The Thief (6 page)

“
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 and 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.

I picked mine up, feeling a
little dizzy. Had that been intended to be informative? I felt more
confused than ever. I followed Camille out the door and into the
now-empty hall. She looked around dully, sharing none of my nerves.
Her stoicism only made me feel more panicky by contrast.
Maybe she knows what to do,
I thought, as she flipped open her folder and frowned at the
contents. I should talk to her. I should ask her a question,
maybe.

“
Did you, um, did you
understand any of that?” I asked.

She gave me a sudden hard look and I
cringed. “I understand,” she said, her bizarre accent even more
noticeable. Short, clipped vowels and off-balance accents on her
syllables. Where on earth was she from?

“
Oh,” I relented. “Sure. Of
course. I just don’t get, um, what we’re supposed to do
now?”

She gave me a blank look and returned to
staring sullenly at her folder’s contents.

I should be used to being ignored by now. It
still felt like a slap in the face.

My panic from earlier in the morning was
returning in full force. I opened my own folder, the pages
quivering slightly from the fine tremor in my fingers. There was a
map there, but the lines swam in front of my face. The words bled
together. None of it made sense. Out of the corner of my eye,
Camille was turning her packet sideways, and upside down.

I just wanted to go home. No one wanted me
there either, but at least I knew where I was.

Someone cleared their throat.

“
Are you - ahem - I mean,
hi,” said a voice behind me.

I turned to look, then angled my gaze down
about six inches. A boy with shaggy blonde hair looked up at me
cheerfully. He honestly didn’t look old enough to be in high
school.

“
You look lost. I mean new.
I mean...hi,” he said. “I’m Mac.”

I blinked at him. Where had he come from?
“Um, hi,” I said. “I’m Jul. I am new, yes.”

“
Those packets are pretty
useless,” he said. A slight southern accent relaxed his vowels.
“Lucky for you I know the place like the back of my hand. I was
born here. Not uh, here in the school, here in town, I mean.
Obviously.”

I smiled weakly. This was better.

“
So um, do you know who you
have for first period? For homeroom?” he asked.

I looked at Camille. She shrugged,
expression blank.

“
Homeroom...” I racked my
brain. “I think she said...Tailor?”

His face lit up. “Awesome! You’re in our
class!”

“
Oh, ok,” I said. I couldn’t
begin to share in his enthusiasm without context, but it was nice
to talk to someone upbeat for a change. “You’re really in tenth
grade?” I blurted, and immediately regretted it.

His face fell for an instant, but he
recovered almost immediately. “Skipped a grade,” he explained
briefly. “Come on, English is upstairs. You’ll love it, Tailor’s
got all the charm of a wet cat. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“
Oh. Alright,” I said. I
started to follow and then paused, looking back at Camille. “Are
you coming?”

She looked at me, her sideways folder,
closed it with a little huff and followed.

Mac led us up the stairs
onto the second floor landing, overlooking the atrium. I thought of
the boy from earlier. He had been looking at something up here. I
blushed slightly, glancing down at where he’d stood. Now, if
he
had found me wandering
the halls...

Oh, let’s be realistic. I’d have been too
flustered to even say a word, much less anything intelligent.

“
Over here,” Mac said,
leading us down the hall to the right, to a door labeled 2-B.
“Found the new students!” he announced as he opened it. I was
acutely aware that over a dozen pairs of eyes were staring at me.
My pulse hammered.
Transmute, transmute,
transmute
, I repeated in my head like a
mantra.

Inside, the teacher paused mid-lecture, at
the board with chalk in hand. He was thin and bookish, but
handsome, though he wore a pinched sort of frown as he turned to
us. Then his eyes widened in a moment of real shock as he saw me.
It was just like when I’d surprised Bea on the phone - he was
afraid of me.

Mac also appeared confused by Mr. Tailor’s
reaction. “See?” he prompted. “Jul Graham and...um...” he looked at
Camille. “You know, I just realized I missed your name.”

She rolled her eyes.

Mr. Tailor seemed to recover somewhat, but I
still didn’t like the way he was looking at me. Like I was liable
to end the world at the slightest provocation. “Graham,” he
murmured. “Yes, of course. Go have a seat. In the back.”

The back of the room? I clutched my bag to
myself and went down the aisle. Was that another way of saying he
wanted me as far away from him as possible?

Was this kind of reaction going to become a
trend around here? What had I done? I slid into my chair, convinced
that the butterflies in my stomach had mutated into parasites of
the nervous system. At least I was still breathing ok. Small
blessings.