Merlin's Curse

CHAPTER 5: The Screw Up

"Noooo!" I yell when I wake up and see the time. I fall out of bed in a twisted mess of blankets and sheets. G is gone. My alarm is off. And I'm already ten minutes late for my first class. "Freak'n Merlin's beard!"

Stumbling to my feet, I shove my laptop in my backpack, slip on my sandals, and rush out the door. My phone buzzes as I run down the narrow hallway. I take a quick glance—there are 52 unread messages from the Codex app. 

Ugh—no time!

I slip my phone in my pocket and fast step down the old servant's staircase. I almost trip. And then I do. Both sandals fly off my feet as I slide down several steps, twisting my ankle before catching the railing in a last-ditch effort to keep myself from toppling head over heels.

"Ow, ow, owwwww!" 

I groan from the sharp pain and catch my breath before forcing myself to limp to my sandals, pick them up, and hobble barefoot down the remaining flight of stairs to the second floor. That's where most of our classes are taught. My clumsiness makes me think of Luke. Maybe he did me a favor by kicking me off his basketball team. When I reach the ornate crimson room where my block—sixth through eighth grade—meets, I take a deep breath and open the door.

The lecture stops and every PC turns and looks at me amidst hushed whispers. 

"You must be Merlin," the teacher says. "You're late." He has neat, silver hair with a few black streaks, and is wearing a grey and white pinstripe dress shirt. 

"Sorry," I say. "I um—"

"Don't be," he replies. "I get paid whether you show up or not. But the cost is -10 XP. I'm Professor Atlas, by the way. And thank you for coming in your pjs even though you don't get credit." The class snickers. "Oh, and I believe your sandals go on your feet."

I look down at my bare feet and then at my white tee and black sweats. "Um, not pjs."

"But clearly what you slept in." He taps his head, and I realize my wavy black hair is sticking straight up in an explosion of bedhead. He points to an empty chair at the front of the class. "Please take a seat, Merlin. I think we all have some questions for you."

G watches me with guarded interest, his arms folded and feet tucked under his chair. I want to yell at him for not waking me up. As I walk gingerly to my desk, Luke stares at me wide-eyed and I know something's wrong. Because at our previous school he never looked at me. And he barely laughs at the professor's dry wit.

"What questions?" I ask after sitting down.

Nearly every PC in the class raises their hand, but Luke speaks first. "How did you get into Fydor's account?"

All the blood in my head rushes to my big ears. Ears that are out in the open. Yup, they go hot also when I'm embarrassed. Embarrassed is an understatement. Because I'm not on a computer. And I don't feel wizardly. I live in the background. Unless, of course, I'm making a fool of myself. Rarely does either situation require a response in front of a crowd. So, I don't know what to say. The truth is I forgot about what I did last night. Or, I guess, early this morning. Until now. And with my hair in the upright and locked position, my ears are ready for takeoff.

Bright red Dumbo ears.

Whispering and chuckling precede the inevitable snide remarks. "That's enough," Professor Atlas says. He walks over to my desk—uninvited—and lords over me with outstretched arms. "Merlin can't control his anatomical response any more than you can stop yourself from being vexing paupers."

ANATOMICAL RESPONSE!!!

I bury my head as the class erupts in uncontrolled laughter.

"I'm sorry," Isa objects. She accents words like a Picasso—with bold strokes. I know her vibrant voice from squad meetings. "When exactly did Constructive Computer Architecture become a Sex Ed course?" After another round of juvenile laughter, the Spaniard combs her fingers through her mostly blonde hair and adds, "Y hombre, for the record. No soy pauper!"

Professor Atlas smiles. "Señorita, until you pay for life's privileges—y no tu papá—you're a pauper. Maybe -30 XP will help you appreciate this life lesson. Let me know if you need more appreciation."

She slaps her desk. "Mamón."

"Isa!" Zahir warns. "Come on...we're already in last place."

"Merlin—answer my question," Luke demands. The cool boy. The boy Fydor took under his wing. The boy who isn't laughing. "How did you hack Fydor's account?"

The disruption allows me to find my words. "Fydor's a squad leader. Why would he admit to anyone that his account was hacked?"

"You don't know?" G asks. But his scrunched eyes remain suspicious.

"Know what?" I reply, shrugging my shoulders.

"Fydor's account," Professor Atlas interjects. "Someone changed his name to Z Nalomat' Drov and locked the entry field to read only."

The raucous morning mood dies in silence as everyone stares at me. 

"What—I don't speak...that," I say.

"Russian," Zahir replies. "And it means the screw up. But whoever did this..." He shakes his head and laughs, like he's impressed and dumbfounded at the same time. "I mean, it's a crazy awesome kill—but they're the real screw up." His pointed comment and bushy eyebrows both seemed directed at me.

"You don't mess with Fydor—ever!" G adds.

"I didn't!" I lie.

"So why, Merlin," Luke asks, "are you now @ZGreatWizard2? That's a nice upgrade from Merboy Z Glupyy. And a serious dig at Fydor's accent."

A nervous laugh bubbles up from my chest. Maybe I shouldn't have coded a backdoor lock on the name fields...or replaced my glupyy name with my pride...or picked a fight with the leader of DOOM. Fydor's right. I am stupid. But I can't help it. Insights—like consequences—escape me when I feel like a wizard. Which I don't understand because the Merlin on Trollhunters says, "A wizard doesn't make mistakes. He makes unexpected possibilities." 

I think he's wrong—this possibility bites!

"Come on," I say, "you can't believe I hacked a senior's account as a sixth grader. That's crazy, right? I mean, does Fydor actually think I did this?"

"You really are glupyy," Luke says. He's sitting a couple seats away from me and leans closer. "Someone leaked your personal file and your private handle on the message board. The whole school knows you won a professional hacking competition. You should never have put your handle—@ZGreatWizard2—next to your name. So yes, Fydor knows you hacked his account. And he's coming for you."

My hand jerks across the desk and almost sends my phone flying. The crush of nerves shakes my fumbling fingers as they struggle to open the Codex app. I can't breathe as I scroll through the messages at warp speed. But somehow I know exactly where to stop. And I see the one he's talking about. The post that leaked my file. 

And there they are...@WizardSlayer666.