Brooke drove on, pretending he hadn’t freaked her out. But she didn’t seem to be looking at him from quite as steep an angle down her narrow, patrician nose.
“There’s the Administration Building—pay attention, Captain Concussion, you’re meeting Dr. Robbins there in the morning.”
“Got it.”
“And this is the main campus coming into view on our left—”
Brooke kept up her museum guide patter, naming every building—including three different libraries—as they tooled around the commons. Will paid zero attention. The girl behind the wheel was much more fascinating, someone from a world of money, privilege, and power, a million miles from his own. He’d never met anyone like her. She was gorgeous, and her confidence was stunning, but not in the manipulative way of a girl who relied solely on her looks. Her poise and intelligence impressed him even more. He decided that since she didn’t know the first thing about him—and how his pedigree paled in comparison to hers—it might be best to keep it that way.
As they made their way around, other students waved, regarding an obvious newcomer with friendly smiles. Brooke waved back, as serene and elegant as the Queen of the Rose Parade, even at the carts driven by smiling security guards, who all looked like Eloni: heavyset, with round faces and curly black hair.
“Is every security guard here Samoan?” asked Will.
“You noticed already,” she said, then glanced at him again. “Not that I should be surprised.”
“What’s the reason?”
“Aside from the fact that they’re huge and agile and strong enough to tear a bus apart with their bare hands?”
“Why? Is this a high school or an NFL team?”
“It’s a private school for kids from high-profile families with legitimate security issues. Plus they’re friendly, trustworthy, and incorruptible.”
“What’s the deal? Are they all from the same family?”
“They’re from the same aiga, or clan,” said Brooke. “My favorite theory, although it’s probably an urban legend, is that they’re reformed gangsters from South Side Chicago. Eloni is their matai, or chief. My father says that because of their great warrior culture, we should be glad Samoa is on our side. And if that ever changes, be grateful that Samoa’s just a tiny speck in the South Pacific.”
They followed a path away from the commons through a birch forest on a narrow plateau. Along a winding lane stood four identical redbrick buildings, each four stories tall with gabled roofs and lots of ornamental detail. They looked more postmodern in style than anything else Will had seen at the Center, pleasing to the eye and welcoming to the spirit.
“These are the residence halls,” said Brooke. “Bring your bag.”
Brooke parked in front of the last building in the row. He followed her to the front doors. A sign on the wall read GREENWOOD HALL.
“Looks different from the rest of the school,” said Will.
“Big-bucks architect,” said Brooke. “Winner of many awards.”
He followed her down a wide empty hallway with stone floors and light pine woodwork to a door with a sign: GREENWOOD HALL PROVOST MARSHAL. She pushed the door open and pointed to a table in the square, wood-paneled room.
“Put your bag down there,” she said. “And stand back.”
OceanofPDF.com
LYLE OGILVY
Puzzled, Will did as he was told. Brooke knocked on an inner door, then stepped back beside him. Moments later a tall, slope-shouldered young man entered, wearing a blue blazer with the Center’s crest on the pocket and a Windsor-knotted tie striped with school colors. He closed the door quietly and precisely behind him. He wore heavy black wingtips on big flat feet that splayed to the side as he walked. A helmet of oily black hair circled the crown of his unusually long head, and looked as if he ironed it every morning. His face was framed by an oversized brow and prominent jaw, creating an impression that the fleshy features jammed in between were fighting for space. Gray-green circles under his eyes added the only color to his deathly pale complexion. He sniffled constantly, fighting either allergies or a sinus infection. He looked at least eighteen.
“Will West, Lyle Ogilvy,” said Brooke. “Greenwood Hall’s provost marshal.”
Ogilvy looked Will over with darting black eyes that radiated furtive intelligence. He took two measured steps forward, offering a moist handshake and an obsequious smile. Something about Lyle, his stooped posture and covert vigilance, reminded Will of an undertaker or a large bird of prey. Brooke edged back as Lyle advanced; she seemed more than a little afraid of him.
“So pleased to have you with us,” said Lyle.
A surprisingly high-pitched voice for a person of his height and mass. Lyle affected a posh accent, halfway to British, the way actors in old movies talked when they wore tuxedos. His tone stayed polite on the surface, but a half-concealed sneer suggested he saw Will as his inferior.
“Likewise,” said Will. “What’s a provost marshal?”
Lyle seemed amused by the question. “We have rules in the residence halls. I don’t make them, but I am charged with enforcing them. Reluctantly on occasion, but at all times, I can assure you, with alacrity.”
He reached over and unzipped Will’s bag. Will thought about stopping him, but a worried look from Brooke dissuaded him.
“You can start by giving me your cell phone and laptop,” said Lyle.
“Why?”
“School policy,” said Lyle. “They’re not allowed on campus.”
“No phones, no texting?” asked Will, addressing Brooke as much as Lyle. Brooke confirmed, with a subtle shake of her head. “I’d like to hear the reason.”
“Students at the Center are encouraged to communicate through more traditional methods,” said Lyle patiently. “Using the neglected arts of face-to-face conversation and the written word. Or, if need be, our system of courtesy telephones, placed conveniently throughout the facilities.”
He pointed to an old-fashioned black phone on a corner cabinet that looked like it had been gathering dust since 1960.
“That seems, nothing personal … completely insane,” said Will.
“Everyone feels that way when they first arrive.” Lyle held out his hand, palm up. Dead serious. He wanted Will’s gear, and he wanted it now.
Will tried to stall. His iPhone he could part with, but he couldn’t afford to lose the phone Nando had given him. “Okay. The phone thing I can see in theory, but no laptops?”
Now Lyle sounded annoyed. “The school provides every student with a customized tablet for their personal use. Our IT staff will transfer all your data onto its hard drive—”
“What if I prefer my own?”
“—built with components and software developed in our labs. Considerably more sophisticated than this dreck from your trendy suburban retailer. Isn’t that right, Miss Springer?”
“Yes.” With her eyes, Brooke urged him not to press this.
“When do I get them back?”
Lyle made a visible effort to stay calm. “They’re securely stored and returned to you at the end of term.”
“I’ve got a bunch of stuff on my phone I need to back up to my hard drive,” said Will. “Address book, calendar, personal files—”
“Go right ahead,” said Lyle. “Now.”
Will’s laptop was his most precious possession, a luxury his parents had scarcely been able to afford. He glanced at Brooke again. She looked panicked: Please cooperate. Will took out his MacBook and iPhone, cabled them, and started a sync.
With Lyle watching him, Nando’s cell phone felt like it was burning a hole in his front pocket. He resisted an impulse to touch it while Lyle stared holes in him.
“Can I keep my iPod?” asked Will. “Or do we have to transfer everything back onto vinyl?”