Protecting Truth

by Michelle Warren

  “So, Sera, have any boys caught your eye?” Ray nudges my arm with his. But while I’m choking on my cheesecake, Bishop responds for me.

  “Oh, don’t be shy, Sera. Don’t you fancy that boy, the British chap—the one with the dreamy voice? Isn’t that what you called it?” His smile goads.

  “Yeah, he’s cute, but I don’t know,” I say, playing along.

  “You mean Turner?” Sam asks seriously, looking between us. Bishop and I freeze, shocked that she would dare mention Turner’s name.

  “Turner? I thought you were dating Bishop?” Mona questions, looking confused.

  Ray looks at me and then turns his scorching eyes to Bishop. Oh, man. This is horrible, like my nightmare come true. I didn’t tell Mona to keep our relationship secret. She’s so liberal and hippie that living with your boyfriend in high school probably seems perfectly acceptable to her.

  I hide behind my hand, deflating fast.

  “No. Actually, Mona, Ray,” Bishop says, clearing his throat. “Sera is, in fact, interested in Turner as Sam mentioned.” Bishop’s lips twist over the words. But he spits them out, for my sake, for his, for whatever will get us out of Ray’s crosshairs.

  “I know I started this topic,” says Ray, “but now it’s making me uncomfortable. The thought of you being in a dorm with boys—at this age!” Ray shakes his head. “Do we need to have the talk again, Sera?”

  That’s when my balloon pops, and I die of absolute embarrassment. My father, asking me if I needed to have “the talk” in front of my friends. My boyfriend! Someone please, shoot me now.

  Sam holds her napkin over her lips, stifling a giggle. Bishop raises his eyebrows and looks out the window, pretending he didn’t hear. And Mona, well, she leans toward me over the table, asking if I want her to give me a refresher lecture.

  Absolutely humiliated, I push myself away from the table, throw my napkin at Ray, and stalk away from one of my worst evenings ever.

  •

  Even though I spent most of the weekend avoiding everybody, I’ll have to find the strength to make it through the first day of classes. The memory of two nights ago will not leave my mind. I fixate on the expression on Ray’s face when he found out I’m dating Bishop. And then the look on Bishop’s face when Sam said I liked Turner. Mona tried to make me feel better on the ride home by telling me she had a book I could read if I was too shy for the talk.

  Mortified, I huddle into my blankets and underneath my pillows. I just want to die.

  At least I’m done with Ray’s visits for the foreseeable future. At this pace, we’ll only reunite every few months. The next torture session won’t come until my birthday in November or winter break if I’m lucky.

  Something slides under the door. I reluctantly peek out from my pillow cave. A shiny gold envelope sits on the floor.

  I groan, toss off the comforter, and roll out of bed. I grab the envelope and run, jumping back onto the mattress, pulling the warmth and protection of the blankets around me.

  I rip open the envelope and pull out an invitation. Decorative swirls roll around the border. Pristine calligraphy requests students’ presence in the main arcade after lunch today. Obviously Gabe sent this invitation. He’s in charge of the school’s functions.

  I take a quick shower, apply makeup, and then peruse my closet, inspecting my new clothes. New uniforms hang neatly at the front of the closet. They’re similar to the year before: a crisp white shirt with little puffy shoulders and a plaid pleated skirt. A hooded cardigan and dark vest hang behind those, allowing two alternating looks. I walk deeper into the closet, eyeing the additions. I run my finger along the edges of the fabric and garment bags then stop on one outfit in particular. The one the other me wore the day I saw her in London, crying.

  Whatever makes me cry in London is going to happen this year, in this outfit. I pull the hanger out and walk into my room. On tippy toes, I hang the clear garment bag from the closet door. I roll up the plastic bag to take a good look.

  Nothing out of the ordinary pops out, a hint to why I’ll be crying. I’m not sure why I thought seeing the clothes up close might give a clue. I lift the skirt, inspecting the leggings beneath them and then open the pockets, checking the suede jacket. Empty.

  I leave the outfit on the door, hanging. I wonder how many times I’ll have to wear it before that day in London will come.

  I dry my hair, slide on a pair of tights, my new uniform, and a pair of laced ankle boots. When I walk out of my bedroom, Bishop’s eyes meet mine. He places a cup of tea and a poetry book on the counter and comes to me, instantly wrapping his long arms around my back. He leans down and brushes his lips to my forehead. I melt into our hug.

  “Good morning,” he says. “I wasn’t sure you would ever leave that room again.”

  “Thought about it. I just want to forget the other night, if that’s okay?”

  “What? Are you saying you didn’t have a lovely visit with your father?” Sam chimes in, walking into the living room. She grabs the remote and turns on the TV.

  “Yeah, it was great!” I step away from Bishop and fling myself on the sectional couch.

  Gabe’s face appears on the TV screen. This is the new thing this year—a morning show with Academy and Society of Wanderers announcements, hosted by Gabe. He sits behind a desk, dressed in a magenta kimono. His makeup, caked on and powdery white, resembles a Geisha girl.

  “Konnichiwa!” Gabe says and folds his hands on the desk. I’d personally be shocked if they stayed there. Gabe doesn’t sit still for anything. I suspect not even a morning show.

  Bishop relaxes, reaches his arm around my shoulder, and I curl into him.

  “It’s going to be an exciting year at Washington Square Academy! And by now, you would have received your super-fabulous invitations! This afternoon, I’ll be giving you a sneaky peeky of the fall gala which takes place this coming weekend!” Gabe screeches and claps his hands, bouncing in his seat. The cameraman struggles to keep him in the shot.

  “Now, on to more serious things.” Gabe stiffens, struggling to mimic a real newscaster. “Today, the Society of Wanderers reports an attack on the Washington, D.C., relic archives, one of our largest relic caches. Although no one has claimed responsibility, Grand Master Phineas Levi blames the Underground. He’s ordered more security for archive facilities, including schools and universities.

  “Tomorrow, Grand Master Levi will lead a meeting of the Society District Senators to discuss the continued malicious efforts of the Underground. He hopes to negotiate peace among all Wanderers and put an end to their rebellious ways.”

  “Wow, they’re actually talking about the Underground? Surprising,” I say.

  “Yes, well, I think since our encounter last semester, maybe they’ve decided to be slightly more transparent,” Bishop offers.

  “School will begin this morning for students in the auditorium in the Tower Building. Mr. Evanston will present the welcome orientation. We ask juniors to stay behind to receive their oath packages.” Gabe’s composure dissolves, losing its seriousness. He flings his hands around. “Oh—so—exciting! I remember receiving my oath package.” He looks far away with nostalgia.

  “Oath packages, already?” I say. We’re still weeks away from the oath ceremony. I don’t really know, just yet, what the packages will include. Thinking about dedicating my life to the Society of Wanderers still doesn’t sit well with me.

  “It’s going to happen, Sera. Get used to it,” Sam says and rises in one fluid motion. She seems so much older this year. Of course, she’s always been mature, too mature for her age. Instead of being an adult trapped in a child’s body, she’s now an adult trapped in a teenager’s body.

  But as annoying as she is, she’s right. I should probably start accepting this life. I have no reason to think this existence will be anything less than amazing. Seeing firsthand accounts of history as it unfolds from the everyday to the extraordinary. What Normal wouldn’t want what I have? I should just be grate
ful and embrace who I am.

  ::14::

  Oath Packages

  In the auditorium, within the Tower Building of Olde Town, Headmaster Evanston drones, explaining the mechanics of Wandering. Seniors giggle, gossiping that he repeats the same speech every year. Wanderers, Seers, Protectors, relics, life paths, true time, skipping—he conveniently ignores the fact that we have the extraordinary gift of perfect recall for everything we hear. But I suppose the information is new for the incoming class. I glance around, seeking out the freshly harvested faces.

  Bored, my head slowly dips into my palm. The only interesting tidbit he’s added thus far is that juniors will be able to wander back as much as two hundred years. Even though I’ve heard this before, I find the news compelling, wondering where and when our school field trips might lead us this semester.

  “Ow!” Sam jabs her elbow into my side, waking me. I rotate my body, attempting to ignore her.

  Right before my eyelids sink shut, a distant giggle snaps them open. Over my shoulder, four rows behind, Turner and Perpetua sit in deep conversation. Perpetua stifles a laugh every few moments by covering her mouth with her hand.

  When Turner notices my interest, he leans closer to her and whispers. His mouth moves, but I can’t decipher the words. This time Perpetua laughs so hard that she doubles over and throws her head between her knees.

  The lecture stops.

  Mr. Evanston clears his throat. Every student turns to watch Perpetua’s body jerking uncontrollably, her face red and tear-streaked with laughter. Turner only shrugs and shakes his head, acting innocent. Mr. Evanston continues his lecture after urging everyone to pay attention.

  What can Turner possibly be saying to her that’s so funny? And why is he even sitting next to her in the first place? Where are Stuart, her Wanderer, and Jessica, her Seer? I scan the room, finding the two huddled together, looking quite comfy with each other. Maybe they’re dating now.

  Regardless, seeing Turner and Perpetua together ticks me off. How can he consort with her when he knows she led me off to be killed by Cece? I turn and narrow my eyes. He meets my gaze and smiles, clearly striving to agitate me. He reaches into his vest and pulls out my rosary necklace. It dangles in front of his chest.

  He mouths the words, “I win.” This instantly angers me. He must have rigged the defense hologram machine so he could watch the fights—our fight! Just remembering how close I came to winning it back—grrrr! I want to explode at the thought. There’s no end to the ways he’ll torture me.

  Restless in my seat, I contemplate jumping over four rows of students to tackle him. That’s when Bishop places his hand on my knee and clears his throat.

  Quickly I turn my attention forward, but I allow my mind to pore over all the ways I’m going to beat Turner’s hologram into a messy, electrified pulp. I want that necklace, and I want it now.

  •

  Three exhausting hours later, the lecture ends. New and senior students are dismissed for their first classes. Headmaster Evanston asks the remaining students to move forward to the seats nearest the stage.

  Ms. Midgenet, the Team Tactics instructor, walks up the stairs. When she reaches the top, her short legs shuffle across the floor to a long braided rope hanging from the ceiling. She tugs the cord with all of her weight. Her body dips back, almost hitting the ground. The dark red velvet curtains part, revealing a line of Society soldiers standing at attention behind a long wood table stacked with leather briefcases.

  The oath packages.

  I squirm in my new seat, feeling uncomfortable. The decision to continue with my secret life as a Wanderer weighs heavily on my conscience. Even though I know I should just accept it, I make a list of the pros and cons in my mind. Bishop and finding my Mom: pros. Everything else: con. The two pros are more than enough to tip the scales, but I can’t fight the uncomfortable feeling I have about deciding my whole life right now. I’m not ready on so many levels.

  Headmaster Evanston reads out students’ names, team by team. He calls Macey’s team first. As a group, they rise from their seats and walk ceremoniously to the stage. Each is congratulated for their choice to take the oaths, to become invaluable members of the Society of Wanderers in several weeks. Ms. Midgenet hands them each a briefcase.

  Mr. Evanston then calls Perpetua, Stu, and Jessica. Perpetua dances up the stairs and practically pirouettes across the stage. She turns to face the crowd in the spotlight, waving triumphantly. In the blinding light, she still manages to find me in the crowd to taunt me with her victorious gaze. My eyes narrow. She of all people doesn’t deserve that case. I mentally stamp her name on my list of cons. The rest of her team accepts their oath packages and exits as the next group approaches.

  The headmaster calls our team last. Sam squeezes past, finding the spot in front. Bishop swings his arm, gesturing for me to walk before him. He’s always so polite.

  Ms. Midgenet hands each of us a briefcase. I grab the handle and the leather box swings to my side. It’s heavy, weighty, just like the decision I need to make. I grip the handle tightly. The blood in my fingers rushes away. Mr. Evanston firmly shakes my other hand, extending gratitude for the service I’m going to give to the Society. I nod and smile, then walk across the stage and down the stairs.

  Bishop and Sam join the group of huddled juniors. There’s a general mood of excitement buzzing through the air. Every student seems happy for this moment, happy to be spending the rest of his or her life in service to the Society. The Society we know so little about even after all this time.

  I mill around the outside of the group, concentrating on my pros. That’s when I notice Turner. He’s still sitting in the back of the auditorium, by himself. No team. No oath package. Not a speck of happiness on his face. He looks at me, and I know he’s reading my mind.

  I turn away, instantly wanting to hide my feelings. That’s when Macey seizes me and throws her long arms around my shoulders. She bubbles over with excitement, gushing loudly about how proud her parents will be, both of them Wanderers.

  If Ray knew about my new world, he might be happy, I consider. And my mom, I hope she would be proud, too. So I add these two new possibilities to my list of pros. My mom is proud of me because I’m just like her. The fabricated thought makes me smile with contentment.

  Students rush to their rooms to open their packages. But I don’t want to know what’s inside. I toss the leather briefcase on my bed and then leave the apartment, heading for lunch, happy to leave it behind.

  Lunch has a familiar feeling. Macey, Quinn, Xavier, Bishop, Sam, Scarlett, Agnes, and now Atticus Li sit at our lunch table. And to make sure everything plays out properly, Perpetua finds her seat at the table facing me, perfectly positioned so her cold stares can torment me whenever the spirit moves her. Not much has changed since she last stepped foot in this school.

  Stu, sitting next to Perpetua, leans around her and waves with his fingertips. Before I can glance away, he blows me a kiss. I don’t bother responding. He’s as bad as she is, always pushing my buttons.

  I focus on the newer person at our table, Atticus Li. He belongs to Scarlett and Agnes as their Protector. Before moving to Chicago, he lived in Vancouver, British Columbia, with his three older sisters. I find it difficult not to stare at his hair. The mohawk, gelled with some kind of cement, makes five perfect points shoot from his scalp. The peaks look as dangerous as knives, and I decide after touching one for myself that they could easily kill someone in a dark alley. Even with his deadly hair, his almond eyes and smile are very warm and friendly. Right now, he and Bishop are discussing the fighting technique, capoeira.

  We eat and Macey gabs about her family trip to Australia. Agnes and Atticus talk about a date they went on to a Frank Sinatra concert in 1958, in Monte Carlo. And Sam instructs me on proper table manners by pushing my elbows off the table and suggesting that I cross my legs at my ankles and not my knee.

  I avoid all discussions related to the oath package. The words I do hear from
others: cell phone, unlimited credit card, Society uniform—these items scare me.

  •

  After lunch, students crowd the second floor balconies, looking down into the main atrium. I lean against the thick marble railing, letting my gaze drift around the room, taking note of the new faces. I can imagine the confusion they must feel. They’ll be wondering how they took a nosedive into the Wandering Academy. The thought makes me feel sorry for them, but happy that I’m well past the point of struggling to make myself believe every unbelievable thing that’s shoved down my throat.

  Society soldiers roam the room with authority. They carry no weapons, even though they were sent to protect us from possible attacks by the Underground. I can’t help wondering what the likelihood of that really is. What could they possibly want with anything here?

  One guard points toward the ceiling. That’s when I look up and see Turner. He dangles from a wire at the very top of the atrium. He’s installing some kind of machine. It makes me uneasy seeing him there. It doesn’t look safe, but nothing that involves a person hanging sixty feet in midair seems safe to me.

  “Turner, are we ready?” Professor Raunnebaum yells to him from the first floor. Even though the two are separated by five floors, the words echo around the entire atrium. Every student looks up, noticing him too.

  “It’s ready!” Turner yells down to the professor, giving him a thumbs-up. That’s when Turner pushes off the wall with his feet, swaying on his wire. He pushes back and forth slowly, gaining height like a child’s swing. When he’s gained enough momentum, he unlatches his safety, releasing himself from the wire and flies through the air onto a nearby balcony. Every single student gasps in unison at his dangerous stunt. He safely appears from behind the wall and several students applaud.

  Even though his idiocy alarms me, I’m a little envious of his fearlessness.