“West. Let me offer some personal advice: At the Center, we say that problems exist only in order to inspire us to find solutions. Don’t be an inspiration to me.”
Lyle disappeared into his inner office. Will walked outside and joined Brooke. After a few steps, he staggered and had to brace himself against the wall. The same blackness and nausea he’d felt at the airport washed over him, although this time it was much worse.
“Are you all right?” asked Brooke.
He grunted, holding his head. She leaned against the wall beside him, close. Still afraid.
“How did you do that?” she whispered.
How much did she see, or sense, of what went on in there? Will wondered.
“Do what?” he whispered back.
“Stand up to Lyle that way. I’ve never seen anybody manage it before.”
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#91: THERE IS NOT—NOR SHOULD THERE BE—ANY LIMIT TO WHAT A GUY WILL GO THROUGH TO IMPRESS THE RIGHT GIRL.
“I don’t like bullies,” he said.
She pressed Nando’s phone back into Will’s hand. He slipped it into his pocket.
“Come on, let’s get you upstairs,” she said, taking his arm. “Your head’s bleeding.”
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POD G4-3
Brooke decided Will shouldn’t take the stairs, so a large, lumbering elevator conveyed them to the fourth floor. Will held it together for Brooke’s benefit but felt as if someone had scooped out his insides and dumped him down a well.
The elevator deposited them into a central lobby full of light and brightly colored couches. Corridors ran out from the lobby like spokes from the hub of a wheel. She helped him down one of the corridors. Shorter passages fed off to either side. Turning down the last one on the left, Brooke took out a key card. They approached a white door marked with red raised letters: G4-3.
“Four floors to each hall. Twelve pods to a floor. Five students to a pod.”
Will quickly did the math: 1,360 students at the Center.
She scanned the card through a box above the handle. An electronic tone warbled. They entered a large octagonal central space, punched with wide skylights that cheerfully brightened the room. Clusters of comfortable couches and overstuffed chairs in muted colors softened the sharp architectural lines. She guided him to a dining table with five chairs that sat outside a small, efficient kitchen.
“Sit here,” she said, easing Will into one of the chairs. “Be right back.”
She disappeared through one of five doors that led off the great room. Will looked around. Built-in bookshelves lined the walls. A single step led down to the heart of the room, where large pillows and throw rugs surrounded a round rock fireplace. Two old-fashioned black phones sat on opposite ends of the room. There were no TV or computer screens in sight, which made the room seem strangely timeless.
Classical piano music played from inside one of the closed bedroom doors. Someone was practicing, someone exceptionally skilled. Brooke returned with cotton pads and hydrogen peroxide. She opened the bottle and soaked one of the pads.
“You don’t have to do this,” said Will. “I can go back to the infirmary.” His head still hurt, but the weakness had started to fade.
“Two years as a nurse’s aide—I think I can manage,” said Brooke. “My mom’s a doctor. Tilt your head this way.”
She leaned over, brushed his hair out of the way, and removed his bandage. When she set it on the table, Will saw it was solid red. She dabbed peroxide gently on his stitches; he willed himself not to react. She bit her lip as she concentrated.
“Looks like the stitches held … and the bleeding’s stopped.… Doesn’t that hurt like hell?”
“No,” he said.
“Liar. I’d be screaming.”
“Nurse’s aide, huh?”
“Shut up.” Brooke finished cleaning the wound and prepped a new bandage.
“How’d you end up here?” asked Will.
“My dad’s an alumnus. We never really discussed my going anywhere else.”
“So it had nothing to do with your test scores?”
“My scores were great, but legacy kids also have an inside track. I’ve known I was coming here since third grade.” She applied the new bandage. “That’ll do it. Don’t tell another soul you have that cell phone.”
“I won’t if you won’t.”
Brooke looked seriously at him. “No joke, Will. I saw Lyle find a BlackBerry on a freshman last year. The kid got a nosebleed that wouldn’t quit.”
And I’ll bet Lyle never laid a hand on him. Will cringed at the memory of Lyle’s attack. “The wrong people always get put in charge,” he said.
“I should have warned you about Lyle. Next time you’ll know better.”
Next time I’ll be ready.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” she asked.
“No.” Okay, this is happening a lot lately.
Brooke gave him a long look, then set the medical supplies on a counter and turned formal tour guide again. “So this is our shared space. Communal kitchen. Bedrooms are through each door. You’re over here.”
She led him to a door marked “4.” Inside was a surprisingly large furnished room with irregular angles, pale blue walls, and dark hardwood floors. It was furnished with a single bed, nightstand, and sturdy desk with a futuristic meshwork chair. One of the black phones sat on the desk. A chest of drawers sat in an open closet. A large bay window looked out over the woods, away from campus. The only other door led to a private white-tiled bathroom.
“The blank canvas design is intentional, by the way,” she said. “You’re expected to make it your own. Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Take your time. I’ll see what we have in the kitchen.”
She closed the door behind her. Will set his bag on the bed. Tested the mattress. Firm but not too firm: the perfect balance. The room felt pleasant but utterly neutral. He might have been anywhere in the world.
This is where I live now.
He’d faced this moment many times before. He was used to starting over.
But never alone. Never without my parents.
Now that he was here—and safe—the enormity of his loss came rushing at him. He wrestled those feelings down before the anguish overwhelmed him.
I’m not going to grieve. I’m not going to give whoever did this to us the satisfaction. I know they’re still alive and I’m going to fight until I find them.
He’d been dropped into this new life now. He had to stay strong and keep moving forward. That’s what his parents would want him to do.
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#50: IN TIMES OF CHAOS, STICK TO ROUTINE. BUILD ORDER ONE STEP AT A TIME.
Will dried his eyes, took a long look in the mirror, and didn’t like what he saw: exhausted, pale, beaten down. He put away his few clothes in the closet. Set the mechanical bird in the top drawer of the dresser and folded the towel over it. The framed photograph of his parents and Dad’s rules went on the bedside table. He hid the cell phone under the mattress and plugged in its charger behind the bed.
Will took a shower. Instant hot water blasted from an adjustable showerhead under solid pressure. Careful not to get his hair wet, he washed off the wear and tear of the road. Somewhat revived, he changed into his spare jeans, a white T-shirt, sweater, and his bomber jacket. Which more or less exhausted his wardrobe.
He heard raised voices from the great room and opened the door. An older boy stood near the front door. He was three inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Will, all of it solid muscle. He was tan, ruddy cheeked, with short black hair, and he wore trim gray khakis and a tight navy blue polo. He held Brooke’s left wrist in his right hand, twisting it slightly, pulling her closer.