At least one thing hasn’t changed. Crowded in the back are the same rough group we’ve known since kindergarten: the hardcore punks, the gangstas, the angry girls, the thugs, and the quiet one you have to keep an eye on. They throw stuff at one another, give one another the dozens, practice their freestyle, and ignore the bell. There were days when I would look at them with disdain, like I was trapped in that movie where the naive teacher gets assigned to the class full of inner-city stereotypes and tries to show them how Shakespeare is just like hip-hop. Now I’m almost grateful for their predictability. They make this all feel a little more like a normal day of school.
There are only two white kids who claim membership in their exclusive club, and one of them is Gabriel—my Gabriel. He saunters in with his black jeans, tank top, loose-fitting white shirt, sleepy eyes, and bed head. He gives me a grin, then takes a seat so far in the back, it might as well be in the hall. The street kids have adopted him because he laughs the loudest at their antics. I’ve adopted him because he’s hot. As a boyfriend he’s only a part-timer. If there were more boys in the Zone, I probably wouldn’t put up with it. Then again, maybe I would. I mentioned he’s hot, right?
“I heard your phone is broken.”
He looks confused.
“That’s why you haven’t been able to text me.”
He laughs. I guess apologies are for full-timers.
“People, I need eyes and ears up here,” Mr. Ervin begs. “We’ve got a lot of new rules to go over before the Alpha—”
Suddenly, the door opens and five police officers march into the room, flanked by two National Guardsmen, two United Nations soldiers in blue caps, and a man in a dark suit and tie. He’s got an earpiece, and sunglasses that hide his eyes. Behind him are two of the Alpha kids. One is the Nix. His skin is gray and wrapped around his bony body like a sausage casing. His limbs are spindly and long, and his head is misshapen, like something a toddler might sculpt from Play-Doh. On his hand he wears a steel glove made from golden metal etched with intricate swirls. It’s actually kind of sick, like something a rock star would wear, if the rock star had powder-white fingers and sharp black fingernails an inch long. Next to him is the redheaded Sirena I saw earlier. She’s wearing a glove just like his. It must be some kind of Alpha bling.
A lot of kids gasp when they enter, but I’m stunned by who comes in next—Terrance Lir. I haven’t seen him or his family in almost three years. He and Rochelle and Samuel just vanished. There was no goodbye, no letter. They took nothing from their apartment, and even Samuel’s doctors, who were prepping him for a hip replacement, couldn’t track them down. Now we know he was taken somewhere, just like Melissa Wheeler and her husband and five kids. Just like Bennett Walsh and his partner, Darren, and the Griffins, and the Hans and the Devillers. One family after another—just gone, and all of them were original families.
My dad warned me that Terrance would look bad, but I wasn’t expecting him to be this bad. His clothes are filthy and there are holes in his shoes. He looks skinny and exhausted, and his nervous eyes flit around the room suspiciously, as if one of us might leap up and attack him at any time.
“I was told I’d have time to prepare the students,” Mr. Ervin complains.
“The schedule is evolving,” the man in the dark suit explains.
He walks out, taking the soldiers with him. Terrance follows. He didn’t notice me, or if he did, I couldn’t tell. One National Guardsman stays behind and stations himself at the door. He watches us while fingering his M-16.
“You can go too,” Mr. Ervin says to him.
The soldier shakes his head. “My orders are to stay.”
Mr. Ervin scowls. “I need to speak to your supervisor.”
The soldier gives him a withering look, then gestures to the hall. Mr. Ervin stomps past him, slamming the door as he goes, and an argument erupts between him and several people. I hear something about classrooms and prisons, but most of it I can’t make out. The soldier at the door looks on, unfazed by the noise. Meanwhile, the Nix and the Sirena stand in the front of the room, staring back at us.
A moment later Mr. Ervin barges back into the room.
“I’m sorry about this. I’m Mr. Ervin. Welcome to our class,” he says as he takes the Sirena by the hand and shakes it vigorously. She’s alarmed and stares down at her hand like he plans to keep it. Then he does the same to the Nix, who hisses and pulls away. “Students, this is Luna and Ghost. They will be sitting in on our classes, observing for the time being, while they take special classes to help them catch up on reading and math.”
One of the kids in the back leads the class in laughter. “Wait! That one’s name is Ghost? That’s a crazy-ass name!”
“All right, Jorge. Yes, it’s unusual. The Alpha language is complex and meant to be spoken underwater,” Mr. Ervin explains. “From what I understand, some of it is impossible for humans to speak, so each of the thirty thousand immigrants were given a new name by members of the Red Cross. Sometimes they picked names that sounded similar to their own, but when that wasn’t possible, they had to be given English names. As you can imagine, they ran out of Jennifers and Davids and Jorges pretty fast, so the volunteers got creative. Luna’s name must come from the old amusement park. I think there was a haunted-house ride with the word Ghost in its name.”