The Academy by Bentley Little Page A

seemed fairly normal, and when he knocked on the frame of her open door, she smiled and bade him come in.
     
     
    “Hello,” she said, extending her hand in greeting. “I’m Ms. Tremayne.”
     
     
    He wasn’t used to shaking a woman’s hand, but he did so, acutely aware of how slender her fingers seemed, how soft was her skin. He sat down on the chair at the side of her desk.
     
     
    “How can I help you?”
     
     
    “I want to transfer out of my seventh-period class.”
     
     
    “What’s your name?” Ed told her and she typed it into the computer on her desk. “You wish to get out of Woodshop Two?”
     
     
    “Yes,” he said gratefully.
     
     
    “May I ask the reason?”
     
     
    Ed hesitated. “I’d rather not say.”
     
     
    “I need a reason.”
     
     
    “There are some bullies in the class. They don’t like me. They’ve hated me since junior high.”
     
     
    “The instructor should be able to—”
     
     
    “One of them picked a fight with the teacher today. He’s probably in the nurse’s office right now.” Ed leaned forward. “Look. Mr. Ruiz said it’s fine if I transfer out. He understands and he’s all for it. If you could just help me find another class . . .”
     
     
    The counselor looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay,” she agreed, and he could tell from her tone of voice that she felt sorry for him. She pressed a key on her computer. “Do you have any preferences? Woodshop’s an elective, so I assume there’s nothing you have to take. Is there anything that you want to take, anything specific that you’d like to study?”
     
     
    “What’s available?” he asked.
     
     
    “Seventh period? Not much.” She swiveled the screen in his direction and he looked over the list of classes. “Not much” was right.
     
     
    “How about library TA?”
     
     
    Ms. Tremayne frowned. “You have a solid college-prep schedule. Do you really want to dilute it with a TA position?”
     
     
    “I’m not signing up for Healthy Cooking.”
     
     
    “You don’t have to have a seventh period,” she pointed out.
     
     
    “I want the credits. Besides, library should be an easy A. It’ll boost my grade point average.”
     
     
    “Okay,” the counselor said. “But you’ll need a parent’s permission.”
     
     
    “Call my mom’s cell.” He gave her the number.
     
     
    Five minutes later, he was on his way back to woodshop with a transfer form for Mr. Ruiz to sign. He brought it back to the counselor, who gave him another form to bring to Mrs. Fratelli in the library. “Have her return this to me,” she said. “And good luck.”
     
     
    Ed smiled. “Thank you.”
     
     
    He walked out of the office into the short dark hall. Across from him was the closed door of the principal’s office. For some reason, he didn’t even want to look at that door.
     
     
    “Ed?” Ms. Tremayne said.
     
     
    He turned around, faced the counselor.
     
     
    “You have any problems, you come to me,” she said. “That’s what I’m here for.”
     
     
    He nodded, smiling. “I will,” he told her. “And thanks again.”
     
     
    He walked over to the library.
     
     
    Ed had hung out in the library a lot in junior high, trying to avoid getting beaten up, but since coming to high school, he’d fallen out of the habit. Part of it was the librarian, a cold angry bitch who could have played Miss Gulch in a remake of The Wizard of Oz . But part of it was the library itself. Unlike the friendly, single-roomed structure back in junior high, Tyler’s two-story monstrosity was an intimidating building inside and out, a blocky architectural eyesore that stuck out amid the school’s surrounding Spanish-style buildings like a rock among flowers. The interior was dark, with brown brick walls, brown carpeting, tinted gray windows and recessed lighting that was too dim to offer anything more than the most basic illumination. A narrow staircase in the precise center of the library connected the upper and lower floors, which were crammed with high bookcases set too close