The Eighth Guardian (Annum Guard) Read online

  The first part is a twelve-hour written test that stretches through the wee hours of the morning. You’re quizzed on physics, biology, history, geography, calculus, computer programming—you name it. There are also ethics questions. Stuff like: You’re locked in a room with a known terrorist who has planted a bomb somewhere in Washington DC that is set to explode in thirty minutes. You have a drill, a pair of needle-nose pliers, and a gallon-size bucket of water. What do you do? (Here’s a hint: The correct answer involves none of those things.)

  After that come the physical challenges. They’re never the same, no matter how many years you go back. Every junior and senior at Peel is tested, although I don’t know why they bother to test the juniors. No one has graduated as a junior in more than thirty years.

  Still, I can’t ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach as I think of the man in the green tie who watched me so intently today. His piercing eyes flood my memory and make me shudder.

  “I couldn’t finish the first challenge,” I confess as I slide my head into that nook of Abe’s arm, an old, familiar spot.

  “That’s fine,” he assures me. “This is just a warm-up, remember? We get to do this again next year.”

  “I don’t think there’s going to be a next year for me.”

  Abe’s eyes are closed, but he opens one and gives me the side-eye with it. “Of course there is. We’re juniors.”

  “There was this man,” I say. “He was watching me all day.”

  Abe opens the other eye. “There were a bunch of people watching us.”

  “Not like this. This man was . . . intense. Creepy, even.”

  “Then he’s probably CIA,” Abe says. “They’re all like that.”

  I don’t say anything. I want to believe him. I mean, probably ninety percent of us go on to join the CIA. We’re drafted at eighteen, and I have to admit, it’s a pretty sweet deal. They move us to Langley, and we go to Georgetown on their dime. But weekends aren’t spent binge drinking at frat parties or cramming for finals at the library. Weekends are spent in Mumbai or Mosul or Manila, breaking into banks or climbing into bedroom windows. Well, after six brutal months of additional training and next to no sleep, that is.

  We all assume that’s our future. Abe and I have always assumed it. We’ve been together for more than two years now, ever since the first week of freshman year, and we’ve been planning our next steps together for probably that long, too. Abe’s sure he’s going to be a technical intelligence officer in the science and technology arm (I’m dating a computer-engineering-stuff-that-makes-my-head-hurt genius), while I’ll be an operations officer in clandestine services. It’ll mean a lot of time apart, since he’ll be based in DC and I’ll be all over the world, but Abe’s even gone so far as to scout out the best areas in the capital for us to get an apartment to serve as our home base. You know, someday. (I’m also dating a poster boy for type-A personalities.)

  “Hey,” he whispers, gently turning my head to look at him. “Stop worrying. You’re not graduating.”

  “But—”

  “One word,” Abe interrupts. “Tyler Fertig.”

  “That’s two words.”

  “Tyler. Fertig,” Abe repeats. “If he didn’t graduate as a junior, you’re not going to.”

  I nod my head. He’s right. Of course he’s right. Two years ago, Tyler Fertig was a junior when we were freshmen. Pardon my French, Abe, but Tyler Fertig rocked the shit out of Testing Day like no one ever had before. He only missed one question on the written test—one—and outscored every single senior during the physical challenges. And yet at the banquet that night, where the names of the graduating students are called and blissful boys and girls trot to the stage to be handed an envelope containing an assignment, Tyler’s name was skipped. He was sitting at the next table over from me, and I can still picture his reaction. Shock, denial, then anger. He got up, pushed his plate across the table, and stormed out of the room. I never understood why he was so angry, but I guess I get it now. Testing Day sucks. He must have thought that for sure he wouldn’t have to do it again.

  Abe’s right. I’m not graduating.

  Tonight I’m going to sleep in my own bed, and tomorrow we’ll have Professor Kopelman’s International Relations class waiting for us. The fall is creeping to a close, and the holidays will be here before we know it. We’ll do Thanksgiving with my mom, Hanukkah with Abe’s family, then put in another quick appearance with my mom at Christmas. Just like last year. Just like next year.

  I nestle into Abe’s arm a little more, and he rolls to the side and envelops me.

  “I missed you today. I kept wishing you were there with me,” he whispers in my ear before he kisses my earlobe.

  “I have to smell like a dead cat.”

  He laughs and kisses my neck.

  “We’re not alone,” I whisper, though I wriggle myself closer to him.

  “We’re in a room full of hibernating bears.”

  “I kinda wish I was one of them right now.”

  Abe’s fingers interlace through mine. “I could get behind that plan.” He goes still and gets very quiet. But then a few moments later, in a voice barely more than a whisper, he says, “Love you, Mandy Girl.”

  I close my eyes. “I love you too, Abey Baby.”

  And then I’m out.

  I’m woken by a high-pitched whistle screaming into my ears. I open the corner of one eye, and it protests in pain as light rushes in. I immediately close it. I haven’t slept long; that much is clear. Beside me, Abe grumbles.

  “You have to be kidding, right?” He slowly pushes himself up. “Ugh, six o’clock?”

  “A.m. or p.m.?” I ask. My body already knows the answer.

  “P.m.,” Abe confirms.

  “Juniors and seniors!” a voice booms. I force myself to open my eyes and sit up, then lean into Abe for support. Headmaster Vaughn stands at the front of the dining hall, hands on his hips. “Testing Day is at an end, and decisions have been made. You all have one hour to shower, change, and get back here for the banquet.”

  People groan and grunt as they stand up. Abe stands first, then puts out his hands to help pull me up.

  “I wish we didn’t have to go to this stupid banquet.” Abe holds open the door for me. A gush of crisp fall air cuts right through me, and I hunch my shoulders and shiver.

  “Don’t you want to see who goes where?” I ask. We take the shortcut past the science building to the quad.

  “What’s the point? I think I could tell you where every senior is going. Look there”—he points to Regina Browne as she pulls open the door to her dorm hall—“CIA. And there”—Steven DiFazio, entering another hall—“CIA. Oh, and look over there”—Becca Stein, Jacob Wu, and Maria Bazan—“CIA, CIA, CIA.”

  “And what about this girl?” I point to myself.

  “CIA,” Abe says with a smile. “But not for another year.” We’ve stopped in front of Archer Hall, my dorm.

  “Are you sure?”

  Abe raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember what Samuels said our very first day of Practical Studies ever?”

  I do. We had been lined up against the wall, and Professor Samuels had gone up and down the line, critiquing our appearances—the way we looked—and making judgments based on them. That would not fly at any other school except for Peel.

  Samuels got to me, and his face had lit up in a smile. “You, my dear,” he’d said, “are what I like to call ethnically ambiguous. The CIA will snap you right up in four years for sure.” And then he’d moved down the line.

  I was confused at first—and a little insulted, if I’m being honest—but the more time I spent doing mock missions in class, the more I realized that maybe there was some truth to what Samuels had said. I inherited most of my features from my mother, who is Romanian and Moroccan by way of Spain (and then Brooklyn). I have her thick, wavy
, deep-brown hair, her thin nose, her strong cheekbones, and her medium skin tone. I was surprised to discover that with the right clothing and a little bit of makeup, I could pass for a number of different ethnicities.

  I guess what Professor Samuels said all those years ago is true. The CIA is my future.

  But I’m not asking Abe whether he thinks I’m CIA. I’m asking if he’s sure it will be next year. I don’t press him for another answer. But the green tie lingers in my mind.

  Abe bends down and plants a kiss on my forehead, then stands up. “You do kind of stink.”

  I playfully push him away. “Yeah, well, you’re no Abercrombie store yourself.” He flashes me another smile, then trots off toward Mace Hall, his dorm on the opposite side of the quad. I watch him jog for a few seconds before I push open the door. Someone’s got a fire going in the common room. It crackles and pops, and a couple of junior girls have collapsed into the armchairs in front of it. I don’t blame them. It’s so warm and inviting in the common room. But I also don’t want to be the one still stuck in line for the shower when the hot water runs out.

  I start up the stairs, looking at my mud-stained sneakers, and I don’t realize someone’s coming down until we’ve collided.

  “Gah! Sorry!” I say, looking up. It’s Katia.

  “Oh, hey,” she says, then immediately looks away, ducks her shoulders, and pushes past me.

  I grab on to her arm. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. Katia’s no shrinking violet. She’s gorgeous, with this (dyed) platinum-blond hair that hangs to her waist and legs that are four miles long. She’s one of the best students at Peel when it comes to hand-to-hand combat. No one is quicker with a knife. And she totally knows it. Katia doesn’t walk anywhere. She struts. She’s always the life of the party, always the friendly ear. She’s not the girl who ducks her head and tries to stay hidden. Not by a mile.

  “What’s going on?” I ask her.

  “Nothing,” she says. I know it’s a lie because she doesn’t try to loosen my grip on her arm. And she could. She could probably flip me over the banister this second.

  “Katia, what’s going on?”

  She lets out the softest sigh. “I don’t know.” I give her my toughest, I-haven’t-slept-in-forever-so-just-tell-me-already face. “Honestly. I don’t. I do know that there was a man who followed Headmaster Vaughn back to his office after Testing Day ended. I was in the administration building helping sort files. He said your name twice, but I couldn’t hear what they were talking about. Then they shut the door.”

  “And you don’t know anything else?”

  “No. Now can you let go of my arm so I don’t have to break your fingers?”

  I drop Katia’s arm. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding on to her so tightly. There are four red, finger-size welts on her bicep. “Sorry,” I mumble.

  Katia’s halfway across the hall.

  “Katia!” I call.

  She turns her head.

  “What color was his tie?”

  Katia scrunches her nose. “Vaughn’s?”

  I have to restrain myself from groaning. “No, the other man.”

  “Oh.” She thinks. “I’m not sure.”

  “Please try to remember. I mean, it’s not like they teach us superspecial skills of observation here or anything.”

  Katia cracks the smallest smile and closes her eyes. She opens them a few moments later. “Green. I’m almost positive it was green.”

  An invisible fist punches me in the gut. “Thanks,” I mutter. My heart sinks lower with each step I take up the stairs. As I stand in the shower and let the warm water spill over me, I think about what Abe said. And I think about Tyler Fertig. They’re not going to pick me tonight. They’re not.

  But the sinking feeling doesn’t wash away with the dirt and grime.

  I find Abe in the dining hall, sitting at our usual table. He tilts his head at the seat he’s saved me, and as I glide over to it, I look at Abe. Really look at him. He’s not what you would call conventionally handsome, with deep-set eyes, crooked teeth, and a nose that’s been broken so many times the doctors have given up. But to me he’s the most beautiful guy in the world.

  I slip into my seat just as Headmaster Vaughn takes the stage. Salads are already on the tables.

  Vaughn clears his throat and straightens his tie. His silver hair doesn’t budge as he leans toward the microphone. “A very talented, highly gifted group of individuals is going to graduate tonight.”

  Individuals. He said individuals. Not seniors. I rack my brain, trying to remember if he said individuals or seniors last year.

  “There were some choices made this year that surprised even me.”

  Surprises? Like . . . a junior being chosen? Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. I push the salad away and turn to Abe.

  “I love you,” I whisper.

  He tilts his head to me but doesn’t turn it. “Yeah, I love you, too.”

  Headmaster Vaughn continues. “But before we get to the specific assignments made this year, I invite you all to feast.” He opens his arms, and the kitchen staff carries out trays of silver-domed plates.

  “Will you wait for me?” My words are barely audible.

  Abe turns his head this time. “What are you talking about? Wait for you for what?”

  A waiter lifts the dome off a plate of pot roast and sets it before me, but I push it back. It clinks into my untouched salad plate.

  “If I graduate tonight. Will you wait for me?”

  Abe shakes his head. “Tyler Fertig,” he reminds me.

  “Abey, I’ve got this really funny feeling. It’s unnerving.”

  Abe puts down his fork and squeezes my hand. “Hey,” he says in the calm, reassuring voice I know so well, “it’s Testing Day. It’s meant to unnerve you. But I guarantee you that this banquet is going to be over in an hour, and you’ll be sleeping in your own bed tonight.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “You guarantee it?”

  “Yep.” He looks so sure, so confident. I don’t have the heart to tell him his pep talk did nothing to settle my nerves. So instead I smile.

  Abe pulls back his hand and stabs a potato with his fork before shoving it into his mouth. Then he turns to Aaron Zimmer on his left and jumps into a conversation about the water challenge this morning.

  I stare at my plate of food. I’m not hungry. I haven’t eaten since dinner the night before, but I can’t stomach the idea of food. I try to nibble on a carrot, then set it down. I’m going to throw up.

  Headmaster Vaughn takes the stage again after the dinner plates have been cleared and coffee and cheesecake are being set on the tables.

  “Congratulations to you all. Those of you graduating tonight have seen the ceremony before.”

  I press my legs together and start bouncing on my toes. His words are careful. He’s deliberately not saying seniors.

  “Assignments are strictly confidential”—though it’s pretty easy to guess—“so when I call your name, I will hand you an envelope, which you will read once you have proceeded to the back room. Look around, students, and say your good-byes now, because this is the last time many of you will be in this room.”

  Look around, students. I bend over and rest my elbows on my thighs. My legs bounce higher.

  Abe puts his hand on my back, then leans over next to me. “Are you all right?” There’s genuine concern in his voice.

  I shake my head.

  “Matthew Alder,” the headmaster calls. A boy from a few tables over gets up and walks to the stage as the crowd applauds.

  “Hey,” Abe whispers, “it’s fine. I promise.”

  It’s not fine.

  Headmaster Vaughn goes through rest of the As, then the Bs. Our school isn’t that big, so he’s flying through the alphabet. Once he gets to the Ms, I can’t breathe.

>   “Alyssa Morrison.” I hear a chair scrape back somewhere but can’t look.

  “Portia Nichols.” Closer. We’re getting closer.

  “Samita Nori.” And my heart stands still. Time slows to a halt. I suck in my breath. Here it goes. I have to be next. Please, I beg, please no. I’m not ready to say good-bye to Abe. Not yet. Not today.

  I look at Vaughn, willing him to skip to the Ps. Vaughn’s face goes very still, and he places two hands on the podium.

  He’s pausing.

  And then he opens his mouth.

  “Amanda Obermann.”

  No one claps. But just about everyone gasps. I feel every head in the room turn to look at me. The plates on the table swirl together in front of me, a mess of coffee and cheesecake. How is this happening? Why is this happening? I failed the water challenge. I must have finished in the middle of the pack. Why why WHY?

  Headmaster Vaughn clears his throat into the microphone. I don’t make eye contact with him, but I don’t have to. I can feel him staring at me. I look over at Abe. His mouth has fallen open, and his eyes are moist. He reaches over and squeezes my left hand.

  “Amanda Obermann,” the headmaster repeats with firmness.

  I push back my chair and stand. The sound of the chair scraping against the floor echoes throughout the stunned room.

  “I’ll wait for you,” Abe gasps. “And you wait for me. It’s just a year. Just a year.”

  I squeeze his hand back. “Just a year,” I whisper. Then I pull away and walk toward the stage. My legs trudge up the five steps and over to Headmaster Vaughn. His lips are pressed together in a smile as he hands me a plain white envelope with my name typed in the center. I take it and look out over my fellow classmates. They’re all wearing the same expression of shocked silence. I have to look away.

  Logic tells me I should be happy. I’m the youngest student to graduate in a generation. This is an honor. A privilege. But my heart wants to be back at the table next to Abe. Where I belong.

  The headmaster gestures offstage to the door leading into a meeting room. The dining hall is spinning. I stare at the American flag pin the headmaster wears on his left lapel to find my bearings, then at the bald eagle pin on his right—although I’m so dizzy it looks more like a hawk with a bad perm right now. My legs move again, taking one step, then another, on their own because my head’s not there. I glance back at Abe once more before I open the door. This is the last look I’m going to get for a year. He has his hand clenched into a fist over his heart, as if he’s fighting to keep it inside his chest. I make the same gesture and open the door.