by Sonja Stone
She rounded the corner to her house and, as if she’d conjured him with her thoughts, saw her father’s Camry in the drive. Is he checking up on me? Nadia yanked out the earbuds and shoved them into her bag. That’s not really his style. But he never left work early and wasn’t due home for hours.
Maybe we’re moving again. She climbed the front steps. That would rock.
Inside, Nadia dropped her bag on the bench in the foyer and kicked off her sneakers. She slammed the front door, announcing her arrival.
“Nadia?” her mom called. “We’re in here.”
“Dad, what are you doing home?” Nadia yelled as she crossed the living room. She pushed through the kitchen door and grinned at her father. “Did you get fired?”
He stood with his back to the sink. The sun filtered through the window, creating a halo around his coppery brown hair. Beneath his closely cropped beard he suppressed a smile. He’d removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his oxford. He seemed relaxed, which meant he’d been home for a while.
Nadia had her father’s blue-green eyes and her mother’s dark, wavy hair, though Nadia’s had more curl toward the ends. Her complexion, a fusion of her parents’ Irish and Lebanese, was a light olive that she thought looked sallow most of the time; too dark to be fair and too light to be dark.
“Good for you,” Nadia continued. “You finally told your boss to take this job and—”
“Sweetheart,” her mother said, nodding toward the kitchen table.
Nadia turned around and noticed a fourth person in the room. Her face burned as she said, “Oh, we have company.” She glanced at her dad. “A little heads-up would’ve been nice. I was joking, by the way. My father would never tell off his boss. You’re not his boss, are you? I’m kidding—I know him. Great guy.” Stop talking.
“You must be Nadia.” The man smiled and extended his hand. He stood a foot taller than her, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. He had silver hair and wore a dark suit, well-tailored, with a knife-like crease in the pants. “My name is Marcus Sloan. I work as a recruiting agent for Desert Mountain Academy outside Phoenix, Arizona. Your father was just showing me your trophy collection.” He gestured to the case along the wall. “Very impressive.”
“Sorry. He does that.”
“I can see why. The Mid-Atlantic Championship? Nicely done. I don’t meet many students with a competitive interest in cryptography.”
“Competitive? Nadia?” Her dad laughed. “Not our girl.”
Nadia narrowed her eyes at her father’s sarcasm. “So I’m a little driven.” She turned to their guest. “Cryptograms are just a small piece of the competition. Once the clues are decoded, it’s more of a scavenger hunt. Anyone could do it.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with the Smithsonian’s annual Cipher Search Competition. You’re the youngest winner in history. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” Mr. Sloan said. “Which brings me to why I’m here. An opening has become available and I’d like to offer you a position as a first-year student.”
“First year?” Nadia shook her head. “I’m a junior.”
“We run an intensive two-year program for juniors and seniors. The curriculum focuses on ingenuity and problem-solving, so we provide a project-based, hands-on learning environment. As I’ve explained to your parents, tuition, room and board is paid for in full by the United States Government.”
“But I didn’t even apply.”
“Why don’t we sit down, and I’ll explain.” Mr. Sloan pushed his coffee to the side and folded his hands on the table. “Our school was founded to serve the country’s most academically elite. Our primary goal is to remain competitive with up-and-coming nations, like China, who now place a great deal of emphasis on education. It’s a government-sponsored private school, so we don’t accept applications. We recruit students based on their overall grade point average, among other things.”
Nadia looked down. “I don’t have the highest GPA in my class.” Matthew did, which annoyed her. She came in second place. Again.
“Do you remember the standardized tests administered at the end of your sophomore year?”
“Sure. We take them every May.” She loved standardized tests.
“We have a series of eighty benchmark questions scattered throughout the exam. Those questions weigh more heavily on our decision to recruit than GPA. The average student answers ten, maybe fifteen of those questions accurately. The students we recruit get about sixty of them.”
“How many did I get?”
Mr. Sloan paused and glanced at her father. He cleared his throat and answered, “All of them.”
Nadia smiled. Matthew would be furious if he heard that. He made everything a competition. “So what were the questions?”
“A variety of problems involving spatial ability, abstract thinking, pattern recognition, moral judgment.” His cool eyes flitted between Nadia and her dad. She had the feeling his response was deliberately evasive. “Based on your answers, we believe you fit a certain profile that we value at Desert Mountain. I’m sure you’ll need to discuss this with your parents. I’ve shown them our website. I encourage you to peruse the site as well.”
“The campus is certainly beautiful,” Mr. Riley said.
“Thank you. We’re very proud of it.”
“School started weeks ago. Why are you inviting me now?” Nadia asked.
“Sadly, one of our students passed away. She was in a car accident.”
“Oh, her poor parents,” Nadia’s mom said.
“Yes, it’s a terrible tragedy. We are all still feeling the loss. But unfortunately, with such a small student body, we need to keep each position filled.”
“How many students are enrolled?” Nadia asked.
“The Academy has fifty juniors and thirty seniors. We have a few students transfer out every year. Not everyone is suited to the program. Because of the heat, the Academy starts a little later in the year than East Coast schools, so you’ve only missed four days of classes. Your roommate will catch you up in no time. I fly back tomorrow, and I’ll need your decision by then. If you decide to join us, we’ll arrange your travel. Due to the challenging nature of our curriculum, you would have to transfer immediately.”
He turned to her parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Riley, thank you for seeing me. Your daughter would be a fine addition to our school. I’m staying at the Bridgeport Hotel in Arlington. Please call me with any questions.” He placed his business card on the table as he stood. “You should know that our graduates have first pick of all the Ivy League schools.”
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Sloan. We’ll be in touch.” Nadia’s dad escorted their guest to the door.
And there it was. A lifeline. Her way out.
No more avoiding her locker, no more heart palpitations every time the phone rang—is it Matthew? Paige?—no worries about junior prom. Everyone was already talking about Homecoming. If Matthew had broken up with her for any other reason she still could’ve gone to the dance. She would’ve gone with Paige, shown up in a killer dress and spent the evening deliberately ignoring him.
When her dad returned to the kitchen Nadia asked, “Did he just show up?”
“He called yesterday. We were expecting him,” he said.
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“We didn’t see the need until we’d discussed it.”
“But I can go, right?”
“I think it’s a terrible idea,” her mom said. “You’re sixteen years old! And you haven’t even looked at the school.”
“Zaida, honey, we need to talk about this. I’ve done some research. This is a phenomenal school. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” Nadia’s father said.
“It’s very sudden.” Her mom crossed her arms over her chest. “Nadia, do you even want to go? And miss your junior year?”
“Well, let’s see, I simultaneously lost my boyfriend and my best friend. I was recently humiliated in front of the entire junior class. I spend my lunch
period in the biology lab with the mice so I don’t have to eat alone in the cafeteria. What am I clinging to, Mother?”
“There’s no need for sarcasm.”
Shut up or you’ll blow it. Nadia took a breath. “You’re right—I apologize. But it sounds like a perfect fit. Hands-on study? That’s right up my alley.” She’d never imagined boarding school. Her family was solidly middle class: two cars, a yearly vacation. They certainly couldn’t afford private school. “And if it doesn’t work out, I can always transfer back, right?” Whatever it takes, I’ll make it work.
“You hate moving! You throw a fit every time you have to change schools!”
“That should give you some indication of how desperate I am.”
“Well, I’m sorry. You can’t go.”
“Mom,” Nadia pleaded.
“It’s out of the question.” She strode from the room.
Tears burned Nadia’s eyes. “Dad, please,” she whispered.
“I’ll talk to her. She worries about you, that’s all. She’s your mother. It’s her job.” He lowered his voice. “I think she’ll come around.” He hugged her and left the room.
Nadia stood alone in the kitchen and felt a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in weeks.
Hope.
5
LIBBY BISHOP
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 11
Libby Bishop stood at her bathroom counter and rearranged the flowers in the glass vase for the third time that hour. She had placed clear marbles in the bottom for texture, chosen lilies for their strong fragrance and added enough greenery to make the white flowers pop. When she was satisfied with the new arrangement, she cleaned the pollen off the marble counter with a sanitizing wipe, reapplied her lipstick and turned to the bedroom.
She wanted everything to be perfect for her new roommate. Her momma had told her many times you never get a second chance to make a first impression, and with her daddy’s high profile, she’d had plenty of practice. That’s why she always introduced herself as Libby and not by her full name, Liberty. That’s also why she loathed her Southern drawl. She knew what people thought when they heard it: at best, they’d think her uneducated and prissy; at worst, racist. She didn’t miss that part of Georgia one bit.
Her room, now half-vacant, was exceedingly tidy. Drew’s belongings had been cleared away immediately. The whole thing was awful to think about, and Libby couldn’t bear to dwell on the details. Plus, it wasn’t as though she’d lost a close friend. Drew was distant; Libby never felt that special connection. Despite living together all summer they’d scarcely gotten to know each other. But it was unsettling all the same. Especially since Libby had been invited along that night. If she wasn’t such a conscientious student, she might’ve been in the car too.
Well, maybe conscientious wasn’t the right word. Libby simply did not consider spontaneity a virtue. She much preferred a plan.
To cheer her up, her momma had encouraged her to redecorate her room, make a fresh start. And her momma was an expert at new beginnings.
Libby had chosen deep earth tones for the duvet and arranged the coordinating boudoir pillows just so. She’d dressed the windows from floor to ceiling in chocolate brown silk with the slightest sheen, and filled the space between the twin beds with a soft white wool shag. She considered making Nadia’s bed up with the extra set of linens she’d purchased, but she didn’t want to seem pushy.
Libby settled into her desk chair. She peeked inside the top drawer, making sure the false bottom she’d installed was properly secured. The only plus to living alone was the guarantee of privacy. Let’s hope my new roommate isn’t as nosy as the last one. Satisfied her secrets were safe, Libby closed the drawer, smoothed her skirt and flipped open her political science textbook. She had no intentions of reading right now but she didn’t want to seem as though she was sitting around waiting for Nadia Riley to arrive, which she was. It made her uncomfortable, being at loose ends like this. No schedule, no plan. She looked at the clock on her nightstand. Just after noon. It’ll be hours before she gets here.
Libby went back to the bathroom to recheck the flowers. And I’m so glad I did. Look at this one! It’s like a raccoon’s been gnawing on the petals. She lifted the wastepaper basket to the vase and carefully removed the offending stem. She wiped the counter again and returned to her desk.
I probably should’a washed my hands while I was up.
Libby slid her fingers under her thighs and frowned. You don’t have to. Those wipes are clean. They’ve got bleach in ’em. Doesn’t get any cleaner than bleach. Just don’t think about it.
To distract herself, she read the titles on her bookshelf out loud. “The Making of a Navy Seal, Unarmed Combat, Diplomacy in a Terrorist World—oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, as she rushed to the bathroom to wash her hands.
6
NADIA
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 11
Two days after Marcus Sloan’s visit, Nadia flew into Phoenix. She hadn’t told anyone about the Academy. Her mom would call the front office tomorrow, let them know about the transfer. Word would get out that she’d been recruited to a boarding school in Arizona. Matthew would be sick with envy. Paige would wonder if he was jealous because they chose Nadia over him, or if he was sulking because he missed her.
She tried to ignore the flash of sadness. This was probably the most exciting thing that’d ever happened to her. She wanted to share it with someone.
Knock it off. Don’t let them ruin this.
Nadia followed the other passengers to baggage claim. A man stood to the side, holding a sign printed with her name. He eyed the women, moving from one to the next, until his gaze settled on Nadia.
“That’s me.” She smiled and pointed to the sign.
He didn’t return her smile. “May I see your ID?”
“Oh, sure.” Nadia dug through her carry-on and offered her passport.
The driver studied her picture. “What is your mother’s maiden name?”
“Azar.”
“And your recruiter?”
“Mr. Sloan?”
“The name of the hotel where he stayed?”
“Um, the Bridgeport? In Arlington, I think.”
Apparently satisfied, he returned her ID and smiled. “Welcome to Phoenix.”
Nadia laughed. “Do you get many impostors?”
“Let’s get your bags.”
A blast of searing heat assaulted her as they left the terminal. They drove north, leaving the beige city behind, into the rocky foothills of a low mountain range. Dusty stretches of desert replaced shopping malls; gated communities faded into thick stands of sage-green cacti.
Nadia’s stomach hurt. It’s like any other new school. I’ll be fine. I always am. She sighed and rested her head on the seat-back. But what if I’m not? What if no one likes me?
Keep whining, Nadia, and no one will.
After an hour, the driver turned onto a winding dirt road, barely wide enough for the car. Ahead, a massive sand-colored wall stretched across their path, extending in both directions. A security booth policed the iron gate that blocked the road.
An armed guard stepped forward. He scanned the driver’s eyes with a laser gun and nodded them through.
Nadia’s stomach tightened. “What was that?”
“A retinal scan.”
“They don’t know you by sight?”
“The dean of students likes to keep track.” The gate closed behind them.
Inside the wall, it was another world—a literal oasis in the desert. Against the backdrop of vermilion mountains, eight buildings formed a semicircle around a lush carpet of grass. The lawn sloped gently toward her; the driveway ran along the bottom of the hill at the base of the half-circle. Flower beds packed with purple and white pansies lined the concrete path curving along campus.
“Dean Wolfe is expecting you.” The driver pulled to the building on the far right. An etched stone marker read Hopi Hall. He nodded toward a slender woman waiting on the st
eps. “That’s his assistant, Ms. McGill. She’ll take you from here.”
Ms. McGill smiled. Freckles covered her crisp features. “We’re glad you could come.” She handed Nadia a bottled water. “Drink this. It’s a hundred and eight today.”
“Thank you so much.” Nadia chugged the icy water. The afternoon sun filtered through the palm trees over her head and danced across the jute-colored wall. The flickering light made her head swim. “I think I was a little dehydrated.”
Inside, Ms. McGill’s heels clicked along the travertine. She led Nadia to a sitting room at the end of the hall. “I’ll get your uniforms. You’re about five-three?” Nadia nodded. “Have a seat. Dean Wolfe will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you.” Nadia stepped into the cool, dark room. A bank of windows covered the far wall. To her left the mountains erupted like crumpled paper; to the right, the distant city nestled in the saddle of the valley. Glass-covered bookshelves lined the walls, like soldiers standing at attention. A brass nameplate bolted to the heavy door in front of her read Thadius Wolfe.
Nadia sank back into an oversized chair, then changed her mind and sat forward, embarrassed her feet didn’t quite reach the floor when she reclined. She sat awkwardly erect on the edge of her seat, ankles crossed. She waited.
And waited.
Finally, the door opened. “Miss Riley? I’m Dean Wolfe.” His smooth voice resonated through the room.
“It’s nice to meet you.” Nadia stood to shake his hand.
Thadius Wolfe, attractive in a distinguished sort of way, had deep-set eyes and dark hair streaked with grey. His huge frame filled the doorway. He looked powerful, and not just physically. “Please, come in.”
Indigo drapes largely concealed the window behind his desk; a matching oriental rug covered the floor. A small lamp with a sunset-orange glass globe cast a tiny pond of light onto a file labeled Riley, Nadia.
She sat in one of the two wingback chairs, hands in her lap. The soft leather whispered as Dean Wolfe reclined into the other navy chair.
