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The Intermediaries: Saint Nicholas: The Intermediaries, #3
The Intermediaries: Saint Nicholas: The Intermediaries, #3
The Intermediaries: Saint Nicholas: The Intermediaries, #3
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The Intermediaries: Saint Nicholas: The Intermediaries, #3

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“Look at me.

I’m right here.

I’m not leaving you.”

A national tragedy at a school in Washington. A boy bullied and abused in Maryland. A girl suddenly collapses in Illinois. The search for a special gift in Nebraska. A homeless man struggles against the cold in Pennsylvania. A heartbreaking loss and a deadly new threat in Texas. A man questioning his life in Massachusetts.

And, in the city of Norbury, the mystery of the Intermediaries continues to unravel. But, with Christmas fast approaching, another legendary being shows his face…

Saint Nicholas.

Welcome to The Intermediaries: Saint Nicholas. Even on Christmas Eve, Santa Claus is not the only one who is watching.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateAug 28, 2016
ISBN9781536576269
The Intermediaries: Saint Nicholas: The Intermediaries, #3

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    The Intermediaries - Taylor Dye

    The Intermediaries: Saint Nicholas

    Taylor Dye

    Samanedna

    The Intermediaries: Saint Nicholas

    Copyright © 2016 by Taylor Dye

    Cover Art and Design by Najla Qamber Designs najlaqamberdesigns.com

    Map and Graphic Flourish by Streetlight Graphics, LLC streetlightgraphics.com

    All rights reserved.

    No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner, in any form, or by any means, without the consent and written permission of the publisher.

    Samanedna Publishers

    samanedna.com

    This story is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to lend the story a sense of reality and authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, places, and all dialogue and incidents contained therein, are the product of the author’s imagination.

    Previous Titles by Taylor Dye

    THE INTERMEDIARIES: BEAT & CASE

    THE INTERMEDIARIES: REDEMPTION

    FEAR INTO DARKNESS

    To my family and friends, and their families and friends

    To Imani

    And to you, the reader

    Santa Map DaySanta Map Night

    The Intermediaries: Saint Nicholas

    Saint Nicholas

    December 11

    TWO CHILDREN DOWN, at least.

    One teacher.

    One police officer.

    More wounded.

    The blond man shouted with a frenzied exuberance, stalking the wide corridor, his assault rifle in his grip, the strap hanging off his shoulder.

    Yeaaah-whoo!

    He appeared to be dressed for combat‌—‌cargo pants, layered clothing, and a bullet-resistant vest over it all.

    The emergency alarms running the length of the hallway all blared as one ear-piercing sound, strobe lights flickering, lighting up the passageway in bright flashes.

    The man didn’t hear the alarms, nor could he see the flashing crisis lights.

    I want those Muslims! Come on, throw ‘em out here! he shouted, a maniacal smile on his face.

    The hallways, by now, were deserted.

    No problem. This was the fun part.

    DETECTIVE OLIVIA HERNANDEZ cut her sirens as she sped around the last corner, Vancouver Sky Middle School coming into view. From the outside, the building appeared peaceful…‌

    …‌Except for the undulating lights activated around the building, evidence of the alarms going off both inside and out.

    Hotel 7 and Rover 15 on scene, she said into her radio. 15, you take the North entrance. I’ll go south.

    Copy that, came Officer Lance Bowman’s reply.

    Olivia watched Bowman’s patrol car split off in her rearview mirror, entering into the first parking lot, which was already filled with the vehicles of school employees. She continued on the road flanking the school before turning off in the next driveway, which led up a long semi-circle pattern toward the south entrance. She could hear the police dispatcher continuing her attempts to contact anyone in the school.

    Dispatch to Vancouver Middle, please respond…‌Dispatch to Vancouver Middle, please respond, over…‌

    She came to a quick stop at the point nearest the school building and exited her car, but not before grabbing extra ammunition and her radio, which she clasped to her hip and turned down low. Her eyes remained unwavering on the school as the car door shut.

    Still, no movement, no sign of life inside or out. The crisis alarms continued to ring, the lights positioned along the walls of the building flashing in bright white.

    CLAY TRACEY MOVED down the hall, the emergency alarms blaring infuriatingly loudly in his ear. They must have been a relatively recent addition to the school, as he didn’t remember any such alarms when he was a student at Vancouver Sky—

    Hey! You there!

    Clay turned immediately, his finger already pulling the trigger back as he rotated, shots emerging from his automatic weapon in a quick, continued burst, peppering lockers with loud bangs and—

    But there was no one behind him.

    He was breathing hard, pure adrenaline having already replaced the blood pumping through his veins.

    He started to turn back.

    Crack! Crack!

    The first shot whizzed by his left ear, missing it by centimeters, the heat singeing, popping the air as it passed.

    The second shot cut into his arm. Not a direct hit, but deeper than a simple graze.

    Clay cried out, turning back swiftly, his finger squeezing hard. The bullets cut staccato as he ran, catching just a glimpse of someone duck back behind a corner at the other end of the empty hallway. He imagined it to be a police officer, but he couldn’t be sure…‌

    Come out here! he shouted, still approaching, angry now. Come out here and get this!

    How did you arrive at this point, Clay Tracey?

    The young man startled, the calm voice alarmingly close, seemingly right against his ear, though there was no one beside him. He turned around anyway‌—‌quickly, fully, a complete three sixty‌—‌before resuming his advance toward the corner, now moving close to the wall, his steps slowing down, his rifle raised.

    How did you get here?

    The voice again. This time, Clay tried to ignore it.

    A head began to peek around the corner—

    Clay fired on sight.

    IN ANOTHER WING of the school, the blond-haired man fired a few more shots into the ceiling.

    Whoo-hoo! You know who we came here for! You know who! Bring ’em out! Whoo, bring ’em out!

    His laugh was maniacal, unstable, uncontrolled.

    He took a few steps forward, approaching another classroom door. He stuck the muzzle of his rifle against the window. The room appeared empty‌—‌like the rest of them.

    He squeezed.

    The bullets tore through the partition, shattering it instantly, the screams of the hidden children now readily apparent. He started to reach his hand in through the now bare window—

    Grrr.

    A growl.

    Low. Rumbling. Menacing.

    The man quickly looked to his right, spotting the massive dog in the hallway a few classroom doors down.

    A flash of fear went through the man’s body before the adrenaline rush quickly surged again. The man quickly swung his weapon toward—

    Don’t do it.

    Behind him. He turned again, quickly.

    The soft voice came from a young girl. Long, blond hair.

    She stared at the man calmly, as though everything were okay. As though he didn’t have a deadly weapon intended to kill people‌—‌children‌—‌in his hands right at that moment—

    He raised the rifle, leveling it on the girl.

    See ya later, he uttered, the sick grin presenting itself once again. He was back in control.

    Or so he thought.

    THE THIRD SHOOTER‌—‌a man with darker hair‌—‌was attempting to unlock a classroom door by thrusting his hand through the now blown-out window, similar to what his partner had been attempting in another hallway. However, it was proving more difficult than he expected.

    Come unlock this door! he bellowed. I know you’re hiding in there!

    Freeze! someone shouted. Put the weapon—

    The man swung and fired, the volley of bullets as deafening as the alarms continuing to scream through the air. He saw a glimpse of the cop just before the officer lunged back behind the corner at the end of the hall.

    The man turned quickly back to the closed door, raising a foot to kick—

    Unexpected movement directly beside him caused him to recoil, shifting his gun as fast as he could manage, the overflow of adrenaline causing his vision to turn slightly red along the edges.

    A brown-skinned Mexican boy. Grinning…‌

    The dark-haired man shot the boy multiple times in the chest almost as soon as he laid eyes on him—

    —before the man himself fell, Officer Lance Bowman, at the end of the hall, downing him with two shots.

    In the back of the head.

    Bowman and the now-dead shooter were the only ones in the corridor.

    THE BLOND-HAIRED girl did not flinch, completely undisturbed by the gun pointed at her.

    The absolute calm illustrated on her charming features caused the man to hesitate.

    Rrwoof!

    The man flinched, the deep, rumbling, menacing bark now much closer than before. He started to turn yet again…‌

    Hold it! Detective Hernandez ordered, her firearm trained in the man’s direction. Put the gun down right now!

    The man was briefly confounded. The large dog had suddenly vanished. How—

    I said drop it! Olivia yelled over the alarms, taking another step closer. Drop your weapon!

    The blond-haired man glanced quickly to his other side again.

    The girl had disappeared as well.

    This is your last warning! Olivia called to him. Drop your weapon!

    The man turned back around slowly.

    Olivia kept her sights squarely on her target.

    The smile gradually came across the man’s face once again.

    I’m going to put my weapon down now…‌

    The gun aimed downward, he began to reach for the strap on his shoulder, the detective closely watching his every move.

    He murmured something, his voice much too low for Olivia to make out—

    She shot him‌—‌once, twice‌—‌aiming lower than what had been constantly preached at the police academy, rushing toward the man at the same time.

    He had been pulling a grenade from somewhere along his shoulder harness.

    OFFICER BOWMAN’S VOICE, quiet, nearly whispering, sounded across Channel 1.

    Rover 15, one SUP down. Second wing off north entrance.

    Detective Hernandez’s update followed.

    Hotel 7, one SUP down. Interior hall beyond south entrance near room 702. Two J-DOAs near south entrance. Be advised, SUPs may be carrying grenades or handheld explosives.

    J-DOA was Juvenile-Dead On Arrival.

    CLAY TRACEY MOVED past the dead school resource officer, venturing out into one of the main hallways. Even as he walked, he trembled, sweating profusely, his mind racing, uncontrolled and uncontrollable. His eyes flitted around, unable to focus on anything for longer than a split-second, his breaths emerging in brief, stilted pants.

    He had killed a cop.

    He had heard the gunshots in other sections of the school. But there was no way to tell who was shooting who.

    Clay approached the bathrooms—

    The voice.

    Choices. That is all there is, Clay. Choices. Are you happy with yours so far?

    What? Clay bellowed at the top of his lungs over the blaring alarms, turning around, searching for the source of the voice and finding nothing again. Who is that? Stop talking! Come out here and say that to me!

    Clay?

    Clay quickly turned around.

    A young boy had appeared from the bathrooms just ahead. Clay, recognizing the voice, and the face, was instantly infuriated.

    What are you doing here, Ben? I told you to stay at—

    Benjamin—

    Both boys heard the shout, cut off at the end, coming from the closed door across the hall.

    It looked to be a custodial closet.

    Get back! Go back in the bathroom! Clay ordered his younger brother, beginning to move toward the closed door.

    What are you doing? Benjamin cried. Why do you have that gun?

    Do you want your brother to remember you like this, Clay? the mysterious, disembodied voice asked.

    Freeze! Drop your weapon!

    OLIVIA COULD HEAR the communication going on over her radio as more officers arrived on scene. The majority of her attention, however, lay with the second shooting suspect she had encountered since entering Vancouver Sky Middle School, this one in the central hallway…‌

    …‌with a kid, most likely a student, only a few feet away.

    I said drop it! she yelled again, her arms flexing as she trained her department issue at the young shooter. Even with the distance separating them in the hallway, his youth, especially when compared to the blond-haired man she had encountered moments before, was obvious.

    Also obvious was the young man’s agitation.

    Get outta here! the young man shouted back, beginning to raise his gun. I’m not listenin’ to no Spic—

    No, Clay! the small boy near him exclaimed, running and pushing at the shooter.

    No! Olivia yelled to the boy, her aim remaining on Clay.

    One of Clay’s hands was on the doorknob of the closet.

    Down! came a shout from behind the detective.

    OFFICER BOWMAN ACTIVATED his radio again.

    Rover 15. There’s an officer down near the first east wing entrance, near the auditorium doors. I think he’s 10-19—

    Bowman ended his call abruptly. Movement in the corner of his vision attracted his attention.

    He thought he was seeing things, even as the tail disappeared around the corner, and he stood from his crouch over the body of the dark-haired shooter in order to follow.

    I’ve got a puppy in the hallway, he spoke into the radio quickly, his other hand gripping his gun, ready, raised.

    The piercing sounds of the alarms had faded into the back of his consciousness, blending into a white noise that seemingly heightened his concentration rather than distracted from it. He controlled his breathing as he neared the corner, not knowing exactly what he was about to face…‌

    …‌but ready for it anyway.

    He lowered his gun slightly so he could peek around the edge.

    A fleeting, blink-of-an-eye glimpse, and then he retracted his head before quickly stepping out into the hall, his gun raised once again.

    Olivia, facing toward the far end of the hall, her weapon pointed—

    —and a second shooter, behind her, raising his own automatic rifle—

    No! shouted Olivia.

    Down! Bowman called.

    And, as though they had rehearsed it, at the sound of Bowman’s voice, Olivia immediately ducked out of the way.

    Bowman fired.

    BENJAMIN’S SHOVE INCREASED the pressure on Clay’s trigger finger.

    Argh! Clay grunted, the gun beginning to fire at the same time, drowning out Bowman’s gunshot further down the hall.

    The hard and unexpected recoil from the automatic weapon, however, brought Clay’s arm up, toward his kid brother—

    A flash.

    No one saw it.

    SEEMINGLY OUT OF thin air, a young, dark-haired girl was hugging Benjamin just as the gunfire erupted.

    It’s okay, she whispered in his ear, her mouth close, her voice calm, clear.

    The bullets tore through them.

    THROWING HERSELF TO the ground, Hernandez heard the gunshot behind her a split-instant before the automatic firing in front.

    Her eyes remained on the young shooter ahead of her.

    The rifle firing…‌the small boy beside him falling…‌

    The detective’s gun fired as she aimed squarely at the shooter’s bullet-resistant vest. He toppled backwards after being jolted by the shots, letting go of his weapon in the process.

    And, as quickly as the firefight began, it was over.

    The alarms blared, suddenly loud again, though they had never actually stopped.

    Olivia quickly glanced behind her, seeing another man down. Bowman standing farther down the hall.

    Then, back to the child.

    BENJAMIN…‌

    The voice was floating, relaxed and ethereal…‌but he recognized it. Still, he continued to lay crumpled on the ground.

    Benjamin…‌

    The voice was Beat’s. She was there…‌holding onto him…‌where had she come from?

    Benjamin, you’re not dead. You can open your eyes. Don’t be afraid…‌

    On the floor, Benjamin’s eyelids twitched, but remained shut.

    Benjamin, I’m going to count to three, Beat’s voice told him. One, three.

    Benjamin’s eyes opened suddenly.

    Gasping.

    Pain.

    Heat.

    He couldn’t hear anything. The world was silent.

    There was a woman above him, looking down…‌multiple faces now, and he was being lifted up…‌

    …‌A glimpse of…‌Clay, his brother, facedown on the ground, being handcuffed…‌

    Benjamin’s eyes were beginning to grow heavy again. The pain…‌

    Another glimpse of…‌he recognized them…‌Harry…‌and Heather…‌and Connor…‌his classmates…‌his…‌friends…‌

    But where…‌how…‌what happened to…‌

    Beat…‌

    But it came out in a jumbled gurgle. He couldn’t speak. It hurt too much. It took too much energy…‌

    The paramedics rushed him down the hallway of the school as he dipped below consciousness once more.

    BENJAMIN!

    Benjy!

    The three young children that had been found in the closet were hysterical, more so as they saw the wounded boy being carried away quickly on the stretcher. Detective Olivia Hernandez held them back from chasing after him as she attempted to calm them down.

    It’s okay. He’s going to be all right.

    But there was absolutely no way she could know that for certain. She had seen the small boy‌—‌Benjamin‌—‌take multiple bullets at almost point-blank range, fired from a high-powered and deadly automatic rifle.

    He’s going to be all right was a prayer more than a statement of fact.

    Vancouver Police Department officers and EMS members were now teeming the hallways of the school.

    The piercing emergency alarms had been silenced.

    Saint Nicholas

    HELICOPTERS THUNDERED THROUGH the air overhead, an overarching symbol to the newsworthy events that had taken place at the school earlier in the day.

    The scene of the press conference, with Vancouver Sky Middle School in the near background, was nearly as frenzied as the tragedy that had unfolded inside the brick walls of the building. A multitude of reporters and journalists were already present, with throngs more‌—‌from both national and international press bureaus‌—‌descending upon the city in the forthcoming days. With darkness looming, the reddish sun beginning its slow descent below the horizon and throwing reds, oranges, yellows, purples, and deeper blues into the sky it left behind, the massive amount of artificial lighting‌—‌stationary and attached to cameras‌—‌was a powerful substitute, bathing the site in a bright, antiseptic white. Facing the lights, cameras, and spectators from behind the podium that was set up, the shine was nearly blinding.

    And there were more than just reporters at the scene. Officers and investigators from a variety of agencies were on hand, an active investigation of the school and surrounding grounds still very much underway. A number of them were inside the school as the press conference continued outside, combing and combing again every surface the shooters, victims, and first responders did or could have encountered in an effort to piece together everything that had happened exactly as it happened, from every angle, down to the second.

    Law enforcement officials were the only ones allowed inside a building intended for those much younger. That would remain true for the foreseeable future.

    More officers were stationed around the school property in a perimeter to maintain some semblance of control and to manage who went where and for how long. Concerned and curious citizens not directly involved in the shooting congregated around the location of the press conference as well, adding to the commotion.

    Those citizens that were directly involved had far more important places to be.

    I would say again, for the fifth time, the Vancouver Police Department spokeswoman declared into the bevy of microphones situated on the podium as she looked out into the sea of faces and flashes, "that we are not, at this moment, disclosing any information regarding the number, identities, or condition of either the shooting suspects or the victims of the events that have taken place here, nor have we yet determined exactly when we will divulge such information. A safe estimate, however, would be not to expect anything in the next twenty-four hours."

    There was a tumult as a few dozen reporters shouted questions toward the spokeswoman at the same time. After a few moments, one voice became clear over the rest.

    Will you be releasing the names of the initial responding officers at that time as well?

    From the video monitors, the spokeswoman could be seen looking back to the officials standing behind her, among them the mayor of Vancouver and the city’s police chief. The sounds of cameras clicking as pictures were taken and the general noise of so many people in one place were, momentarily, the only sounds heard.

    The spokeswoman turned back to face the cameras.

    There are two school resource officers assigned to all each school in the Vancouver Public School system at all times. I will not comment on the condition or whereabouts of these two officers at this time. I am able to disclose that Detective Olivia Hernandez and Officer Lance Bowman were the first officers, excluding the two SROs, on the scene.

    This revelation caused an even greater uproar of questions. Nearly five seconds elapsed before the next question could be clearly heard.

    Can you tell us the condition of Detective Hernandez and Officer Bowman and if and when they will be made available for comment?

    The spokeswoman turned her head again. The chief of police turned as well, glancing off to the side. Those in attendance at the press conference could follow his gaze and guess as to whom exactly he was looking at, but those watching the feeds from the broadcast cameras were at a loss.

    The chief gave a faint nod to…‌whomever.

    The camera flashes intensified as a woman‌—‌Hispanic, shorter, with an alluringly tanned complexion‌—‌and the man behind her‌—‌white, taller, his strapping build still attired in his VPD jacket and uniform‌—‌came to stand beside the spokeswoman. Both the detective and the patrol officer squinted their eyes against the continued onslaught of light and flashes.

    Detective Hernandez and Officer Bowman are available to answer a few questions, the spokeswoman said, before stepping to the side.

    As soon as Olivia and Bowman were at the forefront and center-stage, the avalanche of questions began again. It was eventually narrowed down to one.

    Can either of you give us your initial thoughts and feelings regarding what went on today? And what you are feeling right now?

    For the longest time, neither Olivia nor Bowman spoke.

    Saint Nicholas

    IMANI WAS MILES high in the air, just below the invisible boundary between Earth’s atmosphere and outer space, amidst the night, the stars of far away twinkling above and all around her. She was flying in a shallow parabola, following the gentle curvature of the Earth, and she was flying incredibly fast. She was dressed in her usual all black, further blending into the darkness surrounding her, her dark shades shielding her eyes from anyone that could see her—

    —which was no one.

    Her ear monitor was in place.

    Emily Hendricks, she stated, her voice calm and completely unaffected by the breakneck velocity she was travelling, or the lack of oxygen. Do you remember her?

    Yes, Anastasios answered. Why?

    Who were your objectives? Who was in your handbook?

    Cole Gentry was primary, Emily Hendricks was secondary. Why?

    And Beat and Case had Emily? asked Imani.

    With Cole light secondary. Why? Anastasios asked again.

    You ever come across the name Dexter Toohey?

    No.

    Tatum?

    Tatum what?

    Tatum Toohey.

    No. Why?

    Imani was quiet for a moment, contemplating, as she sped through the thin, night air.

    That’s new, she observed.

    What?Anastasios asked.

    You typically don’t ask so many questions.

    Neither do you.

    Imani’s lip twitched faintly, the very initial beginnings of a smile. For her, it was close enough.

    Serious? Anastasios asked.

    I don’t know yet, Imani answered.

    Keep me in the loop if you get something.

    Who is this? Imani asked mockingly.

    You’ve piqued my curiosity, Anastasios responded.

    It involves people you don’t really care for, Imani explained. You know, humans? You sure you want to be kept in this theoretical loop?

    She could almost feel the contempt flowing through the earpiece.

    Like I said, Anastasios finally managed in a controlled tone, you’ve piqued my curiosity.

    I guess that’s something, at least, she acknowledged.

    She was crossing the westernmost part of the African continent and racing westward.

    And, a few seconds later, she was over the Atlantic Ocean.

    Saint Nicholas

    GENERALLY SPEAKING, THE girls’ sporting events at Norbury High School‌—‌and indeed, at most high schools‌—‌were not as well attended as their male counterparts.

    That detail had been turned on its head after the first week of school in Norbury, and mainly because of two freshmen student-athletes in particular.

    The Norbury High gymnasium was buzzing, a thick, electric atmosphere as the opening tip-off of the girls’ basketball game loomed closer. The bleachers inside the gym were already jam-packed, as were most of the available standing areas against the walls and bleacher supports overlooking the playing court. Students, faculty, and fans from the home, visiting, and neighboring schools were in attendance, the varsity contest treated almost like a show, a carnival, a festival unto itself, drawing the attention of so many when there were so many other entertaining distractions to choose from…‌

    Like something on television, for instance.

    As the Norbury Buccaneers and the visiting Falmouth Clippers performed their warm-up drills on the court, Jace Christiansen‌—‌the starting quarterback of Norbury’s football team, the starting center of the boy’s hockey team, the starting midfielder of the boy’s lacrosse team, and, at least before the school year began, the most popular athlete on the Norbury campus‌—‌took his seat between his friend and teammate Michael Everett and an older woman with a full head of sandy-blonde hair. The woman, Ms. Sandy Ellsbury, took the proffered bag of popcorn from the handsome boy with a smile, the music pumping through the gymnasium’s speakers loudly and seemingly designed to turn a large group of people in confining quarters into a frenzied mass. Miss Sandy leaned in closer to Jace so he could hear her speak.

    "So, are you ready to see how a real game of basketball is supposed to be played?" she inquired.

    Jace smirked faintly.

    I think you’ve said that at the beginning of every game that I’ve been to when the hockey team isn’t playing, he replied.

    And you know I’m right, said Miss Sandy. Michael knows, too. These girls are going to put on a clinic tonight.

    One of the smaller, middle school-aged boys on Miss Sandy’s other side piped up amidst an enthused cheer from the crowd, which had witnessed an exciting move from one of the Norbury girls on the court. The game had not even begun and already the spectators were on the edge of their seats.

    Falmouth has a good team this year, Colby Brown observed.

    His twin beside him nodded.

    We saw it online before we left the house, Caleb Brown declared. They’re averaging sixty-eight points a game so far this year, and that’s second in the region.

    You said second? Michael intoned, leaning over and taking a small handful of Jace’s chocolate candy, ready to chuck them into his mouth. Who are they second behind?

    Who are they second behind? Trevor Martinez repeated beside Michael. I’ll give you a hint. The school’s name rhymes with Norbury, and we’re actually in their gym right now.

    Wait, wait, Gabriel Adams said alongside him. This is one of those brainteasers. Dude, I’m usually so good at these…‌

    Hi, Jace!

    The eager shout from a cluster of girls sitting higher in the stands caused Jace to turn around, scan quickly, and wave, revealing a charismatic smile that unintentionally resulted in even more girls calling out his name.

    Caleb glanced around, catching the flirtatious calls as well.

    What are they calling you Jace for? he asked.

    He then stood up on the bench, facing the hundreds of faces seated higher up.

    Everyone, his name is Julian! How can you not know that? He goes to your school!

    Beside him, Colby snickered, nearly falling off the bench.

    "It’s only a matter of time before you guys run out of names that begin with J and you have to start saying my actual name‌—‌which, by the way, I know you know," Jace said.

    Here we go, Norbury, here we go! Gabriel cheered, pumping his fist in the air. Here we go, Norbury, fight, fight, fight!

    What in the world are you doing? Michael asked, looking to the curly-haired boy quizzically. Don’t you want to save your bad cheers for when the game actually starts?

    Before Gabriel could form a reply, Colby, from the other side of Miss Sandy, said, Ooh, are you going to say that thing again, Mike?

    The middle schooler deepened his voice, and his brother, already aware of where he was going, started to laugh.

    ‘I need you here,’ Colby recited, gesturing with his hands just as Michael would do. "‘But right now, you’re way, way, way, way out there somewhere.’"

    Gabriel, Trevor, Jace, and Caleb burst into hysterics. Michael chuckled lightly and shook his head. Another cheer arose from the crowd.

    Oh, man! Gabriel managed, laughing so hard his eyes were watering. That’s, like, a dead-on impression, dude! Look at his facial expressions!

    Oh my, Miss Sandy announced, her attention focused down on the basketball court. What is Presley Kennedy up to this time in that Captain Norbury outfit?

    When he puts on the clothes and the makeup, Trevor said, looking to the court as well, "it’s not a just an outfit, Miss Sandy. He is the Norbury Buccaneer."

    On the floor, Norbury High’s mascot, a roguish, sword-wielding

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