pleased that you have finally come to join our school.” Her narrow smile was strange, but I smiled back as best I could. “You may not be aware,” Ms. Umino said, “but we have been talking to your father,” she looked at me, “and your...guardian,” she looked at Camille, “for several years now. It is unfortunate, Ms. Graham, that you come to us in such circumstances, but we are happy to have you nonetheless.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Thank you...” I said uneasily.

  “Come into my office, there is much to discuss,” she said, a slight foreign accent slipping into her English for a moment.

  She began walking across the atrium to a room at the back of the hall. Camille followed first, though with a distrusting frown. I moved to follow as well, but before I went inside, I glanced back to get a better look at the lofty atrium, now nearly cleared of students. That’s when I saw him, standing in front of the doors.

  He had inquisitive almond-shaped eyes and short ink-black hair. He was standing in the atrium, and I swear the sun from the front doors was streaming in around him, tipping his silhouette in gold. Everyone else was rushing around the edges of the atrium, desperate to get who-knows-where, but he just stood in the center, framed in sun, observing something on the second floor with the faintest, contented smile on his face.

  He looked like certainty. He looked like peace.

  His gaze slid across the room and landed on me. The corners of his mouth lifted the barest fraction. It was a smile worthy of the Mona Lisa. A smile that knew everything and would give away nothing.

  My heart didn’t literally skip, but I definitely stopped breathing. Did time stop? It might have. Either that, or it went very fast.

  “Graham,” I heard, and I jumped, turning back to Ms. Umino’s office. She looked at me expectantly from behind her desk. Camille was already seated in one of the two chairs across from it. How long had I been staring...?

  “Uh, I’m sorry, the uh...the school is very lovely,” I said.

  “That it is,” she replied evenly. “Come have a seat.”

  I snuck a final glance at the atrium, but he was already gone. Who was he...? My heart hammered. I shut the door behind me and sat in the chair next to Camille. I tried to focus on the present. Here was someone in my same circumstance. Maybe she needed a friend as badly as I did. Was it rude to hope that?

  I took in the principal’s office in a glance. Everything was as squared off and pristine as her appearance. The recessed shelving and her desk were made of glass. Certifications hung neatly from the walls. An orchid with impossibly small orange blooms craned over a corner of her desk. One frame behind her chair held a piece of aged parchment under glass, curiously blank.

  I tried to glance surreptitiously at the other new girl, Camille, as well. She was dressed in an oversized faded red hoodie and threadbare jeans. A camo-patterned shoulderbag sat beside her. But what really stuck out was the enormous bracelet on her left arm - I use the word bracelet sparingly, because it covered her wrist to almost elbow. It wasn’t even pretty. A dull gray metal - maybe iron? Very unusual. She hunched slightly in her chair, looking like she wanted to be somewhere else.

  “Well. Let’s get started. Let me first say, Havenwood School is not for everyone,” Ms. Umino stated. “We pride ourselves on the unique talents of our students and expect excellence. In return, we can offer you a first-class education and the tools you need to achieve greatness. Through our exceedingly good reputation we have attracted applicants from all over the country, and the world at large. You will find yourself in a very diverse company, so you will be expected to respect the cultural differences of your classmates. This goes for your teachers as well - some are what you would call ‘locals.’ Others hail from foreign shores, myself included. I must insist that you show respect to your teachers based on their position, rather than any sense of familiarity you may come to feel.”

  Was that a roundabout way of saying don’t forget I’m the one in charge?

  Ms. Umino pushed two identical folders towards us across her desk. She sat straight and stiff in her chair. “These are your introductory materials,” she stated. “They contain a map of the school, your locker numbers, and your class schedules, minus electives. You will find that we run things a little bit differently than other schools that you may - or may not,” she said, flicking a glance at Camille - “have attended. As we have a smaller student body than most, we are able to provide a more involved education. Accordingly you may see certain of your teachers multiple times a day. They also teach at all levels, so that as you advance to higher grades, you maintain and ideally improve upon the rapport you have built. The first class you attend in the morning is your homeroom. That teacher will be the one primarily responsible for you. Your homeroom teacher, Mr. John Tailor, covers English literature. After that you and the rest of your class will cycle through the remainder of our tenth grade curriculum: chemistry, algebra, and American history. In the afternoons are your electives. As for those...”

  She shifted in her seat, hands folded on her desk, looking at us each in turn. “They are called electives, but in truth every student is required to take at least one a semester, and we try to assign them based on your strengths. We believe very strongly in helping our students cultivate their potential. So that brings us to you. Ms. Graham,” she said.

  I sat up straighter. “Ma’am?”

  “What are your hobbies?”

  I blinked, taken aback. “M-my hobbies?”

  “What do you do in your free time?” Ms. Umino asked, her narrow gaze on me.

  “Um, I guess...I read a lot,” I said. There was really nothing else to do. I kept the apartment clean a
nd I read. I didn’t have an allowance, so I got all my books from the public library.

  “And your friends? What do you do with them?”

  I swallowed, feeling my cheeks warm. “Well I...I never really...” had any. My father had never let me go out for sports or clubs or anything. And let’s face it, I’d never had the most sparkling personality. People didn’t just walk up and befriend me. If they did, I’m pretty sure my stuttering would drive them away immediately.

  “I see,” Ms. Umino said, apparently astute at reading between the lines. She made a little note on her tablet, saying, “Perhaps we’ll revisit the subject later, when you’re more settled.”

  Done with me, she focused on Camille, even chillier now. “Ms. Teague. I understand that despite your lack of formal education, you’ve received some training in the martial arts.”

  “Kendo,” she replied. Her accent immediately struck me as odd.

  Ms. Umino smiled, but I wasn’t sure it was friendly. “Unusual for a girl such as yourself to have learned the art of Japanese swordplay, but at least in one thing Mr. Katsura has prepared you. We have an elective class that should suit you perfectly. You may continue your training with Mr. Ikeda in kendo and karate.”

  Wait, she knew how to swordfight? I looked at the other girl in awe.

  “As for the rest of your evaluation...” she glanced upward, briefly, as the bell rang. “I’m afraid we’re out of time. Teague, expect to return to my office at the end of the day to finish your placement. I should also mention,” she said, making another note on her tablet, “that while you will see the same classmates throughout your regular classes, your electives are comprised of students from all grade levels. As such, you may find yourself in situations with very...advanced students.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure what she seemed to be hinting at, but Camille seemed to. Her face remained impassive as she made a stiff bow of the head to Ms. Umino.

  “You may take your packets and go.” The principal waved her hands in a brief shooing motion.