Pivot Point (Pivot Point #1)(17)

“It’s really hard to get Compound technology Outside. We’ll have to apply.”

“What? That rule extends to our programs as well? I might not get them?”

“You’ll be fine, Addie. You don’t need them. I never had that when I was a kid. I’ve always thought natural progression was the best for an ability anyway.”

Only because when he was a kid that’s all they had. But even way back then they did mind exercises to enhance their natural abilities. I stand and put my bowl in the sink.

“You’ll be fine, right?”

“Dad. It’s morning.”

He smiles and gives me a hug. “Okay, I get it. We’ll talk when you’re awake.”

“Thanks.”

At school my head is still buzzing. I feel lost in a huge sea of people. I’ve never seen a school so big. In the hallway before class I get herded right past my door. I turn around and swim upstream. If I were better at Thought Placement I could’ve forced the word move into the minds of those around me.

I pull over to the side of the hall and wait for the crowd to thin before I make it back to my classroom door. The number on the door is C14 and, even though I memorized it, I check it against the paper schedule in my hand twice to make sure I’m not about to walk into the wrong class. The schedule confirms it, C14 Government.

I took one semester of US Government a few years back, part of Norm-training, so I hope I can remember some of it.

I walk inside and hand the slip of paper to the teacher.

“Welcome,” he says. “Everyone, we have a new student: Addison Coleman.”

“Just Addie,” I say.

“Make her feel welcome.”

I don’t know if there is some ritual that’s supposed to follow those words, but I look around expectantly. A few blank stares greet me. Almost everyone else is still talking to their neighbor or studying their phone. I’m glad that “making someone feel welcome” doesn’t involve sharing three fun facts about myself or any other opportunity for embarrassment I had been dreading. Maybe I wouldn’t have to test out my cover story on my first day after all.

“You may have a seat,” the teacher says, pointing to a chair front-row center—the seat everyone else had quite obviously avoided.

“Oh, okay.” I try to find a different open seat, but the only other one is beside a guy who is using half of it, along with all of his. In my scan for a chair, however, I notice Trevor in the back right corner. I smile, and he gives me a nod.

It seems my only choice is the dreaded seat, so I take the two steps required and sit down. Mr. Buford—according to my all-knowing class schedule—walks to his desk and hits Play on an iPod docked in a stereo. Music blares through the room, and nearly everyone throws their hands over their ears. I mentally muffle the sound. He fumbles with the controls until the music softens. It’s only then I hear what’s playing—the theme music to James Bond.

A satisfied smile steals across his pudgy face as though he just used the best teaching method ever. I have a feeling it’s the only excitement I’ll see in this class. He turns off the music and then faces us dramatically. “Our topic for the next several weeks is …” He pauses and looks around. Nobody volunteers the answer. “Any guesses? Justin?”

A guy several rows back says, “Old movies?” The other students laugh.

“Hot women?” someone else volunteers.

“No, guys, come on. Anybody?”

Just as I think about offering the answer he wants, to put him out of his misery, a voice from the back says, “Government-funded investigative agencies.”

That was more specific than the “spies” answer I was ready to offer.

“Yes, thank you, Trevor.”

I turn around and raise my eyebrows at him. He just shrugs.

Mr. Buford writes several acronyms on a big whiteboard using a pen I can smell from where I sit. How is he not high from that thing? I’m amazed at the lack of computers at this school. “Study them and know them by their full names. This will be on the test.” Those words cause an eruption of notebooks to fly open so fast that, had I been in my old school, I would’ve thought Mr. Buford had used Telekinesis. He laughs. “Ah, the magic word gave you a little motivation to get in gear. Good. Today we’re going to discuss the FBI.”

When class is over, I slowly put away my notebook, giving Trevor plenty of time to come up and say hi. After zipping my backpack, I casually look over my shoulder—he’s gone.

There went my only friend in Dallas. And that’s using the term friend a little loosely. Okay, a lot loosely. I could barely call him an acquaintance. Whatever he is, I had been hoping I would run into him at some point today so I wouldn’t feel like too much of a loner loser.

Out in the hall, I look both ways, hoping to catch a glimpse of his back, but all I see is a mass of people. Trevor is nowhere in sight.

I make it to lunch without having to come up with any fun facts except name, age, and where I moved from. Regardless of my practice session with my dad, California came flying out of my mouth without warning and I had to go with it. I had been so careful, trying not to slip up and call it the Compound, that a whole different state had resulted from my nervousness. Oh well, either story would’ve been a lie. At least this way, I won’t have to tell half the truth and risk spilling the other half along with it. I’ll go home and write my own backstory. It will be easier to remember.