UPON ARRIVING in their first class, the trio took seats at the back of the room. Casey and Artorius followed an already irritated Monson, who simply wanted to avoid bringing attention to himself. Because it was the first day, many of the students arrived early, waiting for the teacher to show up and start class. They talked in low voices, unpacking computers and tablets while they waited—in vain, as it turned out, as the start of class came and went with no teacher.

  “Where the heck is she?” whispered Monson, although he didn’t know why, as there wasn’t anyone in the classroom who cared if he talked.

  “I don’t know,” Casey whispered back. “I heard that she’s a little weird. Maybe she’s planning a sort of dramatic entry. You know, music, lights, and such.”

  “Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Monson placed a binder on his desk. “You and your movie mania.”

  “Of course,” replied Casey indignantly. “I maintain that life would be a great deal more interesting if people broke out in random song and dance, supported by a laugh track.”

  “You’re mental. You know that, right?”

  “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  They lapsed into silence, though the room was far from quiet, the students getting more boisterous as class time continued to tick away.

  “Where could she be?” asked a pale, frumpy-looking boy in the front row.

  “Maybe she’s sick?”

  “Isn’t there a fifteen-minute rule?”

  “This is BS!”

  “Well, she’d better get here soon,” said Monson, “or she’s going to have a mass walkout. Probably not the best thing to happen on the first day of class.”

  “I’m sure she’s coming,” said Artorius absentmindedly, flipping through his textbook. “My cousin told me Ms. Blake has a great love for theatrics. Apparently, last year she showed up in a gorilla suit.”

  “Creepy,” said Casey. “She must have been a drama major in college. Only people that can’t cut it in the outside world pull crap like that. I mean really—”

  A snicker from his other side cut him off and made them all shift in their chairs.

  A girl with lank, shoulder-length brown hair and thick, square glasses with ridiculously large rims sat next to them, giggling as she looked down at the same textbook as Artorius. Her eyes were a bit on the glassy side.

  “Whoa,” said Casey in surprise. “Where’d you come from?”

  The girl blasted him with a face full of pout. “I’ve been here since you sat down. Am I really that unworthy of notice?”

  Her voice sounded overwhelmingly forlorn.

  Casey cocked his head to the left, clearly indicating that was exactly what he thought. Monson punched him on the arm.

  “Ouch! What was that for, Grey?”

  “You know dang well what that was for.”

  Casey held up his hands. “OK, OK, I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  Monson turned toward the girl, searching for something to say. He noticed the book she was reading.

  “So, do you like to read?”

  The girl didn’t answer right away. She continued to look at her book, then turned toward Monson. To everyone’s surprise, she asked, “Aren’t you the new Horum Vir?”

  Her voice had changed; it now sounded girlish and annoyingly high-pitched. She stared at his face with a mix of horror and wonder. This annoyed Monson. It annoyed him a great deal.

  “Yeah,” said Monson in surprise. He studied her slightly protuberant eyes. “You’re familiar to me; have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so,” said the girl with a coy little smile. “But I wouldn’t mind getting to know you.” She pushed her glasses further up her nose and gave him a slight wink.

  Monson turned to Casey and Artorius, searching for guidance. They said nothing and just stared. When no help came, Monson turned back to the girl.

  “I’m flattered, but I don’t even know your name. Why don’t we start there?”

  “Miranda,” said the girl with an approving smile.

  “Monson,” he placed a hand on his chest. “This is Casey.” He slapped Casey on the back. “And the oaf on the end is Arthur.”

  “Don’t call me Arthur!” snapped Artorius.

  “Pleased to meet you all.” She stared at each of them in turn, giving them chills. It was like she was sizing them up for some sort of show. Something about this girl didn’t feel normal. She continued to scrutinize them before settling on Monson.

  “So how do you like Coren so far?”

  “I can’t complain.” And really, he couldn’t. “I have really nice living quarters. A really cool… manservant. And it seems like our teachers are going to be pretty cool.”

  “Oh really?” Miranda looked doubtful.

  “Well, I guess. I can’t really say for sure,” conceded Monson. “I’ve only met one.”

  “And it doesn’t seem that we’re going to be meeting anymore, not this hour at least,” interrupted Casey. “What a fruitcake. I could be working on my screenplay right now.”

  “Come on now, Casey,” said Monson. “Let’s not jump the gun. There could be any number of explanations for her being late.”

  “Yeah, like she’s a nutbar dipped in crazy coating.”

  “You’re hopeless.”

  “That’s right, Casey,” declared Miranda. “You really shouldn’t judge without all the facts. Often your first impression isn’t the correct one.” She paused, staring into the distance. Her eyes snapped back to Casey. “Then again, sometimes it is.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Casey, eyeing her cynically. “What kind of teacher lets their students sit alone for twenty minutes on the first day of classes?”

  The girl gave him a sly grin but didn’t answer.

  It was in that moment that Monson wondered if—no, it couldn’t be.

  “I don’t know,” Miranda said, turning back to her book. “One trying to prove a point.”

  “What could that point,” Monson gestured to the waiting students, “possibly be?”

  “I think you should probably figure that out for yourself, Cassius.”

  Wait a minute, thought Monson. Cassius.

  Casey started to answer but was interrupted by Monson. “I don’t think you want to say anything else, Cassius.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Why are you calling me—”

  “Very good, Mr. Grey.” Miranda’s tone changed again—cool, rich, with only a trace of her girlish lilt. “You have been very helpful in proving my point. I was told you were a sharp one. When did you figure it out?”

  Monson looked at her keenly. “I think I knew from the beginning.”

  He hadn’t really, but he decided to own it. At least now he knew where he recognized her from: orientation.

  Artorius and Casey gaped in absolute bewilderment. Monson laughed.

  “Oh, boys. You are indeed missing something. But I’m sure it will be made clear momentarily.” Miranda removed her glasses, which she apparently didn’t need. She fixed them with deep, smoldering eyes that clashed with her lank hair. How had he not noticed those eyes?

  “So, now what happens?” asked Monson.

  “I’ll show you.” She stood, smoothing her top and straightening her skirt. She walked to the front of the classroom. The idle chatter died as students watched, curiosity mounting.

  Miranda stood before the class, calm and grounded—utterly unlike her earlier demeanor. Her acting was better than Casey had thought. She smiled at the students who were finally beginning to understand. Turning, she wrote on the blackboard.

  “My name is Miranda Blake,” she said as she wrote it. “You may call me Miranda. Any questions so far?”

  No one spoke.

  “Excellent,” Miranda said, slipping back into her flighty tone. “I have a question I want you all to ponder before we call roll and review the syllabus.”

  Monson glanced at his classmates, mildly interested. Artorius’s eyes suddenly went wide. Slowly, Monson turned back.

  Professor Blake removed her hair—which turned out to be a wig. Long, blonde curls, not unlike Kylie’s, were bound in a net-like cloth. She released them, and with that simple action, Miranda Blake captured the attention of the entire class.

  THE REST of that first day—the classes, people, and interactions—were disjointed and distinctly new. Given his memory loss, this fact was probably a safe assumption. However, there was nothing familiar about this traditional school setting. It was definitely something new for him, even if he couldn’t remember for sure.

  His lack of memories notwithstanding, Monson felt his next two classes were relatively… well, normal, at least compared with his first class. His Applied Mathematics class, taught by a sickly-looking but very nice woman named Sally Masters, felt like a necessary evil. The class was hard, very hard in fact. Sally herself looked like she was falling apart at the seams. Monson was almost positive that she was at least partially blind. Despite her appearance, however, Professor Masters was vigorous—vigorous to the point where she made students do push-ups if they answered a question incorrectly. (Monson ended up doing a lot of push-ups that day.) She also gave them a boatload of homework.

  Next was Science, which took the freshman students to the far side of the campus. A massive building that doubled as the county’s hospital housed one of the most advanced health care facilities in the nation. In this facility, students received the rare privilege of learning from a range of leading experts in both the social and physical sciences. Monson learned that for their first few weeks, Professor Scott Lucas, a bioengineer from the University of Washington, would handle their Biology class, while Dr. Henry Cast, a Ph.D. and professor at Bowling Green University, would lecture them on sociology. The two professors were very knowledgeable, without a hint of personality. It was all very impressive. Yet, it was so—

  “Boring!” yelled Casey as they walked out of the building an hour and a half later. Monson scanned their surroundings, hoping they were far enough away that they would not be overheard.

  “Ugh,” continued Casey. “If we have to sit through another one of those lectures, I might have to take myself to the top of Mt. Rainier and jump off!”

  “Well, that’s just silly,” said Monson amusedly.

  “Don’t try and stop me, Grey,” said Casey dramatically. “I have no intention—”

  “Casey.”

  “—of allowing their artistic repression—”

  “Casey!”

  “—to dampen my poetic spirit—”

  “CASEY!”

  Casey abruptly stopped talking. “What?”

  “I don’t plan on stopping you.”

  “What?”

  “I said, I don’t plan on stopping you.”

  Casey looked baffled.

  “What do you mean, you don’t plan on stopping me?”

  Monson sighed. “If you want to throw yourself from the top of Mt. Rainier, I don’t plan on stopping you. I was just going to say that any of the buildings here would suffice for a venture of that type. You only need a couple of stories to fall from, especially if you go headfirst. Going all the way to Mt. Rainier would be a waste of gas; you should be more worried about global warming.”

  They looked at each other, then without warning started to laugh. Others joined in, which surprised Monson. It seemed that already Casey was very popular. Actually, people who probably did not even hear their exchange started to laugh, including a girl with short, sassy brown hair and light brown eyes. She smiled at them as she passed and made eye contact with Monson. Her smile was a bit on the wicked side.

  “Who is that?” Artorius turned to Monson. “Grey, do you know her?”

  “Can’t say that I do.”

  “She’s really pretty.”

  Monson started to reply but stopped when he noticed a strange glint in Artorius’s eye.

  Artorius advanced very quickly, leaving Monson and Casey in the midst of Casey’s adoring crowd. Monson leaned toward Casey.

  “What on earth was that about?”

  Casey looked a little uncomfortable. He sighed. “Artorius… he wants a girlfriend.”

  Monson waited, thinking that surely that could not be all there was to it, but Casey did not say anything else.

  “He wants a girlfriend?”

  “Yeah,” answered Casey. “He wants a girlfriend.”

  “Umm… I feel like I missed something there.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “That would be best.”

  The two of them did not see Artorius again until well into lunch. Monson and Casey found a spot in the back corner of the cafeteria where they tried to remain unnoticed by their fellow classmates. Monson felt this said something about Casey. He was not the type of person to bask in the admiration of others. For the most part, people sat apart from them, with the exception of the boy in the wheelchair that Monson had attempted to help earlier that day. Wheelchair boy ignored them, and they him, even though they were sitting next to one another. About forty minutes after they sat down, Artorius finally showed up.

  “Where were you?” exclaimed Monson and Casey in unison, the latter actually spitting out food.

  Artorius did not answer. He just sat and arranged his food, but instead of eating, he stared at his plate, looking happy.

  Monson spoke to him. “Artorius… are you OK?”

  Artorius turned to look at him. “OK? I’m freaking great!”

  “You didn’t answer our question,” said Casey. “Where were you this whole time?”

  Artorius gave him a devilish grin. “It’s a surprise; you’ll see.”

  Monson hated when people said things like that.

  They finished their food, Artorius eating with gusto, as he did not have much time. Twenty minutes later, the boys found themselves at The GM’s main entrance. Casey stopped and gestured.

  “We’re down this way.” He pointed toward The Barracks. “You gonna be all right on your own? You sure you don’t want us to walk with you?”

  Monson’s eyes narrowed, but he smiled. “Of course not. I wouldn’t want you to ruin my rep.”

  Both Artorius and Casey laughed. “All right, we’ll meet up with you later. Don’t get lost.”

  They left, Casey still trying to force Artorius to tell him where he had been.

  Monson watched them leave, feeling slightly apprehensive. Going to Mr. Gatt’s history class alone had seemed like a good idea when he signed up, but now that they were leaving—no. He shouldn’t think that way. He would be fine.

  It took some time to find, but eventually Monson neared a small brick building surrounded by a grove of trees and a hedge. Detached from the main portion of Coren’s campus, the classroom seemed out of place, but nice at the same time. The scenery was very peaceful, and the combination of pine, weeping willow, and a variety of flowers created an unusually lovely and fresh aroma. It lightened Monson’s heart a great deal, making him forget his worries ever so briefly.

  His mind drifted until a voice rang out from under a patch of trees, interrupting his solitude.

  “Hello?”

  No answer came.

  He tried again. “Hello?”

  Still nothing.

  He moved closer, and then heard it again. A beautiful voice rang out—clear, clean, and harmonious, as if it were creating its own accompaniment. Monson wandered, searching, as the music rose and fell. He stopped and peered through the drapes of a willow tree and saw a girl with long dark hair standing maybe fifty feet away. He wished he could make out the words; though he could hear her voice, he was too far away to catch the verse. He listened, letting his thoughts drift.

  Suddenly, the girl turned.

  Oh crap, thought Monson as he ducked behind a tree. Luckily, she turned away. She hadn’t noticed him.

  Something odd crept over him. A feeling—like the murmur of a heart pulsing within him. Images of faces and places he did not recognize surfaced. He closed his eyes, and the last thing he saw was a tree-covered mountain calling to him from a distance.

  The girl stopped singing. The vision vanished. Monson opened his eyes and glanced out, hoping to see her face.

  “What are you doing?”

  Monson spun, slipped, and fell hard onto his rear. Embarrassed, he looked up to see the boy in the wheelchair watching him with mild interest. Monson recognized him immediately and cringed.

  The boy had dirty blond hair, light blue eyes, and soft features that gave him a slightly feminine appearance—something Monson wisely did not comment on. What stood out was the boy’s eyes: sharp, focused, and projecting overwhelming intelligence.

  Monson’s vision blurred briefly as he met the boy’s gaze. The boy did not blink, but Monson sensed remorse.

  Remembering the girl, Monson twisted to look back. She was gone.

  He turned back and answered at last. “Yeah… that wasn’t what it looked like.”

  The boy smiled. “So you weren’t spying?”

  Monson considered it. “OK, maybe it was exactly what it looked like.”

  “At least you picked a cute one.” The boy looked close to laughing.

  Monson shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t see her face.”

  “Too bad for you. Shall we go?”

  The boy turned abruptly, wheeling away with surprising speed. Startled, Monson scrambled after him, clothes disheveled from the fall. They moved quickly toward the building. As they reached the door, Monson hesitated, then rushed forward and caught it just as the wheelchair passed through.

  “Nice one, Grey,” said the boy.

  “Thanks,” Monson muttered.

  He caught up halfway down the hall. “You’re really fast on that thing,” he puffed.

  “Have to be,” the boy replied. “They don’t give us very long between classes, do they?”

  “That’s true. I think I’ve been late to almost every class.”

  “Well, spying on girls doesn’t help.”

  “Shut up.”

  They entered the classroom.