“WHOA!”
A collective gasp went up from the students on the bus. Even the driver, Miss Farber, seemed impacted by the sight. She slowed the bus to a crawl.
Archer had never seen so many downed trees. The corner of Laurel Lane and Route 14 looked as though a giant had karate-chopped through the forest. What had been tall white pines or scraggly pitch pines were now just trunks knocked down like dominoes, some uprooted entirely and others snapped at the trunk base.
“See, I told ya!” Jay Stephago said, poking Archer. “A tornado rolled through here. Look a’ those trees. See.”
“It wasn’t a tornado, Bunk,” Archer replied using Jay’s nickname. “It was a derecho. The wind didn’t swirl; it came straight on. That’s why the trees all fell the same direction.”
“How you know?” Bunk asked, his mop of brown hair swaying in front of his tiny, restless eyes.
Archer was silent a few ticks. He sighed and then muttered, “Kaylie told me.”
“Oh,” Bunk said. “Guess it’s probably true then.”
Archer shook his head. “Thanks, Bunk.”
“I still think it was a tornado,” Bunk said. “I saw this show on cable where these tornado chaser guys . . .”
The bus started rolling again, the grinding of gears overpowering conversation. Archer stared past Bunk to the front of the bus where Kara Windchil sat with Emy Crawford, Bree Lassiter, and a pack of other Dresden High glamour girls.
She used to always sit with me, Archer reflected, the thought leaving a bitter aftertaste. Halfway through ninth grade, Kara had changed her hair, letting it grow out till it flowed like a cape of black silk around her head. Then, a whole new set of friends discovered her, and . . . she just changed.
He watched her for a few seconds more, wondering if maybe she’d turn and wave or wink . . . or something. He turned back to the window and sighed. And waited. And hoped.
A thump on the seat startled him. He jumped.
“Sheesh, who’s the scaredy cat now?” It was Kara.
“I guess, I am,” Archer said, laughing. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Get any sleep last night?”
“Not much,” she said. “But . . . it was better, after we talked. Thanks for saying, you know, what you said.”
Archer shrugged. “Dreams can get pretty bad, but if you know yourself well enough, they won’t hurt you.”
“Yeah,” Kara said. “And I guess, coming from an expert like you, I should probably be able to trust that advice.” She got up abruptly and went back to sit with Bree and the other girls.
What had set her off this time? One minute, she seemed to show genuine gratitude. The next, she was really mad. Just like that, Archer thought. Man, I just can’t figure her out. Not anymore.
Archer’s father had once told him never to try to understand women, but Kara? Kara had been different. He trusted her. She was the one person who knew him well enough to suspect he had something secret going on. In the end, she was the only one he ever told about Dreamtreading. He couldn’t help it. She’d cornered him one day, a little more than a year back.
He’d been reading The Dreamtreader’s Creed in the family basement that summer afternoon. He was in so deep that he didn’t pay any attention to the doorbell when it rang. Archer’s father had let Kara in and sent her to the basement to find Archer. He hadn’t even seen her standing there. He had no idea how long or what she’d heard. Archer remembered the awkward conversation word for word.
“Archer, what’s the matter with you?” Kara had asked.
“What?”
“Archer, what book is that?”
“Book, oh, uh . . . this?” Archer had closed the Creeds and thrown a blanket over it. “It’s nothing, just an old book of stories. You know, like fables and legends, that kind of thing.”
“That’s not like any book I’ve ever seen,” Kara said, stepping closer and peeling back the blanket. She gasped. “I was right. The title is glowing.”
“Kara,” he said. “This is kind of private.”
“What are you into, some kind of cult?”
“What? No!”
“Well, what is it then? You were chanting or something.”
“That was forms.”
“What?”
“Kind of like karate,” he said. “You know how you run through a series of movements with your body, blocks and strikes? It’s like that, only with your mind.”
Kara peeled back the blanket even more. “That sounds strange,” she said. “But then again, you always were a little weird.”
“Thanks.”
“The Dreamtreader’s Creed?” she mumbled. “Okay, Archer, start from the beginning. I want to know everything.”
“You won’t believe me,” Archer argued. It was the last card he could play.
Kara said, “Try me.”
There had been no dissuading her. She’d interrogated him all summer long, and he’d told her everything. When school began that fall, Archer was afraid she’d tell someone. But she hadn’t. Not a soul.
Even when conflicts strained their friendship, Kara had kept his secret.
Kara and Archer had sat on a little bench not far from the well in his backyard. “What’s going on, Kara?” he asked. “This feels serious.”
“It is,” she said, smiling sweetly. The hint of green that tinged her blue eyes seemed more prominent somehow. In fact, her eyes danced with eagerness. “I need to ask you a favor. A big one.”
“Oh, is that it? You had me worried.” He laughed.
She didn’t. “You know that thing you do?” she asked, her tone cautious, her features tense now. “Dreamtreading?”
Archer felt the bottom drop out of his gut. He checked over his shoulder to make sure no one else was in the backyard. “Look, Kara, I already told you everything I can.”
“But you left out something pretty big.”
“Such as?”
“Such as how to do it, Archer? I want in. I want to be a Dreamtreader.” She had seemed eager before. Now, there was a feverish intensity about her. Archer could feel her expectations weighing on him.
He wanted to hide under a rock. No, he wanted to dig a trench under the rock, come out on the other side of the planet, and then hide under the Great Wall of China. Ever since the summer, Archer had been afraid of this moment.
At last, he said, “You can’t be a Dreamtreader.”
Kara’s expression hardened. She leaned back against the bench and swiped the hair out of her eyes. “Why not?” she demanded.
“It’s something you’re born with,” Archer said. “Like a talent. Like being able to draw. Some people can, and some can’t.”
“But everyone can learn to draw, a little,” Kara said. She turned to him and took his hands in hers. “If you have a good enough teacher, right? You could teach me, Archer. Will you? Please.”
“It’s not like that,” Archer said. He wished more than anything that he could help her, that he could teach her. “I asked.”
“What do you mean?” Kara dropped Archer’s hands and crossed her arms.
“Remember, I told you there’s a lead Dreamtreader, the highest ranking one? After we talked this summer, I asked him if you could be a Dreamtreader too. He said no. And he didn’t leave any room for argument. There are always three and only three Dreamtreaders at a time. Something about mirroring the Perfect Three, whatever that means. I’m sorry.”
Kara stood up. “Sorry?” She laughed, but it was more out of anger than mirth. “Sure you are. So what makes you so special anyway? My grades are just as good. I’m very creative. I could be a Dreamtreader.”
“I wish you could, Kara,” Archer said. “I begged Master Gabriel, but he . . . well, he’s set in his ways.”
“Fine, Archer,” Kara said. “Keep your secrets.”
“Keep my—Aren’t you listening to me?” Archer watched her walk away.
Is she still stuck on that? Archer wondered. It wasn’t his fault.
Archer saw a ripple of slender fingers appear five seats ahead. A pair of bespectacled, owlish green eyes glimmered amiably above both the seat back and an open book. The fingers rippled again.
Hi, Amy, Archer thought, giving her a half-wave, half-salute back. The Salute-Wave—one part friendly, two parts cool.
Amy rolled her eyes and laughed. Archer laughed in spite of himself. He’d known Amy Pitsitakas for almost as long as he’d known Kara. Since grade school, it seemed like they’d always been on the same bus, but Amy’s bus stop was several miles from his own.
Flashing lights distracted Archer from his thoughts. The storm had knocked down some power lines just up ahead. Emergency vehicles and men dressed like bumblebees surrounded the area and slowed traffic even further. Archer stared intently at the downed trees and houses with torn-up siding. As the bus crept through the damaged neighborhood, Archer muttered, “Please, please, please . . .”
Dresden Senior High School was the oldest high school in the town of Gatlinburg. It was the oldest school in Washington County. In fact, it was the third-oldest school in the state of Maryland. So it was almost a given that Dresden High would have storm damage from the derecho, possibly extensive damage. Obviously not enough to hurt anybody or close school, Archer thought, but maybe enough to scramble regular classes.
A couple of hours in study hall or in the gym would be just enough time for Archer to put in the Dreamtreader training session he so needed. He patted the bulky backpack in his lap and hoped for the best.
Dresden High School had been miraculously spared by the storm. Except for the Internet.
A lightning strike had fried the school’s server, so it would be a week or two before the students could use online resources. Mrs. Sullivan, Archer’s first-block American Literature teacher, had reported the damage sum total with a gleam in her eye . . . right before she assigned the essay topic.
That’s it? Archer silently grumbled. The thunderstorm of the decade, and the only damage to the school is lost Internet? Feeling pangs of disappointment, Archer glanced down at his backpack. The Dreamtreader’s Creed would have to wait, as Mrs. Sullivan had made it abundantly clear that the essay would not wait for the Internet.
Fifteen minutes into the essay, a door closed sharply. Archer blinked to find he’d been doodling strange, twisting vines in the margin of his rough draft on Hawthorne’s short story “Rappaccini’s Daughter.” There was also a rather awkwardly placed spot of drool.
Archer discreetly slid his elbow across the offensive dripping. Then he heard hushed voices and looked up. His eyes widened. Mrs. Mears, the principal, was there, dressed as always in an expertly tailored business suit. She looked like she should be CEO of a tech company rather than Shepherd-in-Chief for a bunch of teenagers. She and Mrs. Sullivan were deep in conversation . . . apparently over the tall young man who stood by the door.
Archer leaned over to his nearest classmate, Jake Spindler, and whispered, “Who’s this guy?”
Jake shrugged. “I dunno,” he said. “Guest speaker?”
Archer shook his head. The kid had to be a student the way he was dressed: cargo shorts and a blazing green tank top that read, “I’m going crazy. Want to come along?” But he couldn’t be a sophomore. Not that tall. Not with all that facial hair. The guy had sideburns like Wolverine. In fact, he looked like a teenage version of the superhero. Square, rugged face; driftwood-brown hair that lay atop his head in a stylish flop; large, intense brown eyes; and a kind of sideways cool smirk that seemed to say to the world, Why yes, actually, I am smarter and cooler than the rest of you.
Archer glanced over at Kara and found her staring at the newcomer as well. Even Amy was staring.
“Sheesh, Amy.” Archer leaned across to her chair and whispered, “I think you fogged up your glasses with steam.”
“What?” she asked. Her cheeks went red.
“Umm, class,” Mrs. Sullivan said, using her formal announcement voice. “We have a new addition to our little society of brilliance.”
“This late in the year?” blurted Payton Kersh. “That’s dumb.”
Mrs. Sullivan shot Payton a withering glare. He pursed his lips and seemed to shrivel.
“I’d like you to meet Rigby Thames,” Mrs. Sullivan said, nodding to Mrs. Mears as the principal departed the classroom. “He comes to us from the Glennwood Institute. Please make him welcome.”
Glennwood Institute? Archer thought. The Glennwood Institute of Technology, or GIFT, as it was called, was a big deal. And it likely meant two things were true of Rigby: (1) he was rich and (2) he really was smarter than most everyone else. Tuition at Glennwood was higher than some Ivy League colleges, and they were extremely selective about the kids they accepted into their challenging program. Archer’s father had once looked into the school for Kaylie. She had all the intellect needed. But the Keatons didn’t have the money. GIFT was simply out of reach for regular folk. For crying out loud, the president’s daughter attended Glennwood!
Archer shrugged and went back to his essay. He was still a little mad at himself for dozing. Thankfully, it hadn’t been a deep enough sleep to trigger a Dreamtreading session. That could have been awkward.
Still, he’d cost himself time on his essay. He might have missed instructions too. As a Dreamtreader, he knew the critical important of intelligence. Every chance he got to build his personal knowledge, every opportunity to stretch his mind creatively, he seized it and never looked back.
I may not have been born a genius like Kaylie, he thought. But I will outwork anyone.
As he crafted his arguments and support from the text, Archer couldn’t help but be aware of Mrs. Sullivan trying to get the new kid up to speed. She seated him in the empty desk by the window, one desk to Kara’s left. Archer pressed the pencil a little harder to the paper.
“We’re drafting explanatory essays on a Nathaniel Hawthorne short story,” Mrs. Sullivan explained.
“Which one?” Rigby asked.
The way he said one, Archer thought. Something odd. Was it an accent?
“ ‘Rappaccini’s Daughter,’ ” Mrs. Sullivan replied. “But you don’t have to worry about this essay, we’re too far along—”
“I’ve read it,” Rigby replied. “Right brilliant piece. Poison garden and all. Essay, is it? I’ll give it a go.”
An English accent, Archer thought miserably. Rich, smart, and an English accent. Archer scanned the room. Every single girl in the room was staring at Rigby. Archer rolled his eyes and whispered, “Oh, brother.”
Lunch at Dresden High School came in three shifts. Archer’s shift, the one for freshmen and sophomores, was the first of the day. When he stepped into the cavernous cafeteria, Archer realized there was actually a little more storm damage after all. The chairs in the lunch courtyard outside had been blown all over the place, some lodged in the limbs of the courtyard’s trees. Others had apparently crashed into the lunchroom’s wall of windows. The glass had all been cleaned up, and cardboard panels had been taped in place, making the wall of windows look a little like a crossword puzzle.
The lunch line was unusually short. That suited Archer just fine. If Archer had a passion other than Dreamtreading, it was food, even school food. He took up his tray and considered his lunch choices with the seriousness of a chess grand master. Mystery meatloaf? No, I don’t think so. Mushroom and sausage pizza? Maybe.
Then he saw the Little Chiks—his all-time school lunch favorite. Small, square chicken sandwiches with a blot of spicy mayo and a pickle slice. Archer loved them, but they were so small.
When Archer finally came to the cashier, his tray had eleven Little Chik sandwiches, a mountain of mashed potatoes, and a large cup of brown gravy.
“Going light today?” Grandma Cho asked. The blue-haired woman had reportedly worked the cafeteria of Dresden High for more than twenty years. There had never been a gentler, kinder soul. She was everyone’s grandma. “Eleven? You sure that’s all ya need?”
Archer laughed. “It’s actually twelve,” he said, handing her his paid lunch card. “I ate one on the way through the line.”
“Son,” she said, “enjoy this metabolism while it lasts. It’ll catch up to ya one day, and bang! Every muffin and french fry goes right to the old hips.”
“I wish,” Archer said. “I’m trying to put on some muscle, but no matter what I eat, I seem to burn it off.”
Grandma Cho shook her head. “Have a cookie, Archer.”
“Nah, I’ve already spent too much of my card.”
“It’s on me,” she said. “I baked them myself.”
“Thanks, Grandma Cho!” He reached back to the cookie tray and selected a thick, lumpy chocolate chip cookie. It weighed heavily in his hand and smelled of paradise.
Archer ate the cookie first. Absurdly delicious, as advertised. Halfway through his chicken sandwiches, dunking each one in gravy, he noticed that his lunch table too was unusually empty. Short lunch lines and a half-deserted table, he thought, chewing absently. Hmph.
After a few more sandwiches, curiosity finally got the better of Archer. He scanned the lunchroom and figured it to be at about 50 percent. Was some meeting being held somewhere, but he’d missed the announcement? Or maybe yearbooks had finally gone on sale.
No. Something else. Archer jammed home the last couple of sandwiches, vacuumed down the rest of the mashed potatoes, and slurped his third chocolate milk empty. After returning his tray, Archer walked the lunchroom perimeter and found no answers . . . until he passed by the courtyard windows closely enough to see outside.
“There they are,” Archer whispered.
Outside, seated in thrown-together rows of chairs, at least sixty or seventy students surrounded someone. That kind of attention usually meant a fight in progress. But students didn’t bring chairs to a fight.
One of the courtyard’s trees kept Archer from seeing who had captured the attention of so many. He checked the cafeteria clock. Five more minutes left for lunch. Not much, but Archer had to know.
The sun was warm, perhaps fueling up the atmosphere for another round of evening thunderstorms. Laughter and buzzy conversation filled the yard. Archer drew closer to the others and finally saw the center of attention: the new kid, Rigby Thames.
A fresh round of laughs apparently signaled the end of a joke. Kevin Zoll said, “Nah, man, really . . . why’d you leave GIFT?”
“They ’ave standards,” Rigby said wryly. “You’ve got to ’ave a certain level of intellect to do well there.”
“So you flunked?” Kevin asked.
“No,” Rigby said. “As I told you, you got to be smart to get in. As it turns out, I’m too smart.”
Another laughter explosion.
“Did you meet the president’s daughter?” Ellen Stewart asked. “Did you know her?”
“Know ’er?” Rigby replied. “I dated ’er.”
“You did not!” Bree Lassiter said. “I read all the magazines.”
“Do you really think the Secret Service allows magazines to print everything?” Rigby asked. “We didn’t date long, really. I got tired of the agents prying into everything I do. Seriously, you ’ave no idea.”
Archer found himself joining in the laughter and then chastised himself. After all, Kara was all too interested in this cool new “bloke” from England.
Raghib Muhammed asked, “So how long have you lived in America?”
“Four years,” Rigby replied. “When my uncle died, he left us ’is house. My family, well, we weren’t doin’ too well in Birmingham, so we came over. Big place now, full of secrets.”
“Wait,” Kara blurted out. “I think I know who you are now. You’re the kid who moved into the inventor’s mansion, the old Scoville house!”
“Enchanted,” Rigby said with a gallant bow. “That’s my Uncle Ebenezer, Dr. Ebenezer Scoville—off-the-charts genius . . . and lunatic.”
“Was he really crazy?” Bunk asked.
Rigby never answered. The bell rang. Like a pulsing amoeba, the entire group of kids in the courtyard slowly ambled back to the cafeteria and the hallways beyond.
It wasn’t over, though. Archer fell in just behind Rigby and saw the entire scene unfold in front of him.
David “Guzzy” Gorvalec emerged from the moving crowd. He was sickly pale but moved with an easy grace that was somehow serpentine and cool at the same time. He was strong too, white muscle contrasting sharply with his cut-off sleeve, black T-shirt. Strong and dangerous, feared by most students for any number of valid reasons. He’d repeated ninth grade and been suspended half a dozen times, more than once for carrying a weapon.
So when Guzzy slid over to Rigby, Archer knew that Rigby was in for a less than pleasant welcome.
Guzzy flipped the fence of black hair out of his eyes and whispered hoarsely, “Man, I know you got money, right?”
Rigby half turned but kept walking.
“Nah, man,” Guzzy went on, grinning so that the silver cap gleamed out from the rest of his yellowed teeth. “Nah, nah, don’t do me like that. I know you’ve got money, living in that great big old house.”
“So?” Rigby replied, his voice void of emotion and absolutely no change in his long stride.
“I’m the guy around here,” Guzzy said. “You need something, you come see me. If I don’t have it, I can get it. Know what I mean? Concert tickets, tablet computers . . .” He paused. “Test answers for any class.”
Archer cringed, slowing his pace a little. Rumors about Guzzy abounded in Dresden High’s hallways. More than once, Archer had seen something change hands between Guzzy and other students, but it had always been at a distance. Now, here it was right in front of him. How would the new kid respond?
“If I were the needy type,” Rigby said, his voice hardening, “I’d come running straightaway. But I don’t need your junk. I ’ave something much better.”
“Oh, is that how it is?” Guzzy asked. He exhaled a laugh. And just like that, his face went from Mister-Friendly, I’m-the-do-you-a-favor-guy to Cross-me-and-I’ll-ruin-your-world. “Don’t think you’re gonna sell in my territory. Don’t think you’re gonna step on my toes and get—”
Rigby kept walking, but he turned his head and cast such a hate-filled glare that Guzzy almost tripped over his own feet. Rigby’s voice became a simmering snarl. “Do not speak to me again.”
Guzzy laughed, but anger flashed in his eyes. “Best take that attitude back to England! I’ll—”
Rigby’s hand moved in a blur.
Had he made a fist or done some kind of thrust or karate chop? Archer couldn’t tell, but he watched Guzzy stagger backward. His smooth, cool expression had turned to wide-eyed terror. He clutched his throat with both hands. Then he fell to his knees and gagged.
The crowd kept moving. If any of the teachers on lunch duty had seen a thing, they didn’t show it. They hadn’t made a move to intervene. Clumps of students filed right on by the still-coughing Guzzy.
Archer didn’t want anything to do with a kid like Guzzy, but he couldn’t stand to see him suffering and no one helping. Archer took a few tentative steps back toward him. “Hey, are you okay?” Archer asked. “You want me to get the nurse?”
Guzzy looked away, angrily swiping his forearm across his eyes. “Be fine,” Guzzy said, coughing out his breaths. “But that new kid . . . he just messed up. I’m gonna hurt him. I’m gonna hurt him bad. Now, back up, Keaton!”
Archer hastened from the courtyard, feeling Guzzy’s stare hard on his back. Nothing good will come of this, Archer thought. Nothing good at all.