Finally, she clicked off the phone. “Went to voice mail again.”
“Mrs. Van Lullen, with all due respect,” I began. “It’s Adam’s constitutional right to be educated, and he’s exercising that right, right here, right now. Are you really going to do something so … so un-American as to deny him his individual liberties?”
The second it left my mouth I felt the liquid in my stomach turn to battery acid. Her glare hardened. If there was one thing the folks in my town would-not-could-not stand for, it was questioning their patriotism.
“I’m just saying—” I started up again.
She held up her hand and I quieted. “Well, stop saying it.” She set the open folder down on top of her desk. “Adam,” she said, “you seem like a nice young gentleman, and if you’re in a hurry to get into school, then for now,” she stressed, “I’m not going to be the one to stand in your way. It’s a noble thing you’re trying to do here, furthering your education. I’ll keep trying your mother, and I’m sure I’ll get ahold of her.” She squashed a rubber stamp into an inky sponge pad and pressed it on the front of Adam’s file. “We could use more boys like you. Promise me you’ll go see Coach Carlson? I trust you’ll meet some excellent friends here soon.”
When it was clear that Mrs. Van Lullen didn’t place me in that category, I sneered my lower lip just a hair. She disregarded me and flipped the folder shut. With a smile meant only for Adam and definitely not for me, she handed Adam several pamphlets. “Enjoy Hollow Pines High,” she said. “Go, Oilers!”
TEN
Stage 1 of the experiment concluded in a successful resuscitation of a dead human specimen. Circulation and organ functionality have resumed. Proper vital signs are present and being monitored. Plans for Stage 2 include integrating the resuscitated specimen into society to increase quality of life. Notably, this stage would not have been possible with one of the rat specimens, which makes this an exciting stage of development.
*
“They stuck you with the junior basics,” I said, examining the schedule that Mrs. Van Lullen had printed for Adam. “What kind of transcript did you send?” I asked Owen.
Owen shrugged. “I didn’t know. I went with the most average one I could find from Elgin.”
“Sorry, I hope that’s okay.” I handed the schedule back to Adam, who held it daintily. The usual morning cacophony overtook the hallway. Muffled music played from headphones. Locks clinked open. The smell of Magic Marker wafted off poster board.
A foot outside the administration office, Adam stood frozen. Ice Age frozen.
“Let me see. It can’t be that bad.” Owen snatched the sheet of paper. “Here we go, US History, English 2, economics, Algebra 2, chemistry, PE, Global Studies.”
Adam’s eyes flitted around, taking in the hundreds of students who swarmed around us. His chest shrank inward and I cringed as he plugged his ears. He rocked back on his heels and then forward, back and then forward.
Owen was still busy outlining his day. “Okay, so you’re on your own for history, but we all have English 2 together, lunch, and, hey, we all have PE together, right?”
I nodded but kept watching Adam. His eyes didn’t stop moving from one side to the other, and from here, it looked as though he was trembling. I tapped Owen on the shoulder. “Um, nine o’clock,” I said.
Owen looked up and dropped the hand holding the schedule to his side. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This guy is scared of … of what? Of high school now? He’s gargantuan.”
“He’s overwhelmed.”
“By what? By people? You’re a person. I’m a person. He seemed cool five minutes ago. He was a regular charmer. A James Dean–type. Stoic. He was going to charm the pants off the ladies with all three sentences that he knows.”
My shoulders dropped. I stepped in front of Adam and picked up his hand to hold between both of mine.
“Oh no, not you, too,” Owen groaned. “If I knew all I had to do to get the ladies’ sympathies was rewind evolution a few thousand years, then I would have limited my vocabulary to that of a fifth grader a long time ago.”
I snapped my eyes at Owen and he shrank back. When Adam noticed me standing there, he stopped shivering. I had a flash of the boy in the middle of the road, scared and soaked through, our fingers braided together. I felt a surge of responsibility for him. I’d heard of soldiers coming back from war with a disease of the mind called PTSD, or post-traumatic stress disorder, which was caused by witnessing a violent event. And I’d known that in a town not too far away that’s what was blamed when a young veteran shot twenty-one people including himself.