Keeper of the Lost Cities

Chapter 1

MISTER FOSTER!" MR. SWEENEY'S NASAL voice cut through Keefe's blaring music as he yanked his earbuds out by the cords. "Have you decided that you're too smart to pay attention to this information?"

Keefe forced his eyes open. He tried not to wince as the bright fluorescents reflected off the vivid blue walls of the museum, amplifying the throbbing headache he was hiding.

"No, Mr. Sweeney," he mumbled, shrinking under the glares of his now staring classmates.

He pulled at his hoodie strings, wishing he could hide behind the hood. It helped with the headaches too. This was exactly the kind of attention he went out of his way to avoid. Why he wore dull colors and lurked in the back, blocked by the other kids who were at least a foot taller than him. It was the only way to survive as a twelve-year-old high school senior.

"Then perhaps you can explain why you were listening to your iPod instead of following along?" Mr. Sweeney held up his earbuds like they were evidence in a crime. Though to him, they probably were. He'd dragged Keefe's class to the Natural History Museum in Balboa Park, assuming his students would be excited about the all-day field trip. He didn't seem to realize that unless the giant dinosaur replicas came to life and started eating people, no one cared.

Keefe ran his hands through his hair—a nervous habit—and stared at his feet. There was no way to make Mr. Sweeney understand why he needed the music to cancel the noise. He couldn't even hear the noise.

Chatter from dozens of tourists echoed off the fossil-lined walls and splashed around the cavernous room. But their mental voices were the real problem.

Scattered, disconnected pieces of thoughts broadcast straight into Keefe's brain—like being in a room with hundreds of TVs blaring different shows at the same time. They sliced into his consciousness, leaving sharp pains in their wake.

He was a freak.

It'd been his secret—his burden—since he fell and hit his head when he was five years old. He'd tried blocking the noise. Tried ignoring it. Nothing helped. And he could never tell anyone. They wouldn't understand.

"Since you've decided you're above this lecture, why don't you give it?" Mr. Sweeney asked. He pointed to the enormous orange dinosaur with a duckbill in the center of the room. "Explain to the class how the Lambeosaurus differs from the other dinosaurs we've studied."

Keefe repressed a sigh as his mind flashed to an image of the information card in front of the display. He'd glanced at it when they entered the museum, and his photographic memory recorded every detail. As he recited the facts, Mr. Sweeney's face twisted into a scowl, and he could hear his classmates' thoughts grow increasingly sour. They weren't exactly fans of their resident child prodigy. They called him Curvebuster.

He finished his answer, and Mr. Sweeney grumbled something that sounded like "know-it-all" as he stalked off to the exhibit in the next room over. Keefe didn't follow. The thin walls separating the two rooms didn't block the noise, but they muffled it. He grabbed what little relief he could.

"Nice job, superfreak," Garwin Chang—a boy wearing a T-shirt that said BACK OFF! I'M GONNA FART—sneered as he shoved past her to join their classmates. "Maybe they'll write another article about you. 'Child Prodigy Teaches Class About the Lame-o-saurus.'"

Garwin was still bitter Yale had offered him a full scholarship. His rejection letter had arrived a few weeks before.

Not that Keefe was allowed to go.

The center couldn't possibly send him, considering the fact that he couldn't just go live on campus.

So he'd be attending the much closer, much smaller San Diego City College next year—a fact some annoying reporter found newsworthy enough to post in the local paper the day before—CHILD PRODIGY CHOOSES CITY COLLEGE OVER IVY LEAGUE—complete with his senior photo. The workers freaked when they found it. Front-page articles were pretty much their worst nightmare. They said it ruined things for his career. (Not that it hadn't already been ruined, but Keefe knew it was because they were scared for their reputation). They'd even called the newspaper to complain.