Ivy's Tangle (Legend of the White Sword - Book 1)

Prologue

"Inspection is in five minutes, Freak."

That morning wakeup call preceded the world turning on end as two of my roommates lifted the edge of my thin foam mattress and spilled me from my bed. I woke midway between top bunk and linoleum floor. Even if the sheet and blanket weren't tangled around me, I couldn't have found my feet. Half a year of judo had taught me how to take a fall. My shoulders sacrificed themselves to save my skull, and although the blankets covered my eyes, and obstructed my vision—they blocked none of the laughter.

The morning's third and final bugle blast played over the loudspeaker in the hallway outside our room. I was late, which resulted from my tendency to sleep through loud noises and the jerks who'd discovered it early in the school year. No doubt they'd disabled my extra alarm clocks again, and without question, I'd receive demerits for my disorderly appearance.

I crawled from a grabby nest of twisted blanket to be greeted by the five grinning faces of my roommates. All were neatly dressed and groomed in accordance with the regulations of the Hightower Military Academy. The glassy toes of ten parade boots shone as brightly as the fluorescent lighting allowed.

"Four minutes," Ted Ross, my lower bunkmate, said.

Four minutes to dress, make my bed, and become presentable in the way only a mock military institution would require. It bordered on the impossible. We'd all get demerits for my impending, sloppy morning inspection. My friends had decided that taking the hit as squad was worth it.

None of them were army brats with aspirations of attending West Point. Two kinds of students graced the halls of the country's most prestigious military academy/finishing school for young men. A small minority were legacies from families filled with generations of medal-covered officers. The rest consisted of problem children from families inclined, and wealthy enough, to board them there.

Like my roommates, I fell into the latter category.

At fourteen, I'd never been incarcerated in a white-collar prison, but I suspected that Hightower provided a similar experience. Since my roommates seemed likely to attend one later on, I supposed the academy might be providing them with useful life skills. Those notions floated at the back of my brain while I scrambled to fold hospital corners and dress.

Somebody had wedged my parade boots under the foot of my bed. I'd left them shiny and perfect the night before. One, or all, of my 'comrades in arms' had given them a different—if equally thorough—spit polish.

Whatever expression my face wore, brought a new round of laughter. I could hear the clicking steps of Sergeant Olsen as he walked the hallway.

"Time's up," Donny Walsh whispered.

The rest of the squad stood at lazy attention along the middle aisle of the room. Our bedroom was bare except for steel-frame bunkbeds, lockers, and barracks boxes. We lived like real soldiers in the dormitory for no reason I'd been able to work out. Thankfully, I kept most of my few personal belongings in my office. Every cadet had a spacious and private office across the grounds. I didn't know if it was because of the terrible academic environment, produced by jamming so many boys together, or just another elitist pretension. I also didn't care; suspecting that without the haven my office provided, I'd have lost-it early in the year. Since Day One, I'd adhered to a strict policy of not returning to the dormitory until lights-out.

"...tention," Sergeant Olsen screamed from the doorway.

A roomful of boot heels stomped floor.

The sergeant, another student, three years our senior, began his slow, drawling inspection. It was the same deal every morning: flaws would be found, yelling and name calling would ensue. Almost certainly, I'd have spittle sprayed across my face. I didn't hold it against him. Most of my classmates dreamt of the day when the combat boot might be on the other foot and they'd get to chew-out the next round of junior cadets. As we were members of a pretend military, most of the standard material came from Platoon or Full Metal Jacket.

I had no aspirations, beyond being left alone, but I wasn't judgey. Even the petty bullying of my roommates didn't get me down. Over my nine years of education, I'd attended a grand total of seventeen schools, and, in seven days, Hightower would become the first one where I'd finished a school year at the same place I'd started it.

Would I return in September and move to the high school dormitory? Unknown. I didn't even know where I'd spend my summer holidays. Likely, it'd be at either my mother's or my father's residence. There had been the one year when I'd gone to summer camp, so...

I returned my thoughts to the present as the sergeant finished his tirade, "...and I've never seen boots like these, Private. You can consider yourself on report, and those just bought you a month of KP."

As I said, school ended in a week. Math wasn't Corey Olsen's thing. There was no KP duty either. He was enjoying himself, so I kept quiet.

"One hundred demerits for the lot of you," he finished.

A hundred was a crapload of demerits. For students who cared about their ranking at the school, it represented a devastating blow affecting promotion. Not caring about pretend promotion was one of the few things I had in common with my roommates. Sergeant Olsen stormed off to the next room in all of his outraged glory.

"Best one yet," Donny said with a snicker.

The shared grins told me that everyone had enjoyed the show. I ignored them and left for the mess and my breakfast—giving more reaction would only encourage more pranks. I'd dealt with real bullying at other schools. Those guys were small potatoes.

***

I hit pause and stopped the movie on my laptop, mid-action. Again someone knocked at my office door, which was a first. Lights-out was still hours away. A younger cadet stood waiting on the other side. I'd never met the kid before, or had forgotten his face.

"Mail call, sir."

Junior students called the senior ones, sir, regardless of rank. He offered me a thick manila envelope accompanied by a crisp salute. Then, with mission accomplished, he spun on his heel. I'd never received mail before. Heck, I didn't know there was a mail call. Who sent letters? I returned to my desk to find out.

The envelope contained a smaller, unsealed envelope, a pair of airline tickets, and a modest stack of hundred dollar bills. I picked up the second envelope. A single word was written on the outside in my mother's handwriting: Jack. Which—not coincidentally—is my name. I hadn't gotten as much as an email from either parent since starting at the Hightower Military Academy, but there was nothing unusual about that.

I unfolded the letter.

Enclosed are airline tickets, and sufficient funds for taxis and meals. You will travel to your grandmother's home when the term ends. A car will collect you on Friday at 5:30 p.m. in front of the school's main gates. From now on, to add a measure of stability and consistency to your upbringing, you will live at Glastonbury Manor.

If you're wondering where the 'Dear Jack' or the 'Love Mom' was... well, I hadn't enjoyed a touchy feely upbringing. I'd gone to so many schools because my parents moved frequently, for their jobs, and neither liked having me around for too long. You might think I'd be teary, having parents who were nothing more than polite strangers, but I was used to it. I'd had a lot of nannies, daycare, and assorted minders over the years. Moving again, and going to live with my grandmother, wasn't a big shock.

Besides, I had no friends to leave behind. Years before, I'd stopped trying to make friends; plus I wasn't great at it.

I'd only met my grandmother three times in my whole life and knew little about her. She was my mother's mother, and my other grandparents were dead. I'd met none of them.

The big upside of the whole deal... it looked like I wouldn't be returning to military school.