Wander Dust (14 page)

::21::
A Lecture

I’ve lain in bed all night without a solid hour of sleep. For once, images of CC, Frances Germ Bum, or the Grungy Gang don’t consume my thoughts. They’re completely consumed with the perfect green eyes of the all-too-taken Bishop. I throw my face into my pillow and groan.

As much as that Perpetua girl irks me, I’m not a boyfriend stealer. Or at least, I have no intentions of becoming one. The pull toward Bishop controls me like gravity. But that isn’t even a strong enough word.

I’ve never lived anywhere long enough to attain a boyfriend, let alone someone I felt the necessity to kiss. Being drawn to him this way, with such intensity, just doesn’t make sense. My new emotions leave me confused.

I roll over in my bed, trying to focus on the time. An antique clock across the room chimes once for the three-quarter hour. 6:45am.

I groan. If they want to make students happy, maybe they should consider starting classes a little later. I fling the comforter off my body. Then I roll over the edge of bed. Misjudging the distance, I hit the floor on all fours. “Uhh!”

“Sera!” Someone knocks at my the door four times

I look up.

“Sera! It’s almost time to go!” Sam’s rigid voice yells, knocking again impatiently. I realize she won’t stop until I answer her.

“I’ll be out in a minute!” I yell, annoyed. She stomps away.

Judging from her personality, she’d probably die if I made her late to class. We’re all supposed to attend together, as a team.

I wonder how much trouble we will get into if I make us tardy—on purpose. It seems an easy payback for her crappy attitude.

Pulling myself from the floor, I think of how Bishop defended her personality last night. Maybe I should be a little more understanding. At least I can try.

I stumble to the bath, shower quickly, and pull my hair back into a rubber band. I brush my teeth, and I douse myself with body spray. Then I shrug into a new uniform from my overloaded closet. This uniform, different than the Normals’ Academy, includes a white button shirt with short puffy sleeves, a black fitted vest, and a plaid skirt. More stylish, I muse. Probably from Gabe’s input. I refrain from a final look in the mirror, knowing a set of disastrous, dark bags sit under my eyes, and nothing can be done to hide them.

As I pull on a hooded cardigan with the school’s crest, I emerge from my room. Instantly, I lock eyes with Bishop. We say nothing to each other. My face flushes hot, and I glance away. I pretend to itch my eye to hide my face, but when I look back from under my lashes, he’s already walking the opposite direction and out the front door.

Sam stands with her hand on her hip, trying to control her annoyed breathing. I can tell she wants to reprimand me, but she holds her tongue. Instead, she spins to walk away, her long braided hair snaps around to follow her.

With reluctance, I catch up to them. I just have to remember, I’m doing all this to find my mom, and I won’t allow Sam’s attitude or whatever feelings I have for Bishop affect me.

Although I know we have orientation, I’m not even sure where we’re going. I just follow my team, trying to keep up.

Bishop and Sam step into a nearby elevator. It’s hidden behind a velvet curtain. The cage has ornate, brass details. A manual wheel crank controls the direction.

Bishop rotates the oversized handle toward the floor. The elevator cage bucks to life. We glide down, passing several levels until soft morning light creeps across the floor, over our feet, and finally up the walls. We hover over Olde Town for a moment before the car thumps to a stop.

Bishop returns the handle to its original position and pulls back the retractable cage door. He gestures for Sam and myself to walk through first. He’s a gentleman.

I don’t look at him, although I feel his gaze hot on my face. I want to push away the feelings from last night and hide them in my heart. I’m an expert at shutting Ray out, and I can do the same to Bishop, too. I think.

We’re in the city, but entering on the north end. A rickety bridge with rushing water underneath meets us at the entrance. It’s a similar scenario to the lion gate entrance. Except this time, two large rusted metal raptors with beaks that curve into daggers stand on steel columns. Their mustard colored eyes pierce through me, making me uncomfortable.

Sam and Bishop walk briskly across the bridge, paying the metal guards no mind. I trail behind, shadowing Bishop, and try not to stare when the birds cock their heads with curiosity in my direction.

Sam struts toward the tallest building in the little city. A stone clock tower, reminding me of Big Ben, juts from the top. Windows, like vertical slits, dot the exterior in an unsymmetrical way. A large tunnel punches a hole underneath the building.

To one side of the facade, a set of diagonal stairs, lined with blooming azalea bushes, leads to a pair of oversized metal doors on the second floor. We follow several students, rushing toward them.

The bell rings at 7:15am at the very moment we walk through the threshold. A large auditorium with seating like a movie theatre spills over with burgundy velvet. Originally, Gabe said the Clock Tower Building is used for movies and lectures. This morning, it serves as a lecture hall. Students are scurrying to take their seats.

Groups of three are scattered around chatting. Macey, on the opposite side of the room, waves to me as I hurry down the aisle behind Bishop. Sam at the lead, waltzes to the front of the room and gracefully seats herself front and center. Bishop takes the seat behind her in the next row, and I unwillingly sit alone, next to him.

Mr. Evanston is already at the podium, and when the final person is seated, he begins. “Welcome to your first official orientation. I want to jump right into things because we have a lot to accomplish.”

“Why are you here?” Mr. Evanston clutches the podium, looking around at us. “Just like any vocational school, you’re here to learn a specialty. By the time you leave the Academy, you’ll have the ability to wander through time with ease. Learning how to use your special talents will keep you safe and will allow you to enjoy your gifts without disrupting historical events.”

He paces the stage, looking at the floor. “Before Eli Vanderpool built the Academy and dedicated it to the art of wandering, the lives of our ancestors were in chaos. There were no rules. Eli started the Academy to help create structure among our kind. To teach young ones how to deal with their new lives and respect history at all costs,” he explains, pointing to the ceiling on occasion to create emphasis.

“By now, you all know that three people are involved with wandering. A Wanderer, a Protector, and a Seer.” He holds up three fingers. “These three people form a chain.” He locks his fingers into links and tugs. “They work together to strengthen the wandering process.”

“Seers have an extra sensory perception. He or she can view the life path of an object. We call these objects relics. Seers read relics like a road map. Seers know where a relic can lead, and as they mature in their gifts, may know the people and situations they might encounter during various periods of time. Seers are to become expert historians,” he explains.

“During the wandering process, your Seer remains here, in this time, but can see what you are doing at the moment it happens in the past through the eyes of your Protector. Seers are your very own air traffic control tower,” he says and stops at the podium.

Everyone laughs and readjusts in their seats.

“Next is the Protector. They’re the middle link in our chain. He or she is connected mentally to the Seer and accompanies a Wanderer during time travels. They can only transverse time when in physical contact with their Wanderer.”

I look over at Bishop. This explains how he was able to travel with me the other night, when he tackled me in the street, saving me. When he notices my glare, I look away and focus back on Mr. Evanston.

“The Protector can exchange thoughts, sight, touch, and smell with the Seer, keeping them abreast of what is going on at any time, past or present.” My eyes are wide with the realization that Bishop and Sam can read each other’s thoughts. “Ultimately, the Protector’s job is to look after the well-being of the Wanderer and guard them on their journey. They will not only become expert bodyguards but they must have the same knowledge as both the Seer and the Wanderer.”

From this information, I zero in on one specific detail.
It’s his job to protect me.
I like the sound of this a little more than I should. Just like I like him a little more than I should. I exhale and slouch away from him, as far as possible, propping my elbow on the armrest, dropping my cheek into my palm.

“Finally, we have the Wanderer,” Mr. Evanston continues, “They’re the end link on our chain. They, with the relic and your keyword, are the literal key to opening the gates of time. And they rely on their Seer and Protector to supply a smooth and accurate journey. Wanderers will become experts in history, linguistics, cultures, and just the overall ability to blend seamlessly into any period of time.”

“All three rely on each other. They’re
nothing
without each other.”

I raise my hand.

“Yes, Miss Parrish.”

“But can’t a Wanderer time travel alone? They don’t
really
need the others—right?” I ask.

Sam whips around to give me a nasty look. Bishop readjusts in his seat, looking uncomfortable, but continues looking straight ahead.

“Yes,” he says with reluctance. “It’s true. Your first experience, no doubt, happened without ever knowing your Protector or Seer. But,” he yells to the entire room, “it is frowned upon. We cannot allow you to wander blindly. You’re with a team for a reason.” He pauses and stares at me. “Does everyone understand?” He points his finger loosely around the crowd but keeps his eyes on me.

Some people mumble ‘yes,’ some nod, some students look as though they’re sleeping in their chairs. Will they still absorb the lecture in their sleep as Mr. Evanston promised we could?

But I noticed he only said it’s ‘frowned upon,’ like they really can’t stop you if you wander alone.

Mr. Evanston runs his fingers through his thick, white hair. He clasps his hands together in front of his chest. “Now, for the basic principles of how wandering works...”

He exits the stage, stepping behind the curtains and rolls back a squealing overhead projector. Billowing curtains part on the back wall, revealing a movie screen. The light on the projector pops on, and the fan starts to purr. Mr. Evanston removes a marker from his pocket and slides a piece of clear acetate onto the machine’s up-lit stage.

He turns to face the class, holding up the marker. “This marker is a relic. However, it didn’t start its life here in Chicago but rather in a factory in China,” he says.

The oversized shadow of his hand appears on the screen. The marker makes a squeaking noise as he writes. When he removes it, he’s drawn a dot to one corner of the acetate and labeled it ‘marker factory, China.’

“This marker has been on a journey from its birthplace in China and landed here in Chicago with me. After today, it will continue on its journey without me when I leave it on this podium.”

He draws a dot on the opposite end of the page and labels it “marker’s future,” and then he connects the two dots. “This line here is the marker’s
life path
.”

He draws a new dot on the center of the line and labels it “Mr. Evanston.” He points to it. “This new dot in the middle of the marker’s life path is where the marker and I met. I became a part of its life path when I picked it up this morning.”

“I didn’t start life here with this marker, of course, I also have a past and a future.” He draws an opposing line right through the center dot creating an X. He labels the new line, Mr. Evanston.”

The cross on the screen now shows the intersection of two lives, Mr. Evanston’s and the marker’s.