THIRTY MINUTES LATER, with schedules in hand, Artorius and Monson tried to catch up with their shorter companion.

  “So your session with Coach Able started out pretty rocky, huh?” asked Casey.

  Monson answered with a self-satisfied smile. “Yeah, it did. How did you know?”

  “I was listening to the first half of your conversation but had to leave partway through. I saw him afterward, and he had a huge smile on his face. Things obviously turned for the better. What’d you do? Give him a lap dance?”

  “Ahh, Casey, you’re so witty I can hardly stand it.” Monson did his best to sound calm. It was costing him a great deal. “It was OK. He just wanted to know what I was planning on doing in this unique position of mine.”

  “What are you planning on doing?” Artorius finally fell into step beside his two friends. “Are you even planning on playing on the Legion?”

  “No.”

  “I sense this is a good thing.” Casey threw his arm across his body, stretching his back. “But I still don’t understand why you aren’t pissed. I mean, he made it pretty clear that, basically, you aren’t welcome in the Legion—shoot, welcome at Coren for that matter.”

  “Don’t forget that he told me I have to play nice with the media like some sort of performing monkey.”

  “Like I said—you’re OK with that?”

  “Of course not, but I got what I needed out of the deal.”

  Silence, in which Monson tried really hard not to laugh.

  Artorius stopped directly in front of Monson. “Well? Are you going to tell us what happened or not?”

  “Oh, you want to know what we said,” responded Monson playfully, a huge smile stretching the width of his face. “I told Coach Able that I wouldn’t try to claim my position on the team and would do my P.R. dance if he’d give you two a real tryout. So I hope you two goofballs are as good as you think you are, because if you screw this up, I’ll have to kick you both in the teeth.”

  With that, Monson strolled past his two friends, their shock chiseled on their faces. When they finally snapped out of their reverie, Monson was halfway down the hall.

  “OK, spit it out!” Casey caught Monson’s arm as they rounded a corner. “How on Odin’s green earth did you pull that off?”

  “Do you really think so?” Monson feigned ignorance. “Because I’m pretty sure that the earth is covered mostly with water, which—and I could be wrong—is more of a blue color, but—”

  “Monson!” shouted Artorius and Casey exasperatedly. “Out with it already!”

  “OK, OK. Keep your pants on,” said Monson finally. “It really wasn’t that hard. He wanted something from me but had no real leverage to get me to do it. So I told him that if he wants me to play nice, then I want something in return. This was the arrangement that we came to: you guys get a special tryout, and I do what he asks. Simple.”

  “That was ballsy,” said Casey with a mix of awe and horror. “Do you know what that man could do to you?”

  “Give me the same ridiculous haircut that he has?”

  “Stop joking around, this is serious.”

  “Jiminy Christmas,” Monson put up his hands in frustration. “You guys need to chill. If I explain, will you dial it down a notch?”

  They both nodded.

  “I’m here on an academic scholarship, not a sports scholarship. I have zero interest in playing football. As a matter of fact, I probably couldn’t even if I wanted to. So, if Coren wants me to do them favors, then they’re going to do it my way.”

  “Your way,” interjected Casey. “What does that mean? What are you actually going to do?”

  “What am I going to do?” Monson laughed. “That’s easy. I’m going to go to practice and watch you guys do your thing, drink some sports drinks, and see if I can get the tape girl to flirt with me. When the media shows up, I will talk the talk, walk the walk, and dance on my head if need be. In return, you guys get the chance to run with the big boys. I hope you don’t disappoint me.”

  Both Casey and Artorius continued to look at him, dumbfounded. Casey’s face stretched into a grin. “Well, Artorius, it looks like something good has finally come from your stupidity. If you hadn’t mistaken Grey for me, we might have never met him.”

  Artorius nodded in agreement. “Yeah, we were pretty lucky on that one. I swear I thought it was you. He even looked like he was wearing the same thing.”

  “Strange but fortunate,” said Monson, glancing over his shoulder. “Though you must have been really out of it, Artorius. How you could have mistaken me for Casey is beyond me.”

  Artorius just shrugged. “Who knows? I really wasn’t feeling like myself yesterday.”

  Casey gave him a knowing look. “You were probably just nervous. I didn’t sleep at all the entire week leading up to orientation, and my uncle was almost unbearable. I almost stabbed myself in the ears just so I wouldn’t have to listen to him.”

  “Ditto,” said Monson. “Molly was driving me nuts.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Artorius. He still looked unsure but satisfied. He started shifting his gaze from side to side with concerned contemplation. “I don’t think this is right, guys. Are you sure this is the correct corridor?”

  “It has to be,” said Casey, pulling out a small map of The GM. “It has to be; you see we started here—”

  Monson let his attention slip as Casey and Artorius tried to figure out where they were. He allowed himself a selfish moment, unable to help feeling pleased with himself. His confrontation with Coach Able left him with a feeling of invincibility; like no matter what he did, he would come out victorious. Monson knew it was not a huge victory, that Coach Able was probably getting the better end of their little deal. However, his successes in the past couple of months felt few and far between. He needed this. Besides, it is not very often you get the opportunity to totally disregard a teacher’s power trip and turn it to your favor. He had also earned Casey and Artorius’s undying loyalty and respect, which was also a good thing.

  Casey and Artorius finally figured out the correct route, and they were off again. It was terribly confusing. Just the sheer size of The GM with its maze-like corridors was enough to make even older students—let alone newbies like them—lose their way occasionally. They got lost again and decided to ask someone.

  A small group of upperclass boys lounged on and around a large circular table next to the entrance of one of the many rooms in The GM. Monson counted four of them. A set of twin brothers, who looked like they may have come from India, leaned against the wall. A large round-faced boy with more chins than hands sat at the table eating copious amounts of food. Lastly, a weedy-looking boy who wouldn’t be out of place in a police lineup reclined on the table, his attention shifting as if he were awaiting some sort of meeting and not simply skipping class.

  “Well, look what we have here,” said Weedy Boy. “Fresh meat—I mean freshmen.” He laughed at his own joke, though no one else did.

  Monson tried to keep his mouth shut. He was unsuccessful. “Seriously?”

  Monson’s eyebrow was raised so far he was in danger of losing it.

  The boy’s eyes narrowed, then he grinned. Monson returned the stare, trying to keep his face impassive, silently berating himself for his forked tongue. Suddenly, it was as if the group of seniors multiplied into a few dozen. Had they been hiding, just waiting for such an opportunity, or had they been there the whole time? Regardless, they did not look happy; curse his wretched tongue.

  The crowd of older boys circled Monson and his two friends as Weedy Boy spoke. “Freshman, didn’t you know that you’re not allowed down this hall?”

  “Oh, sorry,” said Casey, cutting off Monson’s reply. He sounded polite and contrite, as if he only wanted to rectify a misunderstanding. In truth, he sounded a little too contrite. “We didn’t realize that this was your hallway.”

  “I don’t like your tone. You should be a little more respectful when addressing your elders.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Well, you shouldn’t like my tone,” said Casey in the same polite voice. “It’s called sarcasm; look it up. It’s a good word to know.”

  “You have quite the mouth on you,” Weedy Boy glared at Casey. “I think we may have to teach you some manners.”

  That simple comment was enough to cause a dramatic shift in the atmosphere. This could get ugly very quickly.

  Not good, thought Monson as he took a step back, trying to create space between himself and the upperclassmen. They were not going to let him off the hook that easily. As he stepped back, they stepped forward. Monson was not particularly afraid of a fight. After the horrors of his dreams, the threats from a group of rich kids pretending to be thugs did not mean much to him. They were, however, outnumbered, and it probably wasn’t the best idea to start a fight on the first day of school. Furthermore, based on what he’d seen the day before, his two friends might do something crazy—like pulling out sticks and thrashing people indiscriminately. Considering Casey’s freakish strength, that could be bad. Talking his way out of this was probably his best option. They didn’t have anything against him personally… right?

  The tension was high, but distraction and relief arrived in the form of a second group of students.

  There were a good number of them; many girls lined the hall, most of whom wore their uniforms artfully, revealing just a bit more than the school code probably allowed. Directly behind them, an assortment of thuggish boys—the kind who solved everything with a well-placed fist. Clusters of younger and smaller boys who looked like lackeys of some sort teetered around, walking close enough to the group that people noticed, but far enough away that their presence was easy to ignore until needed. The group revolved around a tall boy who was basking in the admiration of foreign-looking twin girls, one on each arm. His brown hair was untidy, but strategically so, as if he had spent a great deal of time on it. He was wearing slightly shaded sunglasses, not unlike the ones Casey had taken from Kylie just that morning. His shirt was unbuttoned to right above mid-chest. While Monson assumed he was trying to look cool, he wasn’t quite sure that the boy pulled it off.

  “Mauller,” the new boy barked at Weedy Kid. “Explain.”

  “Blow it out your tailpipe, Derek,” Mauller’s eyes narrowed. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “You’re in my hallway,” said Derek pompously. “Or did you forget who you were talking to?”

  “Excuse me,” broke in Monson. “I hate to interrupt this riveting show of comparative masculinity, but seeing as we have nothing to do with this, we would really like to be on our way.”

  “And who are you?” The new boy turned his attention to Monson with barely concealed disdain.

  Monson gave Derek a polite smile. “It’s rude to ask someone for his name without offering your own.”

  The boy looked like he was going to laugh for a moment—as if Monson had done something raucously inappropriate. All he managed was a smile, which did not reach his eyes; they remained cold and calculating.

  “You must be new, and judging by your appearance, a ‘shipper’ to boot,” Derek stated conclusively. “I wish they’d teach you scholarship children a thing or two before they allowed you in. Being the upstanding individual that I am, I’ll educate you on the Roman custom for greetings. When someone of greater status honors you by speaking first in greeting or interrogation, it is customary to answer with your name and occupation, thus showing the proper respect to your superior.”

  “Really,” said Monson. “So you’re suggesting that you have greater status than I.”

  Monson spoke not to the boy but to Casey. “Did you get the memo on that? Because I don’t remember voting.”

  Casey shrugged. “It was probably rigged anyway.”

  Monson knew he was being vicious. He simply did not care at this point.

  “Apparently you don’t know who I am, because if you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But even if you’re uneducated in social pleasantries, I’d have thought who I am was obvious.” Derek’s rapturous smile returned, and he squeezed the two foreign blondes on his arms. The girls squealed. “I’d get caught up on the customs of your school, freshman. You know what they say: ‘When in Rome—’”

  “Hmmm,” Monson said thoughtfully. “You know, that’s funny. I’ve never heard of that custom. What period is it from?”

  Derek’s smile faded a bit and his eyes narrowed, but he didn’t answer.

  “Oh, don’t tell me you aren’t just spouting something you heard? Please don’t say you don’t even know where the custom came from or why they had it?”

  “It was from the early part of the Roman Republic,” retorted Derek spitefully. “I would have—”

  “A.D. or B.C.?” interrupted Monson.

  “A.D.” Derek’s smirk grew outrageous.

  “Now you’re just guessing,” Monson laughed. “If you don’t know, why not just say so?”

  “Why you little—”

  “For your information, the Roman Republic only existed until the mid-part of the second century B.C., when Julius Caesar overthrew it. From that point on, it was an empire, which existed in the West in Rome until the fifth century and in the East in Constantinople until the fourteenth century. Oh, and there never was a customary practice of greeting in the Roman caste system. Most of the time, the senators and other important people didn’t even acknowledge the commoners, let alone actually speak to them. What you’re spouting is probably some jumped-up school tradition created to make the upperclassmen happy or to help other special individuals like yourself feel important. And while we’re on the subject, we are not in Rome, so I hope you’ll forgive me for not doing what the Romans do—seeing as you don’t really know anyway.”

  A thick silence settled over the crowd of students. Derek looked as if he’d been smacked, while Mauller and his friends stared in shock. Monson wondered if he’d gone too far and would now have to fight his way out. He considered the prospect of getting the crap beaten out of him on the first day of school as he looked at the arrogant jerk in front of him. Totally worth it. Might as well finish it properly.

  “My name is Monson Grey. Nice to meet you,” Monson said with a small bow. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think my friends and I are probably already late.”

  Monson started to move past Derek, but Derek slammed a hand out in front of him, blocking the path.

  “Grey, you say? As in the—”

  “New Horum Vir,” Monson finished. “That’s right.”

  Derek sneered as he eyed Monson. “These past months haven’t been good to you. I remember you being prettier.”

  Monson felt anger flare. “Sorry to disappoint, but you shouldn’t worry, Derek—was it? Right now, you’re the prettiest girl at the ball.”

  Derek’s sneer turned deadly. “I think you and I should have another chat somewhere a bit more private.”

  And there it was. Time to throw down.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” asked a vaguely familiar voice.

  Everyone—including Derek, who flushed bright red—turned toward the speaker. A group of familiar upperclassman girls pushed through the crowd, looking scandalized, as if the very thought of such bullying were unspeakable. Monson, grateful for the interruption, was about to slip away when someone spoke to him.

  “Don’t tell me you aren’t happy to see me?”

  A soft hand caught his. The touch was so inviting he turned instinctively. A field of strawberry-blonde hair and emerald green eyes met his gaze.

  Taris Green.

  “So, we meet again,” she said with a gentle smile. “You seem to have a knack for being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “You aren’t telling me anything I don’t know,” Monson replied with a smile. “I was just about to make my escape. Care to join me?”

  She laughed, sounding more genuine than the day before, and wiped at the corner of her eye. “I think this time you are hitting on me, Mr. Grey.”

  “Yes, how improper of me,” Monson said with a bow. “I hope you won’t hold it against me.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Derek said sarcastically, “but do you know each other?”

  “Of course,” said Taris, keeping her eyes firmly on Monson—a fact not lost on Derek. “Mr. Grey and I go way back.”

  “Oh yeah,” Monson agreed, barely suppressing a laugh. “Way back.”

  Derek continued to watch them suspiciously. Before he could speak again, Taris opened her bag.

  “I have something for you.” She took out a small box and handed it to Monson. “It’s part of your award. I don’t know if you have one already, but the school provides this so they can always get ahold of you.”

  Monson opened the box, embarrassed by the attention. “A cell phone? Why would I need one of those?”

  “I’m just the Student Senate’s messenger,” Taris shrugged. “I do what I’m told.”

  “You just do as you’re told? I find that hard to believe.”

  She stuck out her tongue playfully.

  Monson absentmindedly turned the phone on. It was sleek—thin, black, and modern—and greeted him by name. “Hey, I already have someone’s number in here,” he said, confused. “I thought this was a new phone. Why would it already have a number?”

  “Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,” Taris said, stepping closer. Behind her, Monson saw Derek’s fists clench. “I put my number in your phone. You know, in case you have any questions.”

  The reaction to this was oddly profound. The twin boys against the wall started whispering to each other with hurried voices in a language no one else understood. Mauller whistled and glared spitefully at Derek. Derek’s face flushed with anger. The rest of the girls just gaped at Taris, dumbfounded.

  Monson surveyed the group’s reactions. He suddenly had the impression that everyone in the room wanted to hurt him. It was not a pleasant experience.

  “Thanks for this,” said Monson, raising the phone. He then clicked a button and listened as Taris’s phone rang. She grabbed it and held it up so only Monson could see the name. “My Hero,” it read. He looked at her inquiringly, to which she just gave an enigmatic smile and a wink.

  He caught the name she was under in his phone. “My Princess?”

  Taris’s smile took a turn for the wicked. “Only very special people get to call me that. That number is up to two now. Consider yourself lucky. I’m out like a daddy light. Bye-bye, Mr. Grey.”

  Taris turned and walked away without another word, but not without looking back. Derek’s expression was murderous. Monson decided they should leave, and he, Artorius, and Casey walked in silence until they were sure they were out of earshot. Only then did the conversation finally start up again.

  “I think we just found the main antagonist,” said Casey, looking behind him. “Thinks a lot of himself, that one.”

  “And perhaps an initial love interest, too?” Artorius rubbed at his chin. “Grey, you lucky bastard.”

  “What in the world are you two talking about?” exclaimed Monson, totally confused. “You act as if we’re in a movie or something.”

  They both laughed at this, though Monson couldn’t see what was so funny.

  “Right on, Grey!” said Artorius, looking over at Casey. “Gooney Boy over there wants to be a filmmaker, novelist, and mangaka. He always talks like that. You’d better be careful; he’s probably already working on a screenplay of your life story.”

  “I couldn’t do that,” said Casey with mock disappointment. He wore the same look of exaggerated contrition he had used when they were talking to Derek.

  Monson waited patiently for the punchline. When none came, he asked, “OK, I’ll play along. Why can’t you write this story?”

  “Isn’t that obvious?”

  “Not really.”

  Casey’s expression changed to a mix of pity and understanding.

  “I can’t write this story because I’m the main character. That would just be tacky.”

  “Wait… what?” asked Monson, running his hand through his hair. “How can you be the main character in the story of my life? Wouldn’t I be the main character?”

  “Well, traditionally, yes,” said Casey in a very matter-of-fact voice. “But I demoted you because you’re so boring.”

  That comment earned Casey a smack on the arm and helped dispel some of the lingering tension.

  “So if I’m not the main character,” asked Monson, “what am I?”

  “Comic relief,” said Casey, narrowing his eyes in a very comical way. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you some good one-liners.”