“I’m being forced. What about you?”
“The same, but for what purpose?”
I stifle a laugh. His speech is so dignified, like he’s a Shakespearean hero. It’s also dripping with an accent that’s hard to place—something between British and Irish. I realize Ghost and Luna speak with it too, and that I’ve heard hints of it in my mother’s speech.
“They think if you and I spend time together, you will want to be more like me,” I say. Maybe Doyle didn’t want me to share his master plan, but honesty feels right.
“Are they not worried that you might want to be more like me?”
“I guess not,” I say. I’m already too much like you, pal.
I sit down at a desk closest to the door and realize I’ve been in here before. This is an English classroom, and it has its own modest library of dog-eared books—The Hobbit, The Turn of the Screw, Fahrenheit 451, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, some Kurt Vonnegut, some Mark Twain. There’s also a handmade wall display with the heading the most common grammatical mistakes. The first one reads, “If you really want to do something, you are ‘eager.’ If you are intimidated or fearful of doing something, you are ‘anxious.’” I got a C-minus in this class when I was in the tenth grade, but I get the difference now. I am eager to leave and anxious he will kill me before I get a chance.
Fathom crosses the room and sits down next to me. His feet tap, and his hands fidget. He looks to the windows and then up at the dusty bulbs that hang from the ceiling. He squints at them then looks back at me, slightly pained.
“Very well, get on with it,” he says.
“Get on with what?”
“Making me want to be more like you.”
I laugh, until I realize he’s not making a joke. “Okay, well, is there anything you would like to know about me?”
“No. I would like to be addressed as Your Majesty, or My Prince,” he grumbles.
I laugh but stop when he scowls at me. “You’re serious. Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Humans, at least Americans, don’t call anyone ‘Your Majesty.’ We’re sort of proud of it too.”
“I will be treated with respect!” he shouts, then slams his fist down on the top of the desk. It rattles me, and I leap to my feet.
“Calm down!” I cry.
He’s on his feet so suddenly, I throw my hands up in front of my face, certain he’s going to attack me, but instead he springs to the windows and rips the paper down again.
“Stop it!”
When he doesn’t, I scamper toward the door, desperate to get away.
“Where are you going, human?” he shouts. “I did not give you permission to leave!”
I snatch a marker from the dry-erase board tray by the door. “Here’s what I think of your permission, prince,” I shout, then scrawl the words “Screw You,” large and in charge. I slam the door on the way out.
“I think we can call that day one,” Terrance says to the soldiers.
“Agreed,” one of them, a woman, replies. She has a serious face, but she’s smiling, and I can tell that she’s trying to help.
“Tell Doyle I’m trying,” I cry, worried he’ll blame me for Fathom’s freak-out.
“I’ll explain to him what happened,” she says.
“This will be a slow process. It isn’t going to happen overnight, and this won’t be the first bump in the road,” Terrance adds.
“Can I use the bathroom?” I beg, and without waiting for permission, I dart down the hall to the ladies’ room. I blast past the toilet cop and into a stall. I lock myself inside and try not to hyperventilate.
The day drags. I drift from class to class, unable to concentrate. People speak to me, but I can’t hang on to their words. A teacher asks me if I’m on drugs, and I’m too despondent to deny it. When school lets out, I’m so relieved, I almost cry. I grab my stuff and run down the halls, darting around people to get outside. Bex and Shadow meet me on the stoop. They know something is wrong, but I make up some story about too much homework. I haven’t told them about Fathom. I just don’t want to talk about it. I want to put it in its own little compartment and lock the lid. If no one knows what I have to do, I might be able to pretend it’s not happening.
My father is waiting just beyond the barricades for us. He brought a squad car and a nervous expression.
“Any trouble?”
“Handcuff free,” I say, and hold up my hands.
I can tell he’s got a million questions, but he doesn’t press. He reaches into his pocket and hands Shadow and Bex their phones, then offers them a police escort home. They don’t hesitate, leaping into the squad car and cranking up the air conditioning.
“Can we turn on the siren?” Bex begs.
“Like you need any more attention in that dress,” Shadow says.
Her whole face lights up. He made her wait all day for that compliment. The boy’s got game. I just wish I had the energy to enjoy it.
After we drop off Shadow, I have a ten-minute uphill argument with Bex about her staying at our place. Tammy wants her home and swears Russell won’t be there, so she’s going. I think she’s nuts, because Russell has a way of showing up when he’s supposed to be gone forever. But I eventually let it go. Having her with me is purely selfish. Bex makes a great shield to the interrogation I’m going to have to sit through when I get home.