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  The girl sitting next to Naz cleared her throat, and he stopped. She had been watching him recite Othello word-for-word and giggled quietly. She was impressed, her eyes wide and eyebrows raised as she stared at him. He feigned embarrassment. He had never noticed her before now and all of a sudden he got that feeling he had gotten only once before, with D. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. But the feeling was stronger than before, even more overwhelming than over a year ago. Then Naz realized it wasn’t the girl next to him that he saw but D, and he went on imagining that she was D, Desdemona. What was the chance Desdemona was D’s name? He had never found out what the “D” stood for.

  The girl handed Naz a piece of paper with a phone number on it. The bell rang, and the teacher dismissed the class. He smiled. She walked down the hallway with her books wrapped in her arms. He would likely never see her again.

  Naz made his way to the gym where he and Harvis would deliberate one last time before taking their plan to the point of no return. Gym, or physical education as they called it at International Academy, was the only class Naz and Harvis had together, part of Dr. Gwen and the General’s plan to keep the dynamic duo separated and focused on academics.

  BEAMS OF YELLOW light from the sun shone through arched windows of a brightly-lit auxiliary gym once used as a chapel. Rubber soles squeaked on shiny, hardwood floors while laughter, banter, and voices filled the open space. Students dressed in emerald green gym shorts and gray T-shirts with International Academy printed on the front stood across from each other in organized lines hitting volleyballs back and forth. The smell of varnish ruled the air as Harvis stood near one of the side basketball rims, and Naz stood under the basket itself.

  Naz tried with no success to dunk his volleyball by jumping straight up from under the basket. “What if this nerd … is not a nerd?” Naz asked, grimacing as he had hurt his finger on the rim.

  “What do you mean?” Harvis passed a volleyball back and forth from the fingertips of one hand to the other.

  “Like … we think he’s a nerd, but he’s not … and he decides to stick up for himself and not be bullied?” Naz sucked on his injured finger then attempted another dunk with the same outcome. The ball caromed off the rim and rolled near the bleachers thirty feet away.

  “That’s why we have to pick right the first time. We only get one chance at this, and I told you; you’re not gonna be able to dunk without a running start. You don’t have enough lift.”

  Naz retrieved the ball. “Wanna bet?” Naz closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He tried again, this time just barely putting the ball through the hoop. He looked at Harvis, eyes wide and eyebrows high.

  “Without cheating.” Harvis spun the ball on his finger.

  “So you think it’s cheating when I use my—”

  The shrill sound of a whistle silenced and stilled the gym.

  A middle-aged, balding, tanned man, dressed in khaki shorts and an emerald green polo shirt with IA embroidered on the upper right front approached with his hand raised. “Andersen!” He blew his whistle again, and the students continued with their volleyball drills. The whistle fell from the man’s mouth and dangled from the lanyard around his neck.

  “Yes, Coach.”

  “Not a coach, Andersen, teacher … what’s my rule about shooting the volleyballs in the basketball rims?”

  “Uh … don’t?”

  “Good.” He handed Naz an envelope and then turned his attention to Harvis. “What’s the word? Thunderbird!”

  “Not much, Mr. Hoover,” said Harvis, putting some distance between him and Naz and preparing to hit the ball.

  “You can jump, Andersen.” Mr. Hoover looked up at the rim. “How come you didn’t go out for the basketball team?”

  Naz shrugged.

  “Maybe next year,” added Mr. Hoover.

  Naz and Harvis didn’t try out for International Academy’s basketball team because it just didn’t seem right playing for anyone other than Fears. Naz put the envelope Mr. Hoover had given him on the floor, and he and Harvis joined in the volleyball drill with the rest of the students.

  “See how many you can hit in a row.” Mr. Hoover nodded and walked away.

  “Nine … ten … eleven,” Harvis counted before missing a ball Naz had hit too softly. “You keep getting those, and we won’t have to go through with the plan.” Harvis glowered at the envelope Naz had put on the floor.

  Inside the envelope was another demerit. Naz had gotten one last week for his hair being too long, and one a week earlier for three tardies in Spanish. He hated Spanish. Three demerits would get you a one-day after-school detention. Three detentions would get you a one-day suspension, and three suspensions got you expelled from International Academy altogether.

  “Yeah, but that could take all year.” Naz retrieved the ball.

  “Not at the rate you’re going.

  “True story, but we need to make this happen today, right?

  “Why didn’t you just tell Dr. Gwen you wanted to leave? She seems nice enough.”

  “She’s done a lot for me, and I didn’t want to sound ungrateful. And she’s not that nice.”

  Harvis bit his bottom lip and continued to stare at the envelope.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Naz.

  “I have to ask.” Harvis looked at Naz. “What’s your real reason for wanting to go back? ’cause this can’t just be about revenge. We already went down that road.”

  “I know. It’s more than that; it’s about the truth. You’re big on that, right? Always quoting the Bible? And I thought about what Meri always said. No matter what she did in life, she’d always come back to make a difference. I honor her by going back … making that difference, if even for just a little while.”

  “Yeah, all right … I don’t know if I believe that, but let me ask you this. If you were always the target … if whoever murdered Meri was after you, don’t you think eventually they’ll come to finish the job? In other words, you won’t have to look for them; they’ll find you.”

  Harvis’ words shut Naz down. It was something he had never considered. He was always so blinded by his fury to avenge Meri’s murder that he never took the time to think about the obvious. Someone may still be trying to kill him. Should I be afraid? For a reason he couldn’t quite fathom, he was not. In this brief silence, they kept the volleyball in the air for more than thirty hits: a record for them.

  “What about you?” asked Naz as he shuffled to retrieve the ball again. “What’s your real reason?”

  “Life is about helping others. Look around you. Nobody around here needs help. Besides, somebody’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

  “Maybe you have a hero complex.”

  “Maybe … but is that a bad thing? Now what’s this about your dad being alive?”

  Before Naz could answer, the bell rang, and for the third time this morning (the first after sparring and second on the way to school) Naz was able to evade the question he had prompted Harvis to ask in the first place. He had regretted bringing it up after their sparring session. Naz knew Harvis was being patient, giving him a chance to collect his thoughts on the matter, but he also knew Harvis wouldn’t forget—not Harvis. Like Mr. Tesla would say, “he has a mind like a steel trap.”

  As they left the gym and approached their locker, they were silent. They both knew what they had to do: play the parts of what they despised most, the bullies. They arrived at their locker, and Naz took note of all the students that spilled into the hallways. He scanned for that one student, that nerd that most assuredly would not fight back. There he is. Harvis elbowed Naz in the ribs.

  “I see ’im,” Naz muttered.

  The boy was almost a whole head shorter than Harvis and Naz, and he walked in their direction. Naz remembered Ham was about that size, and Ham could never be bullied, not by someone even twice his size. But they had chosen now, and all Naz could do was hope they had not chosen a “Ham.”

  Just as the boy reached their loc
ker, Harvis stepped in his path. The boy stopped and looked up at Harvis with a welcoming smile even though Harvis had given him that liquid-metal, terminator-look that only Harvis could give.

  That was Naz’s cue. He came from the side and said in his most intimidating voice, “Gimme your lunch money!”

  The boy didn’t move, didn’t say anything. He just continued staring at Harvis, his smile fading into an expression of confusion as one eyebrow lifted. They didn’t anticipate the boy’s reaction. Maybe they weren’t convincing enough. Then it hit Naz—maybe he just didn’t hear me. He didn’t look at me. During passing-time, there was a fair amount of noise and commotion in the hallways. Naz tried again.

  “Hey, gimme your lunch money … now!”

  The boy turned to Naz, his expression of confusion morphing into fear, both eyebrows raised. The color faded from his cheeks, and his bottom lip quivered. Naz almost stopped the charade. He wished the month was April so he could claim a fool’s joke, pat the boy on his shoulder, and send him off. Instead, he gave Harvis a quick look and decided to stay the course.

  “W-what?” stuttered the boy.

  Naz wasn’t sure if the boy heard him or just didn’t understand what he had said.

  Harvis stepped even closer and loomed over the boy. “Give us your money, kid!” He chimed in awkwardly.

  The plan was dragging at this point. Nobody else in the hallway paid any attention—is this gonna work?

  “I-I brought my lunch,” said the boy sheepishly, just now raising a Captain America lunch pail up for all to see.

  Uh-oh. Who carries a Captain America lunchbox in high school anyway? How could they not anticipate this possibility? How could they not see the lunch pail? Harvis and Naz exchanged looks.

  Then, Naz remembered how bullies operated at Lincoln. He grabbed the boy’s arm and pulled him along down the hallway. He looked back at Harvis and shrugged. Harvis, who had moved out of the way, watched without expression. Naz motioned for Harvis to grab the boy’s other arm with the goal of making a scene. Harvis followed suit.

  “Gimme all the money you got,” Naz said a little more convincing this time.

  The boy struggled to reach in his pocket with the arm Harvis was now holding. He pulled out a small wad of bills and handed it to Naz. It was working. Naz and Harvis released the boy. The problem was, nobody noticed as students made their way to their third-hour class. Now what. As the kid turned to leave, Naz heard a familiar voice call from behind.

  “Hey!”

  Naz turned to meet a crushing impact on his lower jaw, dominated by pain and disorientation—mostly pain—and the clanging of metal locker against his flailing body. Somebody hit me in the mouth. The money in his hand scattering on the floor like falling leaves. Someone yelled fight, and students came from everywhere. He turned to seek retribution on his attacker, but Harvis grabbed Naz by his arms. It took all Harvis had to restrain him. It was only then Naz realized it was John who had hit him.

  John Hornbuckle, Dr. Gwen’s son, also a freshman at International Academy, for some reason, decided to come to the boy’s rescue.

  “Let me go!” Naz tasted blood coming from the lip he would be nursing for the next few days.

  Naz broke free of Harvis’ grip, but a teacher came to assist as well as several bigger students: juniors and seniors. They stood between Naz and John, although John made no effort to cross the divide the teacher and upperclassmen had created.

  NAZ PACED BACK and forth in a small room with four chairs lined against the wall just outside the Headmaster’s office. He had only seen the Headmaster once since he’d been at International Academy and that was during orientation. I guess that’s what they call the Principal. Naz was clueless as to what was going on or what John thought he was doing. He had decided when they got home he and John were going to have more than a talk, and it would take more than a mediation from Dr. Gwen to straighten things out. Naz didn’t understand; he’d never had any beef with John whatsoever. John seemed nice enough when they played video games—just goes to show, you never really know some people.

  The last time Naz remembered someone taking a cheap shot at him like that was at basketball tryouts last year when Ham had pushed him in the back when he was going for a lay-up.

  Finally, Harvis walked in.

  “What da—” Naz started in.

  “Hold on,” Harvis interrupted. “Before you get started, I just told my side of the story—”

  “Which was?”

  “Exactly what happened … we made that boy give up his lunch money, and from nowhere John jumped in and started a fight with you.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about, and it wasn’t much of a fight! Why’d you grab me? Ooh …” Naz pounded his fist in his palm. “Why’d he hit me?”

  “Well he said, and I quote, ‘technically—’”

  “Technically!”

  “Let me finish.” Harvis put up his hand. “‘Technically, I didn’t start the fight; I was just protecting the little guy,’ who also happened to be named John, ‘they were bullying.’ I … I think he knew what we were trying to do. I think he was trying to help.”

  “What!? Are you serious? How could he know?”

  “You do talk in your sleep.”

  “Whatever. Why would he do something like that? International Academy has the same policy for fighting as they do for bullying …unless …”

  “Exactly … sit down.”

  “But why would John wanna get kicked out?” Naz sat down.

  “Good question.”

  “And you’re not supposed to be in here.”

  “I’m the General’s son, remember?”

  “And?”

  “Actually, I told ’em I had to go to the bathroom and snuck in. I figured I’d add insubordination to my list of offenses.”

  “So what do we do now?” Naz shook his head.

  “Well, just like we figured, they called the General and Dr. Gwen, and they’re both on their way. So, we wait. Thanks to John, everything is going as planned.”

  “Yeah, remind me to give John my own special brand of appreciation when I see him later,” said Naz as he brought his fingers to his swollen lip then tasted the blood that still oozed from it. “Why didn’t anybody ask to hear my side!?”

  “I think they feel like they had enough witnesses that your story didn’t matter. They didn’t talk to John either. If you want, I can go get Mr. Connelly to interview you as well.”

  “I’m straight.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Naz and Harvis had gotten pretty close in the last year, but this was the first time they had gotten into trouble together, and it seemed like as good a time as any for some soul-revealing. Naz recalled playing a question game with Meri the morning she took the test to go to International Academy.

  “Hey, you wanna play a game while we wait?” Naz asked.

  “What?”

  “A game, it’ll calm me down. I have just been in a fight, you know.” Naz continued to rub his fat lip.

  “What kind of game?”

  “Rock-paper-scissors … only the winner gets to ask a question, and the loser … has to answer.”

  Harvis seemed to ponder for a moment, most likely considering how he would benefit. “Under one condition.”

  “Condition?”

  “No cheating.”

  Naz tilted his head.

  “No mind reading,” Harvis clarified.

  “I might not be able to con—”

  “Control it? I know. Swear you’ll try.”

  “I promise.” Naz laughed. He would do his best.

  Harvis won the first round with his rock over Naz’s scissors, and his question came as no surprise. “What makes you think your dad is still alive?”

  Naz had been dying to tell somebody this, and here was his chance. “You know my dreams … the lucid ones I’m able to control because I know I’m dreaming?”

  Harvis nodded as he listened intently.
/>   “Well, whenever I ask Meri where’s my dad, or, is my dad there, she always answers that she doesn’t know or that he isn’t there. Now watch this. When I ask about my mom, she always says she’s there.” Naz waited intently for Harvis’ response.

  Harvis sat as if frozen, most likely turning this revelation over in his mind.

  Naz decided to add, “I saw my mother murdered. I never saw my father die … at least I don’t remember.”

  “But you said you can control what happens in the dream, therefore you could be hearing what you wanna hear?”

  “Being aware that I’m dreaming allows me to control what I do in the dream, never the other players.” That’s what Naz called the other people in his dream … players. “I think my part happens in my conscious mind which is why I can control it, and everyone else’s actions take place in my subconscious.”

  “The key is your subconscious, which means it’s still you, your mind, not anyone else’s.”

  “But that’s it; that’s how we communicate on a higher level, with the other side … maybe, through our subconscious mind. Don’t you read?”

  “Look who’s talking.” Harvis shrugged. “You read two books on the subject, and now you’re an expert? Why do you think someone would lie to you about your father not being alive?”

  “I don’t know, but considering all I’ve been through, would that be so hard to believe? And, there’s something else. Meri gave me this.” Naz pulled out an extremely worn and torn Wikipedia page of his father. He had printed out more copies, but this one had a special place, top shelf in his mind. It was one of the last things Meri had given him. “I had already seen this face before in the Exclave since I’d come to live with my mom, and maybe more than once. I just can’t place exactly where.”

  Harvis looked at the floor.

  “Don’t you see; my father was supposedly already dead when I came to the Exclave,” Naz added.

  “I don’t know, Naz. Earlier you said you heard Meri’s voice even though you say you don’t believe in ghosts and now this … your dad being alive. Kinda thin … sounds like a stretch to me.”