Down the hall, he heard a commotion as a door snapped open. He turned, seeing the faint glow of a flashlight come nearer, bouncing along the corridor. It was one of the girls. She skidded up to them, out of breath, pushing a feathery fall of brown hair out of her eyes.
“Professor,” she said, glancing nervously at Cal and then back to Professor Reyes. “In the office . . . You should come look.”
The professor’s beetle-black eyes glittered up at Cal in the semidarkness of the corridor, and then she was waving him along. “You’re free to go, Cal. Breathe. See your friends. Get your head together, because I expect you back tomorrow night.”
By the time he had taken his next step, she was already vanishing down the hall.
He tried everything he could think of to get to sleep.
Micah didn’t return to their room that night, and so Cal left his desk lamp on until long after midnight. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the boy’s face hovering there in front of him. When he turned on his side, his spine ached; when he turned on his back, his neck hurt. . . . What was wrong with him? He didn’t believe in ghosts or hauntings or any of that crap. But he had seen something. He’d heard something. If he didn’t believe that, then he didn’t believe himself.
Cal rolled out of bed and stalked to the fridge, rummaging around until he found a travel-size bottle of vodka in the back. He downed it in one, sputtering and wiping at his mouth, then tossed the empty bottle into a Chinese takeout bag near the sink. Recycling. Close enough.
Back in bed, he didn’t feel any more clearheaded. He closed his eyes. No. The boy was back, watching him, not menacing but curious. Curious was somehow worse.
Cal’s pulse refused to slow down. He remembered this feeling from finals week last semester, when he was under so much pressure and stress that he’d stopped sleeping altogether. He would lie in bed and put his hand over his chest, and he would feel his heart racing out of control, unable to shut himself down, unable to turn off his brain. He felt that again now—that terrifying sense that he wasn’t in control of his body or his mind.
He sat up, deciding to use his nervous energy to read and take notes. But he couldn’t focus. Finally, he gave up and fished Fallon’s comic book out of his bag. He stared at the pages until his next memory was of dreaming.
The little boy was there, in his dreams, just a blur of white and blue, following him.
“Are you here to help?” the little boy asked. They were holding hands now, walking down the concrete path on the quad outside Brookline. Cal could see himself holding the kid’s hand, but felt no pressure, no warmth. . . . “Or are you like them, too?”
Cal couldn’t answer. He couldn’t control himself in the dream, and even if he could, he wouldn’t know what to say. The boy pointed to the buildings around them, those that ringed in the grassy area of the quad. They were all in black and white, torn apart, the buildings streaming with particles as if they were dissolving slowly. And they were upside down, roofs bleeding into the faded grass.
“There are always two deaths,” the boy continued, “the real one and the one people know about.”
When Cal tried to look at the boy, really look, the boy would always turn away, sometimes twisting unnaturally, only ever showing the one small glimpse Cal had seen in room 3.
The rest of him was a blank.
“There’s a . . . a man associated with the Bandar,” the boy said, pointing at Cal. “Not a man, really, more like a phantom! A ghost! A ghost who walks, cannot die, centuries old . . .”
Cal looked down at himself. He was wearing a purple spandex suit.
What the hell?
“She found something.” The boy’s voice was high and would have been sweetly childlike, except there was something empty and sad to it. “She found the key, she found him, and now they’ll never leave. We won’t ever leave, we will just all go down together.”
The boy stopped and looked up at him now, steadily. His eyes were black holes bleeding. “Are you here to help? Or are you like them, too?”
“Cal?” He was still dreaming, maybe. Something hard bit into his shoulder, rocking him from side to side. “Cal! Jesus. Wake up, Cal. Are you hungover again?”
“No. Shut up.” Cal groaned, rolling onto his back and pawing Micah away. “Just . . . Didn’t sleep well. Stressed. Roger is on my back again.”
“Remind me to get him a ladder,” Micah said, chuckling and drifting over to his side of the room. He dropped into his desk chair and watched Cal struggle to sit up.
Cal rubbed at his puffy eyes and reached for the water glass he usually kept on the bedside table. It was empty. He swore and slammed it back down.
“You can ask for that ladder the next time you two are chumming around,” Cal muttered.
“What are you talking about?” Micah asked, leaning forward in his chair. He took off his glasses, cleaning them on the bottom of his polo shirt. Was he trying to grow a goatee? That had to be Lara’s doing.
“I saw you and Roger in the quad the other day,” Cal said. He carefully eased out of bed, taking his cup to the sink across the room to fill it with tap water. “Chat about anything in particular? Like his deadbeat son?”
Micah laughed, loudly, putting his glasses back on. The goatee certainly made him less nondescript, more of the dark and tousled bad boy Lara no doubt wanted him to be. “Contrary to popular belief, Cal, the world does not revolve around you. No, we were talking about some program he wants me to run. There are a few kids he thinks might be getting into trouble with townies off campus. He wants me to talk to them about my time in juvie.”
“Funny, he didn’t ask me if I wanted to attend.”
“Probably because he wants to help you out himself,” Micah replied. Cal could hear the growing exasperation in the other boy’s voice. “You know I’m no fan of Roger, but where I come from, if your pop’s in a position to help, you take it and you stop complaining about it.”
“Where you come from, people eat alligators, so you’ll understand if I don’t jump to take your advice.”
Micah put up his hands as if to surrender. “Suit yourself, man. I just think you’re going about this all wrong. Let Roger help you out. Get on his good side and then he’ll leave you alone.”
Cal’s phone jittered, vibrating across his desk. Wincing, he went to collect it, knowing before he even picked it up who would be messaging.
“Speak of the devil,” he mumbled.
“Roger?”
“Who else?” He rubbed at his temples and the bridge of his nose; then he remembered that was Roger’s tic and stopped.
“You know we’re worried about you, right?” Micah said, but Cal wasn’t listening. “Lara and I both are. You can talk to us if you need to.”
“Yeah,” Cal said. “Yeah, cool. Thanks.”
My office. Now. I know you don’t have class until noon, so no excuses.
“I’ll probably take you up on that,” he added absently.
He wouldn’t, of course, but it was nice to think someone cared.
Cal loaded up his bag for the day and lugged it across campus. It would be Roger’s office for a check-in; then Elementary Econometrics, which he actually looked forward to; lunch; that damned lit class; Intermediate Microeconomics; and then tutoring with Fallon. At least if he was busy, he thought, it might keep him from thinking too hard about the night before.
Roger’s offices were in the prettiest building on campus, Middle College, the tall, tapered, nineteenth-century mansion not far from Wilfurd Commons. Bright, scholarly pennants hung down around the doors, which were always left open during days with good weather. The chapel bells finished chiming as Cal half jogged across the stone courtyard. A pair of senior girls passed, bringing a strong whiff of coffee as they went.
The light inside the building was cave-like compared to the pure, bright sun in the quad. Dark, wood-paneled walls lined the upper floor, with portraits of previous deans and presidents leading up to the row of office doors
. Roger’s was third, with a neat little nameplate and everything. Some of the other doors were decorated with college stickers or news clippings, but Roger’s was fittingly austere.
Cal knocked, feeling his gut twist up into preemptive knots.
“Come in.”
Deep breath. You can do this. You went to tutoring, you went to help Professor Reyes. You’re playing along. You’re playing along.
Roger sat perched on the edge of his broad mahogany desk, his foot dangling weirdly, showing a sliver of red business socks. Gray pin-striped suit. Pocket square. He must have had fancy meetings scheduled. For a while he just studied Cal, pinching his lips up and then relaxing them again.
“Are you depressed?”
Cal blinked. “What? I don’t know. Probably. Isn’t everyone?”
Clearly that wasn’t the answer Roger was looking for. He reached back on his desk and picked up a piece of paper. His office was just as devoid of personality as his door—his walls were blank except for a few college posters, touches of humanity probably added by staffers and not Roger himself.
“I have an email here from Professor Reyes,” Roger announced, waving the paper around. Cal groaned inwardly. “She said you showed up on time last night—good, good—and then you ‘grew agitated and insisted on leaving early.’ Care to explain?”
“Did you seriously go to the trouble of printing that out?” Cal asked.
“I’m not rising to this today. I simply refuse to.” He put down the email and clasped his hands loosely in his lap. “What do you want, Cal?”
That wasn’t a loaded question or anything.
“What do you want?” Roger repeated, squinting. “I know it’s not to make me happy, that’s obvious. I don’t know if you’re still acting out because of the divorce, or because of your identity crisis, or simply because you lack ambition and focus, but I will know what you want. Think long and hard about that. What do you want?”
Cal shifted, staring down at his Top-Siders. He would rather be yelled at, or even hit again. He didn’t know how to deal with this side of his father. “I . . . I don’t know what I want, all right?”
“The sad thing is that whatever it is,” Roger said, his voice dropping a little, “you could have it. We have the means. I have the means.”
Roger stood, taking the email from Professor Reyes and a chunky fountain pen from his desk. He walked these things to Cal, holding them patiently. “Write it down, Cal. Write down what you want.”
“What, now?”
“Yes. Now.”
God, this was embarrassing. Cal took the paper and pen, flipping over the email, but not before glimpsing a stray sentence.
If you need your son to wake up, you know what to do.
Did everyone think he was beyond help? From where he was standing, his life really didn’t seem that bad, but maybe he just couldn’t tell. Whatever, he could humor Roger, who was clearly off his nut if he thought he could just—poof!—conjure what Cal wanted out of thin air. It was a stupid exercise, but probably harmless. Hopefully harmless. Swallowing around a lump, he flattened his palm and tried to write as if he believed that, surprised by how quickly the words came out.
I want my friends back. I want Devon Kurtwilder to notice me. I don’t want to be a screwup anymore.
He shuddered. Maybe this was a bad idea. Did he really want Roger to know anything about him? Roger took the pen and paper, reading it over and making a quiet grunting sound. He glanced up at Cal, and for once he wasn’t scowling. “This gives me hope, Cal.”
“That makes one of us.”
His father laughed, drily, and folded the paper, tucking it into one of his interior suit pockets. “What do you think of Fallon Brandt so far?”
“Huh?” That was a leap. “My tutor?”
“Yes, Fallon. What do you think of her?” Roger took up his perch on the desk again, studying Cal closely.
Diplomatic, be diplomatic, even if you have to channel Micah.
“She’s . . . cool, I guess. Seemed smart. I like her.”
Where was this going?
“Strange little girl, don’t you think? I don’t like her at all. Keeps trying to break into secure networks on campus and snoop around. It’s probably nothing, but we can’t take these things lightly.” Roger adjusted his tie, then smoothed it down fussily with both hands. “She’s a hacker, Cal. She’s trouble. She’s rooting around in college archives for a lark, and I don’t like it.”
His tone was icy again.
Cal started and stopped his answer a few times. “I don’t get it. You hooked me up with her. I thought I was getting help with my English essay.”
“Yes. I always prefer to kill two birds with one stone when I can,” Roger said, smiling mildly. “But now I have this,” he added, patting the pocket with Cal’s list, “which means plan A it is. You do something for me, and we get you what you want.”
We?
Cal laughed. He had to—this was absurd. Since when was his father at all interested in giving Cal what he wanted, instead of just forcing him to do what Roger himself wanted? “Unless you secretly have mind-control powers, that’ll be kind of difficult.”
Roger smiled and leaned across his desk to open a drawer on the other side. After a moment, he withdrew something small and glassy, the greenish surface reflecting the sunlight streaming through his office window.
“We’re at a crossroads, Cal,” Roger said, beckoning him over with an eerie look in his eye. When Cal looked at his father, he didn’t see so much of himself anymore. He didn’t recognize this man. “You take this and plant it somewhere in Fallon’s dorm room. You do that, and things will be different. Better. I promise.”
Cal drifted across the carpet, hesitating. He saw the little glass cylinder in his father’s hand and felt his heart plummet. It was a pipe, and not for smoking tobacco. If he put this in Fallon’s room, he could get her into all kinds of trouble. . . .
“She already has two strikes for tampering with college security,” Roger continued, holding out the pipe. Cal stared at it, feeling his hand twitch. “One more strike and she won’t be a problem anymore.”
“A problem? And this is how you handle a problem? Roger, I don’t want to get her kicked out,” he said, feeling suddenly like a child, naive. “She seems nice.”
“I’m sure she does seem nice, Cal. I’m sure she seemed very nice when she was trying to solicit your help breaking into my computer.”
Cal flinched, and Roger smirked.
“Just as I thought. She’s trouble, Cal. And the last thing you need is more trouble.” Cal closed his fingers around the pipe, but Roger didn’t let go, yanking him closer. “So I’m asking you, politely but firmly, to come to the other side. If you really want what’s best for you and Ms. Seems Nice, you’ll say yes.”
The pipe came free and Cal stumbled back a step. His eyes flicked to Roger’s pocket, where his list was hidden.
“If I don’t do it?” he whispered. His lips were painfully dry.
“There are others currently on the right side who could go right back to being in trouble.” Now his tone wasn’t ice but steel, and when Cal met his father’s eyes, they pierced. “Micah, for example.”
Cal’s fingers turned into a fist around the pipe. “He spent a few weeks in juvie for theft—who cares? It’s not even that big of a deal. Nobody would expel him for that.”
“Theft?” Roger’s head hung back as he laughed. “Is that what he told you?” His laughter died down, and then the steel was back in his gaze. “You’re even more out of touch than I thought.”
Roger stopped there, but Cal refused to give him the satisfaction of asking for an explanation.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it your way, then. Just . . . I don’t want Fallon to get in too much trouble.”
Roger waved him away, turning to pick up a mug of coffee from his desk. His smile was back, as if this was business as usual. “You just worry about upholding your end of the bargain”—he tapped
the list in his pocket—“and let me worry about upholding mine.”
My paunchy old man is in the collegiate mafia, Cal thought, dragging himself across campus to Fallon’s dorm. All day the pipe had sat like an anchor in his pocket, a heavy reminder of what he was supposed to be doing.
Sure, he didn’t know know Fallon, but she seemed decent enough. Not really in his social circle, maybe, but that didn’t mean she deserved to get kicked out of school. Some of her tutoring had sunk in, and hadn’t she let him borrow that comic book?
A comic book he had left in his dorm room accidentally. Damn. He would have to find a way to get it back to her, and hope that it could happen before an RA found the pipe in her room.
He passed the fraternity and sorority houses lining the road that led to the residential side. Cal watched the lights come on in the Sig Tau frat house, an old Victorian monstrosity with four white columns and a sandy brick facade.
Devon was probably inside playing Xbox with his frat brothers, telling stories about the underclassman who’d geeked out in Brookline’s basement like a little baby.
Something brushed Cal’s wrist. He looked down, expecting a bit of stray spiderweb or a bush frond, but it was that damn kid, smiling up at him.
The boy was holding his hand.
Cal gasped and jerked his fingers away from nothing at all.
The ghostly little boy was gone, leaving behind a whisper of cold on his skin. God, and he would have to go back inside that basement in—he glanced at his watch—three short hours.
But first, Fallon.
Cal hurried his steps to Jeffreys. He used the closer entrance, brushing past a guy who was ignoring the ten-foot rule and having a cigarette by the door.
There were elevators in the main lobby, but Cal took the stairs just inside the door. His footsteps echoed up all three floors, and music and soft laughter bled through the walls. In one room someone practiced the violin.