Chapter 4: Reader Beware

This is why you start at the front of a book instead of skipping around. So what is that warning for? Is it supposed to scare the reader? And this—why is a small envelope attached to the page below it?

My paranoia flared again as I moved my fingers to lift the flap.

This time, it was accompanied by a shaking hand and a dreadful compulsion to scan my surroundings.

I soothed my inescapable urges and looked up, catching several students swiftly averting their stares. I latched the book shut and zipped it back into my bag.

Damn it! Here comes a security guard. They must think I’m tweaking.

I exhaled slowly—

But he walked past me.

This is crazy. Why are all these rent-a-cops here? Something’s off!

“God! Billy, you are an unfolding tragedy.”

The voice of my cousin, Becca Bramwell-Gates, set my nerves on a different path—one that led straight toward irritation. I felt justified stashing away the book.

She stood right before me—way too close to my personal space.

I couldn’t help but notice, and I hated to admit it.

Becca never failed to impress.

Unlike me, she was a shining symbol of our family’s social status—beyond kempt, dressed only in designer clothes, and with makeup and hair that looked as if she had walked off the set of a big-budget film.

Before I could respond to her opening dig, she sat down beside me and pressed her index finger to my lips.

“Wait! Take a mint before you respond.”

Becca handed me a mint.

I flicked it to the ground without hesitation.

I’m not stupid.

It had to be some sort of enchanted poison.

Back in the day, she used to role-play with me, and she was a very nasty sorceress.

“No thanks, Becca. If I’m lucky, my bad breath might ward you off.”

“If not that, the slight dungeon musk that seems to accompany you might. Why haven’t you been to the mansion in a while? What’s the matter, Billy? Aren’t you glad to see your dear cousin?”

“You want the truth or the cordial family sentiment?”

“It would be nice if you addressed me with your proper family upbringing.”

“Okay. Eff off.”

“Billy, your dismissive banter was a bit intimidating when you gave me an academic challenge in high school. But I’m number one in this institution. So, one word: inefficace.”

“Don’t you have an after-school activity to lord over? Why are you bothering me?”

“Just to give you some advice, cousin. I heard what happened to you. You know, I get that you are a geek. Look at you. Tacky. Dirty sneakers. The typical faded T-shirt with a fissured animation decal. And the hair—don’t get me started. Seriously, you are not cute enough to work the druggie look. You just look like one. Go against type and clean yourself up. Maybe people would stop picking on you.”

“Negative hits followed by complimentary advice—classic seduction! So drop the save-a-geek spiel and cut to the chase. What do you want?”

“Ah, what the hell? You know me too well. So, where’s the book? I want to see what caused all the commotion.”

“Mrs. Nelson-Perkins kept it.”

I betrayed my lie when I instinctively tightened my arms around my backpack. I had to be careful. Becca had a way of getting things from me.

“Stop lying. Let me see it.”

The metaphorical tug-o’-war nature of our relationship turned into a literal one.

“Give me the bag.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No. Stop it, Becca.”

“What? Are you going to tell Mr. Shulenmeyers, you little brat?”

Her words instantly dragged up a memory of Becca and me as kids.

Where she had stood, I saw a grinning miniature version of her, playfully saying, “Lil brat.”

And I remembered—her crooked smile had been the beacon of my day.

But now, it was just another reason I chose to avoid her so often.

I wanted to forget.

But much like The Nameless One, she would never let me.

Then—poof—the mirage of my favorite cousin gave way to the self-serving debutante she’d become, so obsessed with the elite game.

I never understood why she caved to our family’s garbage.

We were supposed to change things.

In that brief drift of reminiscing, Becca struck.

“I want to see that book!”

Her hands lunged at my backpack.

I’ll give it to her—it was a solid effort.

But all she managed to do was tear my left strap a bit.

Her aggression was a stern reminder: I always needed to keep my guard up around her.

“Why the hell do you want to see a Lords of Omni guidebook so bad?

You don’t even role-play anymore.”

Her eyes narrowed, flickering with desperate curiosity and a hint of confusion.

Then the creak of a door opening drew our attention to Mr. Shulenmeyers, the Dean of Bramwell-Gates Arts Institute.

Our match was over. Becca lost.

We sprang apart, wide-eyed and innocent.

I imagined we must’ve looked like children trying to hide a scuffle from their parents.

Becca quickly produced a small handheld mirror in front of her face and fixed a slight imperfection in her hair.

“Hello, Mr. Shulenmeyers. Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“It was until Billy got my golf trip canceled.”

“Sorry to hear. I’m not sure why he just can’t be the model student he used to be.”

In unison, they shared a disapproving glare in my direction.

Or was that just my paranoia?

It seemed like forever.

Becca redirected her small talk back to Mr. Shulenmeyers.

“Oh. Don’t forget our appointment tomorrow. The student council has—”

“Right. Tomorrow. I have some serious business to discuss with Billy here.”

“Looking forward to our discussion. Have a good rest of the day.”

A friendly but off-putting vibe was shared between them—something in the shadows.

I started to examine it, but I shifted away. No doubt it concerned the precious Bramwell-Gates name.

Pulling away from Mr. Shulenmeyers, Becca leaned into me and whispered, “I’ll see that book one way or another. Bye, loser.”

She whipped around and, coyly, walked off.

Mr. Shulenmeyers motioned for me to come in.

I could sense, from his taut demeanor, that he was operating fully as the Dean, not the man who had helped me through the dark years after my mother’s death.

I entered and slipped into the chair by the window.

It was my favorite spot in the office. Over the years, I’d sat there on many occasions—sometimes as a youth sponsor, sometimes as an academic achiever—but mostly to visit my mother, Lauren Bramwell-Gates, former Dean of the institute.

I believe it was the warm sunlight filtering across the room that evoked my vision of her, seated behind the baroque wooden desk, calmly giving orders.

She had commanding yet lovely features, and I could hear her voice, stern but soothing.

Not to throw shade at Mr. Shulenmeyers, but his time in administration was mainly spent as a figurehead for the board and the student council.

“I must say, Billy, this is new territory for you. Every other time you have been in this office, it was to accept academic accolades. But to everyone’s disappointment, you fell off the achievement horse. Now it looks like you are trudging through muddy water. What’s this about you creating anarchy in Mrs. Nelson-Perkins’s class?”

“I was set up by He Whose Name is Not Spoken.”

“You can say Dane. It’s much easier.”

“Um, no.”

Mr. Shulenmeyers knew The Nameless One and my complicated history.

He had been there for all of it.

Our friendship.

Our rivalry.

The betrayal.

And he thoroughly washed his hands of it.

“Shh. Shh. Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“Listen. The noise, maybe a dog scratching. Hear it. Did you hear it?”

Mr. Shulenmeyers lifted a fancy pen from its tray.

Clicked it.

Clicked it again.

Then he started walking through his office.

It appeared he was trying to track the noise, clicking and walking. I was a little freaked out by his odd behavior.

“Back to the matter at hand. Where were we?”

Once again, I attempted to finish my recounting of the previous events, but I could tell he wasn’t listening.

Instead, he was feverishly shifting items around on the bookshelf, so I stopped speaking.

After a beat, I guess the silence got to him.

He shifted my way awkwardly and scooped up a jar of candies.

“Jelly bean? Jujube? Lemon drop? How about a hot red one? You love those.”

I passed on each confection and continued.

“Just because I implied that The Nameless One was stupid, he orchestrated the prank with the book.”

“Ah. The book. Do you mind?”

I pulled the book out of my backpack and handed it to Mr. Shulenmeyers.

He stopped chomping the candies.

Tilted his head.

And read the title.

“Rules of the Black Arts for Advanced Users.

So, this is the book?”

Before he finished his sentence, he’d turned pale.

Then, his urbane presence cracked into fidgety discomfort, and he tossed the book back at me as if it were going to give him a virus.

If that wasn’t enough, he turned, scanning side to side. A panicked expression shot across his face.

“You had to have heard that just then. It’s louder.”

“Uh. No.”

“No? No?”

He refocused on the book.

Click.

Click.

Click.

“Put it away. I don’t see the fuss.”

His words shortened my breath.

No way would I have called that from his weird reaction, but I played it cool.

“I want you to know… it’s not mine.”

“I love it when students tell me ‘It’s not mine,’ especially when they are caught red-handed. The campus druggie: ‘No, Mr. S., it’s not my pills.’ The campus pervert: ‘No, Mr. S., it’s not my camera filled with upskirt shots.’ And now the campus wizard. Do you get me?”

“But—”

As Mr. Shulenmeyers talked, he paced around and clicked the pen.

I could tell he was still trying to locate the scratching noises. I honestly heard nothing.

Wait, maybe it’s the book. Perhaps he’s having the same reaction as I did.

“Are you seeing any dark clouds filling the room?”

“Huh, what? Look, son, between you and me, I have my hands full with administrative minutiae, overseeing this ridiculous We! Not Me! Rally!—and boosting security to fend off panic.”

Mr. Shulenmeyers gestured to the scattered files and documents dressing his desk, then twisted his computer monitor toward me.

Right there, full screen: the trending story of the recent campus muggings, complete with an ominous rendering of an obscured person in a hoodie holding a bat.

The headline read, “Living in Fear of the Campus Slugger.”