PROLOGUE
If ever there was a time for stirring speeches, this would be it-but after a moment of waiting, it becomes painfully apparent that I have failed to plan that far ahead. Where did I go wrong? What could I have done differently to prevent this? How am I supposed to make this kind of a decision? I have a hard enough time deciding what color socks I want to wear or how I want my eggs cooked. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
I see the trail of blood dragging out from the janitor’s closet and, against my better judgment, I look inside the tiny room. The chair is there, my PVC pipe creation tossed on the floor like garbage. The blood on the chair has dried, but between it and the pool on the floor, I can tell there was a significant amount shed. I shudder at the thought of what was done and wonder where he is now.
I can’t help anyone by standing in the hallway so I had up the stairs. The upstairs hallway is also empty as I head toward Mrs. Chase’s room. The door is unlocked, and when I open it, I expect to see chaos and destruction. Instead, the room is exactly as I left it. I cross quickly to the windows overlooking the quad and peek through the slats in the blinds.
You know that feeling, the one where you wake up and it was all just a dream?
I love that feeling.
I want that feeling.
I need that feeling.
Right now.
So...Desperately...Trying...To...Wake...Up...
CHAPTER 1
“How many Klingons does it take to change a dilithium crystal?”
“What?”
“C’mon Sandwich, quit spacing out,” says the boy sitting on my left as he jabs his elbow into mine.
“Sorry,” I reply, yanking myself out of a reverie.
Across the table from me, my roommate, Sophie, stifles a giggle. “Ha, ha, Sandwich, a tornado could rip through this building and you would not have a clue, you’re so zoned out sometimes.”
“You know, I hate when you call me that.”
“What? Sandwich?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s your nickname,” she rebuts.
“No, it’s the nickname that Alex gave me when she found out what my initials are. You don’t like it when she calls you ‘Jelly’ any more than I like it when she calls me stupid names.”
“True,” she mumbles and suddenly seems very interested in the food on her tray.
Teddy asks me again, “So, how many Klingons does it take to change a dilithium crystal?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Oh come on, just guess.”
From the other side of Teddy, Noah grumbles, “Dude, you’re the only one of us that actually watches Star Wars.”
Katie quickly jumps to Teddy’s defense, “It’s Star Trek, Klingons are from Star Trek, and he’s not the only one that watches it. I’ve even seen you catch a couple glimpses.” Teddy nods in silent appreciation of her argument. She looks at Teddy, “So, how many does it take?”
“Ten! One to change it and the other nine to chastise him for performing such a menial task when he’s a member of a proud warrior race.” Teddy laughs as if it is the funniest joke is ever told. The rest of us respond with varied degrees of appreciation and disdain for his unique sense of humor.
