Reformed

by Justin Weinberger

  “I can’t go out there, Miranda,” says Devon. “I can’t let Colin get video evidence of me dancing in a stupid play.”

  Miranda cocks her head to the side with a dangerous coolness. “But, Devon, then I’ll look like an idiot out there … you don’t want that, do you?” There’s this hard look on her face, but Devon doesn’t see it because he’s just noticing the wall of clones that have closed off his escape route at the stairs leading off the stage.

  “You don’t understand,” he says.

  “Ninety seconds everyone!” Ms. Fitz calls out cheerfully, and disappears to the other side of the curtain.

  Devon pales and looks around for help from the rest of our discipline.

  Razan smiles like she’s been waiting for this moment all summer. “You know something, Rembrandt?” she says. “There comes a special day in every bully’s life …”

  “You mean, when they realize there’s always a bully who’s bigger than them?” says Remy.

  “No matter who you are,” Razan goes on.

  “Feels good to be retired, doesn’t it?” says Rembrandt.

  “I feel particularly good today.”

  They turn back to Devon and watch with such glee that it makes me a little uncomfortable.

  I look out at Colin, and back at Devon. The only way for him to escape is right out onto the stage. And Devon sees me starting to doubt and aims his next plea at me—

  “Ian, come on. I’ve always had your back … I’ve always looked out for my friends—you know that.”

  It makes me feel guilty, but I look him in the eye and shake my head. “You don’t get to call me your friend anymore.”

  I hear a harsh shush from Ms. Fitz. “Everyone settle down! This isn’t time to talk.”

  “They’re all ganging up on me,” Devon whines.

  “We sure are, Ms. Fitz,” Alva says. “We’re ganging up on him to make him go out there and dance like he’s supposed to.”

  Ms. Fitz gives us a warning look. “You all need to be quiet and focus on yourselves—and you’re all going on stage. In sixty seconds.”

  My eyes dart back to Devon. He’s starting to shiver a little, like I do when I’m really nervous. I’ve never seen him do that before. Never.

  “It’s just sad, isn’t it?” mutters one of the clones.

  “You know when you go to an animal shelter and there’s that mean dog you know is never gonna find a forever home?” whispers another.

  I get closer to Devon, right up next to him, before anyone notices I’m there.

  “Ian, get me out—”

  “Shut up.”

  “Ian … please.”

  I think of all the times he looked out for me. “Okay, Devon. I suppose I do owe you one last thing. If this is what you really want.”

  “It is. Please.”

  “Okay. Ready?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “Good.” I straighten his collar, and dust off his shoulder. For a second I can see his expression go from desperate to hopeful to confused—and just as he starts to open his mouth again, I look him right in the eye and give Devon Crawford the last thing I owe him.

  I push him off the stage.

  He lands after a three-foot drop, right on the side of his ankle. Everyone watches—everyone but Ms. Fitz.

  See? I’m learning too Tom.

  “Whoa, are you all right?” I ask Devon.

  For a second, Devon looks up in shock and attempts to lunge at me—but as he tries to get to his feet, he just falls down again.

  This time he cries out and everyone hears him.

  “Devon Crawford!” says Ms. Fitz. “What are you doing down there?”

  Devon opens his mouth but before he can speak, I interrupt him: “I think he’s hurt, Ms. Fitz. Twisted his ankle, looks like …”

  I look right in his eyes again—and this time I can see them go clear in comprehension as our psychic link connects and he realizes what I did for him.

  “It’s really bad,” he says. “I can’t dance like this …”

  Ms. Fitz is instantly suspicious. “Thirty seconds before the show, you twisted your ankle and can’t go on?” As she climbs down and checks Devon’s leg, she asks the rest of us, “Who saw what happened?”

  Miranda takes a step forward and shakes her head. “I’m not sure what I saw,” she says. “But it was freaking hilarious.”

  It makes me more than a little bit ashamed of myself, hearing her approval, but I keep it together.

  “I’m really hurt, Ms. Fitz,” says Devon.

  “They’re already playing the song,” Razan warns.

  “Tell them to vamp!” says Remy.

  “They can’t vamp, it’s a recording!” says Razan. “Ms. Fitz, where’s the remote?”

  “I got it, I got it!” Remy hits the button on the remote and the music changes to an old man speaking in Russian. He hits it again and it gets louder. And louder. He looks around for Jeremy, but then remembers Jeremy’s gone.

  “Fixed it!” says Cole, just as the Russian man goes silent. “Oh wait, nope—broke it. But it’s off now!”

  At this point, the Rs start to look a little panicked.

  “Well, this is very bad,” says Razan.

  “Can anyone play Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, by chance?” says Rembrandt.

  Miranda’s head snaps up. “The Allegretto?”

  Everyone slowly turns to face her.

  “Ms. Fitz, did I hear someone playing a piano before?”

  “Uh, yeah. Down in the orchestra pit.” Ms. Fitz points to the small clearing in front of the stage and Miranda rushes down to take her seat at a little old piano.

  “Ms. Fitz!” Razan hisses urgently. “Showtime! Now?”

  “Just a second … All right, Devon. You’re off the hook. But if I take you to the nurse and there’s nothing wrong with you …”

  “Oh, I promise there is plenty wrong with him,” I say.

  “Can you make it to the parking lot if I help you?” Ms. Fitz asks Devon. “Or would you prefer Dr. Ginschlaugh carry you?”

  Before Devon can answer, a figure comes around the edge of the stage: Dr. Ginschlaugh. And there’s a second person with him.

  “Colin!” says Devon. “Ginschlaugh, did you set this up? Now it makes perfect sense.”

  Ginschlaugh gives Colin a look and nudges him forward.

  “Devon?” he calls out. “You all right?”

  “Twisted my ankle!” Devon calls back. “Sorry you came all this way and don’t get to see a show …”

  “Forget the show. Just stay put.”

  Devon looks up at his brother. “Come on,” he says. “Don’t act like you didn’t come just to see me fail.”

  Colin nods. “Yeah, I guess I deserve that.” He leans down and loops his arm under his brother. “I’ll take care of him, Ms. Fitz.”

  “We’ve got you, Crawford,” says Ginschlaugh, grabbing him under the other arm.

  Mark and I exchange a look of surprise, but it’s nothing compared to the confusion on Devon’s face.

  Did Colin come to cheer for Devon? I ask Mark with a glance. Is Dr. Ginschlaugh somehow using his henchmen powers to bring the Crawford brothers back together?

  “Deal with your personal problems on your own time, Hart,” says Razan. “It’s showtime!”

  Remy and Razan hustle us all back to our places.

  “Wait! I still don’t have a partner.”

  “Improvise!” says Rembrandt as he passes me in line and steps into the light of the stage.

  “What?”

  “Just remember what you learned and fake it!” he hisses. Then he and Razan kick off the show. And make it look like dancing is the most natural thing in the world.

  Like it’s so easy, just to be yourself.

  All that movement. The two of them are out there sparkling, Tom. It’s mesmerizing, watching them. Like watching a fire burn.

  Then we’re all on stage, and I throw myself into what we rehearsed, all on my
own—I just sort of trust my body to know what it’s supposed to do.

  And for the first time in my life, I kind of get why people like this sort of thing. I’m just letting myself be completely free—I’m just dancing, Tom. I’m dancing like a flame does. And I catch Razan’s eye and smile, waiting to see how impressed she is with my sudden improvement.

  That’s when I notice her expression. The absolute horror in her face.

  Apparently I still can’t dance, Tom.

  But I keep going anyway, dancing like a fire does. Like a beautiful, beautiful garbage fire.

  I look at the cinder-block wall by my head, but I don’t bother counting the marks there. They’re just little pieces of the past now, and the day is already sprinting off without me.

  Outside in the sunshine, the air is different than it was in the early summer. It has that feeling that it’ll always be like this, but something in the back of my head reminds me that late summer is when everything is holding its breath, and it’s all gonna change pretty soon.

  Sooner than later it’ll be time to go back to real school again. In fact, I could’ve left a week ago, they told me. Something about KinderCorp ending the semester early …

  I don’t know—somehow this Canadian hacker collective got hold of the footage of our Parents’ Weekend Showcase, and they made this super, painfully funny video, and it went viral, and a comedian in New York City did some big show about JANUS, and KinderCorp, and the teachers and stuff … and anyway, long story short: Now KinderCorp is gone and this place is going back to being a school for musicians and artists and writers, and yeah, dancers too. Only, the people who get scholarships are going to still be like us. Normal kids who got into trouble. It’s like my dad says: The more things change, the more they stay insane.

  Whatever, there was a really long letter with all the details. You should just read that. Point is: I graduated from bully school so hard that after I was done, the bully school closed down entirely. That’s the truth, you can google it.

  “Whatcha readin’?” Alva asks as she sees me waiting for Ash on the curb.

  I look up at her and block the sun with my hand. “It’s this thing I’ve been writing.”

  She tilts her head to try to steal a peek. “What, for school?”

  “Kinda,” I say, slamming the book and jamming it into my bag.

  “Oooh, is it private?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it about me?”

  “No,” I say lamely.

  She sits down next to me and holds out her hand. “Let me see it.”

  “No way. Maybe someday. When I’m older.”

  “Am I even going to know you then?”

  I shrug. “Can’t tell the future, Alva.”

  “You’re supposed to say ‘Yeah, totally, we’re gonna be friends forever and ever!’”

  “Hey. Don’t lie to a liar, right?”

  She nods. “I respect that.”

  “But wouldn’t it be awesome if we were?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer right away. “Listen, I’m really not supposed to do this,” she says. “You gotta promise me you won’t ever repeat what I’m about to tell you, all right?”

  “Why?”

  She looks sideways at me. “Do you promise?”

  “Alva—”

  “Promise, Ian!”

  “Okay, I promise! I will never tell a living soul.”

  She looks around carefully in all directions. And she whispers in my ear: “I’m a time traveler too.”

  For a second I get a tingle. And then it turns into a cold embarrassment as I realize:

  “You read my thing!”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replies innocently. “I’m totally a time traveler. Just like you. I’m from the future, and I’ve come back to the past, and I’m here right now to tell you that you are way more important than Thomas Edison. You don’t have to believe me—you just have to be yourself and someday you’re gonna see I’m completely right.”

  I look at her—a long, hard look.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Even if you are telling the truth, which you’re not—a true time traveler would know that telling me about my future would ruin it.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Because now that I know about it, I’ll act differently than I would’ve if you hadn’t told me what happens to me in the end. It’ll turn out different now.”

  She shrugs. “If that’s how you want it.”

  “It’s not how I want it. It’s just the rules! That’s how it works, when you know your future …”

  “That’s the rules, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well,” she says. “I was always taught that the reason I had to learn the rules was so I would understand why they exist, and how they could be broken.”

  “You can’t break the laws of physics, Alva.”

  “We hardly even know what we can do,” says Alva. “Maybe you only have that awesome future because I came back in time to right here and right now and ‘broke the rules’ to tell you that you are such a fantastic dude.”

  As I start to wonder, she shrugs and points at the book in my bag. “Anyway,” she goes on, “isn’t it weird that we call a book a volume?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject.” But then I can’t help thinking about it. “Wait—why is it weird?”

  “Well, it’s not weird, exactly,” she says. “It’s just: In math, volume is how you measure what’s inside of an object.”

  I blink.

  “You measure the length and the width and the height of the book, and you multiply them. That’s how you measure the inside of a book, according to math.”

  I blink again. “That’s a crazy way to measure what’s inside of a book.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s like—a freaking ocean in there.”

  She laughs at me getting worked up. “I know.”

  As I look up at her, something in Alva’s smile cracks—a jagged opening that cuts through all the names and stories and everything else, to what’s really underneath. In an instant, it’s gone. But I saw it anyway.

  “Guess there are rules we just don’t understand,” she says.

  “Guess so,” I agree.

  She shoves her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “Anyway. See ya ’round, Ontario.”

  “Count on it, Kinder. We’ll start again next time.”

  She clears her throat. “Right where we left off, okay?”

  “Deal.”

  I watch her go a few steps, and I can see her whole life spread out as she crosses the parking lot. Maybe she’s right. Maybe we are from the future. Looking back and feeling like it’s all worth it. Looking forward and feeling like it’s all gonna work out okay.

  “What a freak,” I say to myself.

  And as I wait for Ash, I open the book again and fall deeply into the ocean inside.

  JUSTIN WEINBERGER has never been shipped off to bully reform school, but he still owes his sister an apology for hogging the Nintendo. Today, Justin works on TV dramas in New York City and lives in Brooklyn. Reformed is his first novel.

  A brief and utterly unsatisfactory acknowledgment of some of Ian’s imaginary friends who didn’t appear in this novel:

  Kelly Ashton, who is a brilliant editor. Ian wants to thank you for being his very real champion.

  David Levithan, who gave Ian a chance to tell his story. Happily, it turns out David knew Ian could write a book all along. Probably because David is a time traveler.

  Everyone at Scholastic who made it possible for Ian to focus on telling his story, and for other kids to connect with him. He knows he’s lucky to be in your hands. Specific thanks to production editors Rebekah Wallin, Cheryl Weisman, and Rachel Gluckstern, and to Yaffa Jaskoll for the book’s wonderful cover design.

  All the people Ian doesn’t even know he owes, big time. Peter Ackerman, Sarah Rees Brennan, Barry Goldblatt, Michelle Hodkin, Dan Dunfor
d, Sarah Nolen, Dan Poblocki, Tricia Ready, Colleen AF Venable: Thank you for your advice and companionship this past year. You’ve made this experience the best sort of adventure for a first-timer like me. Libba Bray, I am especially grateful for your wisdom and friendship in the writing trenches.

  To my friends and family, who have been amazingly supportive, and especially my parents, Leann and Buzz Weinberger: I hope seeing this book become real feels at least half as good for you as it does for me.

  Copyright © 2017 by Justin Weinberger

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  First edition, April 2017

  Cover Art by Erwin Madrid, © 2017 Scholastic Inc.

  Cover Design by Yaffa Jaskoll

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-90255-7

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.