Meredith McCardle: The Eighth Guardian

Samuels got to me, and his face had lit up in a smile. “You, my dear,” he’d said, “are what I like to call ethnically ambiguous. The CIA will snap you right up in four years for sure.” And then he’d moved down the line.

I was confused at first—and a little insulted, if I’m being honest—but the more time I spent doing mock missions in class, the more I realized that maybe there was some truth to what Samuels had said. I inherited most of my features from my mother, who is Romanian and Moroccan by way of Spain (and then Brooklyn). I have her thick, wavy, deep-brown hair, her thin nose, her strong cheekbones, and her medium skin tone. I was surprised to discover that with the right clothing and a little bit of makeup, I could pass for a number of different ethnicities.

I guess what Professor Samuels said all those years ago is true. The CIA is my future.

But I’m not asking Abe whether he thinks I’m CIA. I’m asking if he’s sure it will be next year. I don’t press him for another answer. But the green tie lingers in my mind.

Abe bends down and plants a kiss on my forehead, then stands up. “You do kind of stink.”

I playfully push him away. “Yeah, well, you’re no Abercrombie store yourself.” He flashes me another smile, then trots off toward Mace Hall, his dorm on the opposite side of the quad. I watch him jog for a few seconds before I push open the door. Someone’s got a fire going in the common room. It crackles and pops, and a couple of junior girls have collapsed into the armchairs in front of it. I don’t blame them. It’s so warm and inviting in the common room. But I also don’t want to be the one still stuck in line for the shower when the hot water runs out.

I start up the stairs, looking at my mud-stained sneakers, and I don’t realize someone’s coming down until we’ve collided.

“Gah! Sorry!” I say, looking up. It’s Katia.

“Oh, hey,” she says, then immediately looks away, ducks her shoulders, and pushes past me.

I grab on to her arm. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. Katia’s no shrinking violet. She’s gorgeous, with this (dyed) platinum-blond hair that hangs to her waist and legs that are four miles long. She’s one of the best students at Peel when it comes to hand-to-hand combat. No one is quicker with a knife. And she totally knows it. Katia doesn’t walk anywhere. She struts . She’s always the life of the party, always the friendly ear. She’s not the girl who ducks her head and tries to stay hidden. Not by a mile.

“What’s going on?” I ask her.

“Nothing,” she says. I know it’s a lie because she doesn’t try to loosen my grip on her arm. And she could. She could probably flip me over the banister this second.

“Katia, what’s going on?”

She lets out the softest sigh. “I don’t know.” I give her my toughest, I-haven’t-slept-in-forever-so-just-tell-me-already face. “Honestly. I don’t. I do know that there was a man who followed Headmaster Vaughn back to his office after Testing Day ended. I was in the administration building helping sort files. He said your name twice, but I couldn’t hear what they were talking about. Then they shut the door.”

“And you don’t know anything else?”

“No. Now can you let go of my arm so I don’t have to break your fingers?”

I drop Katia’s arm. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding on to her so tightly. There are four red, finger-size welts on her bicep. “Sorry,” I mumble.

Katia’s halfway across the hall.

“Katia!” I call.

She turns her head.

“What color was his tie?”

Katia scrunches her nose. “Vaughn’s?”

I have to restrain myself from groaning. “No, the other man.”

“Oh.” She thinks. “I’m not sure.”

“Please try to remember. I mean, it’s not like they teach us superspecial skills of observation here or anything.”

Katia cracks the smallest smile and closes her eyes. She opens them a few moments later. “Green. I’m almost positive it was green.”

An invisible fist punches me in the gut. “Thanks,” I mutter. My heart sinks lower with each step I take up the stairs. As I stand in the shower and let the warm water spill over me, I think about what Abe said. And I think about Tyler Fertig. They’re not going to pick me tonight. They’re not.

But the sinking feeling doesn’t wash away with the dirt and grime.

I find Abe in the dining hall, sitting at our usual table. He tilts his head at the seat he’s saved me, and as I glide over to it, I look at Abe. Really look at him. He’s not what you would call conventionally handsome, with deep-set eyes, crooked teeth, and a nose that’s been broken so many times the doctors have given up. But to me he’s the most beautiful guy in the world.

I slip into my seat just as Headmaster Vaughn takes the stage. Salads are already on the tables.

Vaughn clears his throat and straightens his tie. His silver hair doesn’t budge as he leans toward the microphone. “A very talented, highly gifted group of individuals is going to graduate tonight.”

Individuals . He said individuals. Not seniors. I rack my brain, trying to remember if he said individuals or seniors last year.

“There were some choices made this year that surprised even me.”

Surprises? Like . . . a junior being chosen? Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. I push the salad away and turn to Abe.

“I love you,” I whisper.

He tilts his head to me but doesn’t turn it. “Yeah, I love you, too.”

Headmaster Vaughn continues. “But before we get to the specific assignments made this year, I invite you all to feast.” He opens his arms, and the kitchen staff carries out trays of silver-domed plates.

“Will you wait for me?” My words are barely audible.

Abe turns his head this time. “What are you talking about? Wait for you for what?”

A waiter lifts the dome off a plate of pot roast and sets it before me, but I push it back. It clinks into my untouched salad plate.

“If I graduate tonight. Will you wait for me?”

Abe shakes his head. “Tyler Fertig,” he reminds me.

“Abey, I’ve got this really funny feeling. It’s unnerving.”

Abe puts down his fork and squeezes my hand. “Hey,” he says in the calm, reassuring voice I know so well, “it’s Testing Day. It’s meant to unnerve you. But I guarantee you that this banquet is going to be over in an hour, and you’ll be sleeping in your own bed tonight.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “You guarantee it?”

“Yep.” He looks so sure, so confident. I don’t have the heart to tell him his pep talk did nothing to settle my nerves. So instead I smile.

Abe pulls back his hand and stabs a potato with his fork before shoving it into his mouth. Then he turns to Aaron Zimmer on his left and jumps into a conversation about the water challenge this morning.

I stare at my plate of food. I’m not hungry. I haven’t eaten since dinner the night before, but I can’t stomach the idea of food. I try to nibble on a carrot, then set it down. I’m going to throw up.

Headmaster Vaughn takes the stage again after the dinner plates have been cleared and coffee and cheesecake are being set on the tables.

“Congratulations to you all. Those of you graduating tonight have seen the ceremony before.”

I press my legs together and start bouncing on my toes. His words are careful. He’s deliberately not saying seniors .

“Assignments are strictly confidential”—though it’s pretty easy to guess—“so when I call your name, I will hand you an envelope, which you will read once you have proceeded to the back room. Look around, students, and say your good-byes now, because this is the last time many of you will be in this room.”