Robison Wells: Variant

A moment later, there was a loud buzz and click, and the front doors opened. A girl appeared, but she was pushed roughly out of the way as two other students—a boy and a girl—emerged, both wearing the uniform I’d seen on the website—a red sweater over a white shirt, and black pants or a skirt. The girl, who looked about my age or a little older, darted down the stairs, sprinting after Ms. Vaughn’s car. The guy, tall and built like a linebacker, grabbed my arm.

“Don’t listen to Isaiah or Oakland,” he said firmly. “We can’t get out of here.” Before I could even open my mouth he was gone, charging after the girl.

I watched them run. They raced across the lawn, cutting through the manicured gardens without a pause, and disappeared into the trees. There was no way they were going to catch Ms. Vaughn, if that was their plan. I waited for a few moments, expecting them to reemerge, but they didn’t.

I turned and looked back up at the windows. Not everyone was wearing the uniform, but even the more casual clothes looked different from what teenagers had back home. Some seemed old-fashioned-buttoned-up shirts, suspenders, and hats—while others seemed like exaggerated costumes of rappers, all gold chains and bandanas. It was November—maybe they were a little late on Halloween. Maybe they were practicing a play.

I could see that some were still shouting. I raised my hands, gesturing that I couldn’t tell what they were saying.

The front door opened again, and a girl came out—the one who’d been shoved. She was grinning and carefree, like nothing had happened. She couldn’t have been a day over sixteen.

“You must be Benson Fisher,” she said. She stretched out her hand for me to shake it.

“Yeah,” I said, returning the handshake, even though it felt awkward. Teenagers aren’t supposed to shake hands. Maybe that was a private school thing, too. Her dad was probably some rich businessman.

“I’m Becky Allred. I do the new-student orientations.” She smiled widely, as though nothing was out of the ordinary. Her short brown hair was flawlessly waved and curled—it looked like a hairdo from old black-and-white movies.

I glanced down at the envelope in my hand. “So you’re the Becky I’m supposed to give this to?”

“Yep,” she said, taking it from me. “Your school records.”

I pointed up at the students in the windows, who were still staring down at us. “What’s going on up there?”

She waved up at them. “Nothing,” she said. “They’re just excited to see someone new.”

That seemed like an understatement. Some were even pounding on the glass now.

I forced a laugh to mask my confusion. “What’s the deal with those guys who ran?” I pointed back toward the forest. Neither of them had come back yet.

Becky’s smile never wavered, but her nose and eyes wrinkled. She thought for a moment before responding. “I think they’re just running,” she finally said. “I couldn’t really say why.”

She slipped her arm into mine and began to lead me up the stairs. She smelled good-like some kind of floral perfume.

Her answer wasn’t the explanation I wanted. She had to know more about the runners than she was letting on. I hoped it was a practical joke.

“Who are Isaiah and Oakland?” I asked.

She froze for an instant—almost imperceptibly—and then continued walking. “What do you mean?”

Whatever secret Becky was trying to keep, she wasn’t keeping it very well. Maybe this was some kind of hazing: Freak out the new guy.

“Isaiah and Oakland,” I repeated. “The runner guy said not to listen to them.”

Becky stopped and put her hands on her hips, turning toward me. Her smile was glued on her face, and she laughed almost like a real person. “Well, that’s about what I would expect from the two of them. Benson, I think you’ll find that this school has troublemakers, just like any other school. They’re trying to scare you. I mean, what do you expect from two people who are so blatantly breaking the rules?”

I nodded and took another step up the stairs. Her answer made sense. Maybe I’d worry about it if I met anyone named Isaiah or Oakland. What kind of name was Oakland, anyway?

Wait a minute.

“‘Breaking the rules’?” I asked, looking back at the forest. “How are they breaking the rules?”

Becky opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. I watched her stammer for a moment and could feel my stomach dropping. Whatever was going on was stupid. Maybe I was the new kid who didn’t have a rich daddy paying my way, but I’d come to Maxfield to get away from the crap I’d put up with all my life in lousy schools. I wasn’t going to let a couple of snobby punks play mind games with me just because I didn’t have any money. I’d go talk to the principal.

I sighed and trotted the remaining steps up to the wooden door, but it didn’t open when I tried the handle. Becky followed, and when she reached me I heard the same buzz and click from earlier. She took the handle and pulled the heavy door open.

“They’re—” she began, paused, and then restarted. “No one is supposed to talk to new students before they’ve had orientation,” she said quickly. “It’s just one of the rules.”

I stood in the doorway and stared at her. She seemed unsure of herself. “That doesn’t make any sense. You’re not really Becky, are you?”

Her smile popped back onto her face. “No, I’m definitely Becky, and I’m definitely here to help you with orientation. That’s my job.”

“Your job?”

“We all have jobs here,” she said. “We do our part to help out, because we all rely on one another. We’re in this school so far away from everyone else—it’s like our own little society.”

“So I’ll have a job?” There was nothing on the website about that, and it felt a little bit like the Coles’ gas station.

“Of course,” she said. “We all have jobs.”

“Can you take me to talk to the principal?” It had felt a little weird before, but I was suddenly hit by the ridiculousness of talking to Becky about any of this. Ms. Vaughn had blathered something about students getting leadership opportunities, but I was sick of having the student body president—or whatever Becky was—give me a pep talk.

“Well,” she began, “why don’t we go to my office and do the orientation first. I’m sure that will answer some of your questions.”

“Let me explain something,” I said. “I’ve just been on a long flight and a long drive. I don’t feel well and I want to lie down. I don’t want orientation, because I know how a school works. I’ve been to a thousand schools in my life, and at every single one a counselor or secretary sits me down and tells me that I can join the Honors Society or the Science Club, and I already know that. Can we just go to the principal and do the real stuff?”

“The orientation is the real stuff,” Becky said. She again hooked her arm around mine and tried to get me to follow her, but I resisted. I probably had fifty pounds on her, in muscle and height, and I didn’t budge.

“I want to see the principal first.”

Becky’s face burst into a delighted smile, which was as fake as it was big. “You are so decisive. I think that’s terrific.”

“What?” I couldn’t believe how weird she was acting. Nothing in the orientation could be as important as she was making it appear. It was like she was trying to keep me away from the principal.

“I’m just saying that we can really use someone like you at this school.”

I laughed, though I didn’t know why. Maybe because this had to be a joke. “How old are you, Becky?”

“Sixteen, almost seventeen,” she said happily. “My birthday’s at the end of October.”