Provex City

by Michael Pierce

  Provex City

  Lorne Family Vault, Book 1

  Michael Pierce

  Copyright © 2012 by Michael Pierce

  Cover by Yocla Designs

  http://yocladesigns.com

  Editing by

  James Anderson

  &

  LeAnne Bagnall

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Contents

  Sign-Up

  Preface

  1. Anew

  2. Moved

  3. Collision Course

  4. Something Extraordinary

  5. Road Number Two

  Interlude 1

  6. Into the Dark

  7. Room of Enlightenment

  8. To the Mall

  9. It Wasn’t a Date!

  10. The Unexpected

  11. Oliver and the Savage

  12. Desiree’s Secret

  13. Still No Word

  14. Accidents Don’t Just Happen

  15. Help from a Friend

  Interlude 2

  16. The Glimpse

  17. Last Step

  18. Provex City

  19. Nicholae?

  20. The Return Home

  Epilogue

  Sign-Up / Review

  About the Author

  Also by Michael Pierce

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  For my wife.

  Without her, I’m nothing.

  Preface

  Every kid dreamt of the bogeyman in some form or another—though I discovered mine was real, and he was about to kill me.

  His eyes were fixed on mine, only inches away, and as menacing as I’d always imagined. The air was cold and thin from the altitude. The wind howled around us like a pack of hungry wolves, drowning out everything else.

  I knew if I hadn’t followed Mr. Gordon down road number two, then I’d still be going about my normal life—attending classes, doing homework, laughing with friends. I would have never found this other world, and in it, Provex City. Jeremy would still be gone. I wouldn’t be in the clutches of my bogeyman, with his iron grip around my throat. But maybe, no matter what choice I made, it might have brought me here. To this moment. Maybe this had always been my destiny.

  The bogeyman smiled as he held me by the neck with one powerful hand. I was at least a foot off the ground. My kicking and clawing did nothing. My struggling didn’t even phase him.

  Mr. Gordon had emphasized many times to believe anything was possible. It was a hard concept to grasp, but I was finally getting it, which opened doorways that didn’t exist before. Perhaps they shouldn’t exist. With what I’d seen over the past few months—sights that truly opened my eyes—I could attest that anything was possible. Now, I had to also accept one of those possibilities was death.

  Life was steadily draining from my body. My bogeyman had me and would never let go. There was nothing I could do but wait to die—and it wouldn’t be long.

  1

  Anew

  It was just a coincidence when Desiree Behring sat next to me, noticed me almost immediately and smiled. Under her long, russet-colored hair was a face that beamed and eyes that shone like piercing emeralds.

  I rummaged through my backpack for the right textbook and a notebook. It was my first day at Eastman High and the first day of my sophomore year. First Period. Chemistry.

  “Do you need a pen?” she asked.

  Taking another moment to fumble through my backpack, I abruptly stopped with a sigh of defeat. Glancing up at her, I nodded. She reached across the aisle and handed me a click-top ballpoint pen.

  “I like purple,” Desiree said.

  How embarrassing. I thought of my older brother, Jeremy, and thanked God he wasn’t here to see this.

  The class filled and Mr. Clayton took the stage in khaki slacks and a plaid sweater vest.

  “Charlize Anderson…Mitchell Angelis…Sara Bauer…Desiree Behring?”

  An eager hand shot up in my peripheral vision. I looked over at Desiree and saw her pen balancing between her index and middle fingers.

  Mr. Clayton continued down the roll call list. “Oliver Grain?”

  I raised my hand and slumped down in my seat. I immediately felt the eyes of the other students in the room assessing me, judging me in unison.

  Desiree gave me a sidelong glance, and I slumped down further.

  As hand after hand went up, I waited for one in particular. A girl near the front of the class captivated me even more than Desiree.

  “Leslie Meurs?”

  She was seated second from the front and confidently said, “Present,” without raising a finger. She wore a primrose yellow sundress that boldly showed off her crossed beach-tanned legs. She was turned slightly out so the top knee of her crossed legs didn’t hit the underside of her desk. I wasn’t the only one who noticed—or stared—and I think Mr. Clayton even did a double-take.

  “I don’t mean to embarrass you, but you’re drooling.”

  “What?” I looked over at Desiree and tried to appear oblivious.

  “Quite a lot actually,” she said and leaned toward my desk. “It’s pretty obvious. You may want to wash up in the chemical burn shower.” She motioned to the back of the class with her eyes.

  Despite her stark exaggeration, I ran my hand over my mouth anyway.

  Mr. Clayton outlined his rules and expectations once he finished roll call. No one seemed to care. Half the class fought to stay awake and the other half kept themselves occupied with notes or cell phones.

  I opened my notebook and drew a human skull with a snake slithering through the eye sockets. Desiree peered over to see, and I reluctantly showed her my picture. She reciprocated by showing me a gargoyle she had drawn in her notebook. Her shaded sketch was far better than mine. After scrawling a signature across the bottom of the page, Desiree ripped the page from her notebook and handed it to me. I folded it in half and stuffed it in the middle of my notebook.

  “Don’t lose it. It’ll be worth money one day.”

  I assured her that her masterpiece was in good hands.

  At the end of class, I tried to return Desiree’s pen to her, but she wouldn’t take it. “You can return it to me tomorrow. I don’t want you to be unprepared for all your classes.” She gathered up her things while the other students walked between us to the door. I stuck Desiree’s pen in the spiral of my notebook before tossing it into my backpack. Leslie walked by, and I instinctively watched her exit the room.

  “Well, it was nice to meet you, Oliver Grain.”

  I awkwardly snapped back to Desiree, not really mindful of where my eyes had been lingering. She probably noticed. “Same here.” I wanted to say more, but didn’t have the words at the moment.

  I followed Desiree out of the room. She turned right, and I turned left. I ventured out into the open air, around the science building, and wondered if
my day had already peaked.

  The campus was huge compared to my old school, mostly outdoors, and annoyingly spread out. Students poured out of every classroom. I fought my way to my locker (which was in the middle of three horizontal rows), turned the dial while reciting the combination in my head, and grabbed the next books I needed.

  As I turned to leave, I bumped into a guy a few inches taller than I was. He wore a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, faded jeans, and military boots. Dyed black hair fell into his face and two metal hooks protruded from his left eyebrow.

  “Excuse me,” I muttered and walked off. I glanced back upon entering the quad to see where the guy’s locker was located. Right next to mine. That figures. Murphy and your stupid laws.

  I ran the brief interaction over and over in my head through the next two classes and imagined running into him again as I stopped off at my locker before gym class. In my head, I said more than just excuse me. In my head, when I was pushed, I pushed back.

  The gymnasium towered above all the other buildings, with a gigantic mural of the school name and mascot, The Eastman Eagles, stretched across its brick wall. The oversized golden eagle was painted swooping down in attack position.

  My assigned gym locker was in the last row, against the back wall, close to the showers. I sat on the dingy, splintered, wooden bench and searched the small pocket of my backpack for the slip of paper with my locker combination. I changed into my unflattering gym uniform and stuffed my backpack and other clothes into the locker before heading for the blacktop.

  On the way, I glanced down each row of lockers to see if I recognized anyone. And there was the guy from the incident at my hall locker. He was still in the middle of changing and didn’t notice me passing. Nausea crept up from my stomach to the back of my throat. I picked up my pace, leaving the musty smell of the locker room behind.

  I was assigned to Coach Andrews. My class was directed to sit alphabetically at the edge of the blacktop, adjacent to the football field.

  The popular students in any school always seemed to stand out. The popular girls wore uniforms that were a size too small, personalized by their own seductive styles, and the popular guys wore uniforms that fit perfectly over their toned or muscular physiques. And then you had everyone else—students who wore the same uniforms, but looked uncomfortable, awkward, and weak. I was sure I fit into the latter category. My uniform certainly didn’t make me feel cool.

  After a variety of stretches, jumping jacks, and what felt like fifty laps around the track, we were rounded up and sent back to the locker rooms. As the last class to get back, students from the other classes were already dressed and leaving for lunch. I hurried back to my locker, not paying attention to the guys around me. As I finished changing, I overheard a conversation that seemed to involve me.

  A tall, bony guy with straight brown hair to his shoulders closed his locker and picked up his backpack. In a baggy T-shirt and ripped utility pants, the guy looked eerily pale compared to his dark clothing. Once I widened my focus, I saw that he was flanked by two friends. The guy on the right had his head shaved completely bald, plugs in his ears, and a ragged camouflage jacket torn into a vest. Both guys were looking at me, and then I realized why. The guy on the left was the guy I had bumped into at my locker earlier. My palms broke into a sweat from the unwelcomed attention.

  “Yeah, that’s the guy,” the guy on the left said.

  “He must be the kid that moved into the Taylor house,” said the guy on the right.

  “Really? I thought it was still empty.”

  “Naw, I saw people moving in over break. He looks like he scares easily. Do you scare easy, Newbie? Hope you got someone to protect you.” They all laughed.

  As the three of them walked toward me, I tensed up, and the guy on the left rammed his shoulder into mine as he walked by. “Excuse me this time.” They continued laughing. Two of them high-fived each other.

  “You’re right. He does look like he scares easy.”

  The guy from my locker spun around and brought his fists up to his cheeks in a pathetic boo-hoo gesture. “Try not to cry, Faggot!” Their cackling and mockery seemed to echo throughout the locker room even after they were gone.

  After taking a bunch of deep breaths and rubbing my hands together fiercely enough to start a small fire, my heart rate finally slowed. By the time I left, the locker room was practically empty. I rounded the gymnasium alone, texting Jeremy as I reached the quad. I didn’t know where the senior lockers were located. We’d made a plan this morning to have lunch together, but if I knew Jeremy—and I think I did—he’d probably already amassed a following.

  I ate my lunch in the indoor hallway of the humanities building, across from the door of my next class: World History.

  I checked my phone obsessively for a response from Jeremy. Nothing.

  Students in pairs and small groups casually roamed the halls. I couldn’t determine whether I resented them or envied them. The only thing harder than being alone was feeling alone.

  I felt someone take a seat next to me, a little too close for comfort. I was just about to pull away when I looked over and was greeted by a familiar sanguine smile.

  “So we meet again,” Desiree said. Her emerald eyes were enchanting. I had never seen anyone’s eye color so pronounced. She sat with her legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles.

  “Would you like your pen back now?” I asked.

  “Did you find another one?”

  “No.”

  “Then no.”

  A man whom I could only assume was our teacher unlocked the door, greeted the other waiting students, and flipped on the lights as he entered the room. I picked a desk toward the back of the class, and again, Desiree sat beside me.

  “Welcome, sophomores!” the teacher threw up his hands and exclaimed in earnest, and introduced himself as Mr. Gordon. “In this class you will see that history tends to repeat itself. We make the same mistakes over and over. But it doesn’t have to be that way.” Mr. Gordon turned and singled out a student on the far left side of the classroom. “Do you believe anything is possible?” And when the student shook his head, he continued. “Well, my dear boy, that is why history tends to repeat itself. I will show you that anything is possible! And I’m not talking about magic, which is far beyond the scope of this class. I’m talking about opportunity—opportunity that takes you in new and exciting directions. Opportunity that opens doors you never knew existed. That kind of opportunity feels like magic.”

  I felt like he was talking directly to me. I was inspired.

  Mr. Gordon was about six feet tall, slender, and animated. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and a fitted dress shirt with the top button undone.

  “He seems pretty cool,” I said to Desiree. A couple of the surrounding students looked over at me with disgust, like I was disrupting the class. I couldn’t remember having a teacher make this kind of impact on an entire class. It was almost spooky. The students were actually listening.

  “I’m not gonna have to draw in this class,” Desiree said.

  I didn’t see anyone staring at the wall. I didn’t see a single cell phone. This felt like the shortest class and before we knew it, the bell rang. But everyone didn’t immediately jump up like the traditional routine of closing class. And it wasn’t until the reality of having a sixth period sunk in did the trance break and everyone hesitantly rose from their chairs to leave.

  “Well, since we can’t seem to stay away from each other, is the third time a charm?” Desiree asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Oh...art.”

  “With Mr. Jeffers?”

  “I think so,” I said, checking my class schedule. “Yeah.”

  “I knew it!” Desiree jumped out of her chair, more excited than I would have expected (actually, I hadn’t expected any excitement). “I guess we’re destined to be together,” she said and threw her backpack over her shoulder.
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  I had never been together with or destined for anyone before.

  Since Desiree knew the way, I didn’t have to check the room number. I was grateful for our new and common destiny. Together we walked with purpose. I felt less self-conscious and dropped the need to look around at other students as they passed. Desiree gave me confidence.

  Reaching our final classroom of the day, Desiree simply said, “We sit at the big table in the back.”

  We?

  I followed Desiree to a large wooden table on the far side of the classroom, surrounded by eight metal stools. The walls of the classroom were covered with student pieces in every variety of artistic levels and styles, all of which I assumed were assignments from last year.

  She immediately introduced me to the other students at the table from left to right: Andy, Sara, and Krystal. Just as I finished meeting everyone, a guy sat down to the left of Andy, whom everyone seemed to already know. His name was Blaine.

  “We were all in this class last year. We lost Suzy and Chris, and gained you,” Desiree said to me as more students filled the classroom. “This is the advanced table.”

  “Then shouldn’t I be with everyone else? I haven’t taken art before.” I pointed to the rows of wooden tables that took up much of the rest of the classroom.

  “You can draw. I saw you earlier. But if you want to sit with the newbies, I understand.”