Chapter 1

Maybe I could call in sick. With something fatal. Something so contagious the entire high school would contract it just by looking at me. Was there such a thing? I took out my phone. “Okay, Google. What is visual contagion?”

“Good morning, Robin.”

For half a second I thought my phone had learned my name. And started speaking in my mom’s voice. I entered the kitchen and found Mom standing by the stove, dunking a tea bag in her cup.

“Morning.” I set my messenger bag by the back door and took a seat at the kitchen bar.

Google had only come up with only one direct hit and was now blinking at me, waiting for something that would challenge its storage banks. The ‘contagion’ it offered wasn’t even a disease. It was some company in Vancouver that spread positive messages on organic hemp or bamboo T-shirts. Great. I ask for science, I get hippies.

“Do you think Visual Contagion would be a good name for a band?” I asked Mom as I scrolled through a few of the T-shirt pictures.

“Hmm,” Mom said, tapping her fingernail against her teacup. “A band that plays music?”

My turn to sit and blink. “What other kind is there?”

“Plenty. A wrist band. Hairband. Wedding band. Waistband.”

“Okay, okay.” She’d go on and on and then open the thesaurus app on her tablet if I didn’t stop her. It’s her marketing background. Details were very important. “Mom, guys don’t think about hairbands and jewelry. Yes, I mean a band that plays music.”

“Then I’d say no. Visual Contagion, great a name as it is, would not work for a musical group.” She took a sip of her tea, Irish breakfast according to the tag hanging from the string, as she contemplated. “Auditory Contagion could work. Audio? Audial?”

Auditory Contagion would indeed be a damn cool name for a band. Almost made me want to form one. Except I couldn’t play a single instrument. Not even that plastic flute thing they made us play in elementary school. I might be able to compose something on my computer though. I needed music for my video game anyway.

“Okay, Google. Popular music software.”

“Would you like some breakfast?” Mom asked. “Or are you just going to play with your phone until it’s time to leave?”

My mom wasn’t the most domestic person. She did like to feed people though, and when she took the time to make an actual meal, she was a great cook.

I set my phone in my lap and analyzed my hunger level. “Juice and toast with butter and jam. Two slices.”

“Two? You’re hungry today. What kind of tea?” She held up her Irish breakfast to me with a questioning look and wiggled the box as if that would lure me to the Celtic side.

“English breakfast, please. With cream and two sugar cubes.”

“Off to the range,” my dad said as he entered the kitchen and set a black case—smaller than a briefcase, larger than a lunchbox—on the gray marble counter.

“Before work?” Mom asked. “You’ll be late.”

He was never late. Being at his desk before those he supervised got there was a must for Dad. He insisted, “The boss should set the example.”

“I’m taking a couple of personal hours,” he said, as he plugged the first of two coffee pods into the machine to fill his travel mug. “My first meeting isn’t until ten today. I want to try out my birthday present. Want to come with me, Robin?”

Despite his many attempts over the years to lure me to the range, I didn’t share my dad’s enthusiasm for guns. His new one came with a built in laser site, though. The gun I could do without, but present me with a laser infused piece of technology, and I could understand his excitement.

“Thanks, but I do have a meeting before ten,” I said. “I have that test first thing today.”

“Finally,” Dad said. “I don’t understand the holdup on allowing you to take a placement test. You studied?”

“Of course he studied,” Mom said as though nothing could be more unthinkable than me not studying.

“I did,” I told them. “Don’t worry, I’ll pass.”

“They should put him directly into Calculus and Differential Equations,” Dad said.

“He could handle it,” Mom agreed, “but AP Calculus will be an easy A for him.”

“Good point,” Dad said and clapped me on the back, nearly knocking me off my stool. “Build that killer GPA. Get into the college of your choice and accumulate academic scholarships as well.”

Which college was still undecided. Dad wanted me to go to MIT, his alma mater, or UC Berkeley. Currently, my only plan was to survive high school.

“Don’t pressure him,” Mom said, setting a plate with my buttered and jammed toast on the placemat in front of me.

“I don’t need to pressure him. He’s a self-starter. Puts adequate pressure on himself.” Dad had his coffee mug in one hand and his new present in the other. “I’m off.”

“Don’t forget your briefcase,” I said and nodded to the dark-brown leather satchel sitting on the stool next to me.

“Ah, yes. I do need to go to work at some point today, don’t I?”

Mom stood by the door and watched as Dad drove off. Then she turned to me and gave me the look that said a discussion was coming.

“I assume you’ll tell me if anything is wrong, but I know how shut-mouthed teenagers can be, especially boys, so I’m checking to be sure.” She paused, steeling herself. “How have things been?”

Her eyes were bright and shining. Tears were ready to fall, but whether happy or sad depended on how I responded.

“Oh, you know.” I took a big bite of my sprouted wheat toast with huckleberry jam, samples from one of Mom’s clients, and gave her a closed-mouth smile and a thumbs-up.

She exhaled like she won the lottery. “I knew this move would be good for you.”

A little spot in my chest warmed at that sigh and then immediately fizzled. The nutty-buttery-sweet flavor that filled my mouth turned to cardboard. How could I possibly tell her that after all we’d gone through, things were only different, not better?

I’d get through this. I made it through my first nine years of school, I could make it through the last three. I needed a person. There had to be one person in this school I could consider a friend. Sitting alone in the lunchroom every day, too afraid to risk further harassment, was only enhancing the loner nerd reputation I just couldn’t shake.

While Mom studied her calendar, I finished my breakfast and put my dishes in the dishwasher.

“Hope you have a good day, sweetie,” Mom said. “I’d wish you good luck on your test but I know you don’t need it.” She glanced at the microwave clock and jumped. “I’ve got a video conference in an hour.” She looked down at her pink bathrobe with the tea stain down the front. “I should probably put some clothes on.”

She gave me a quick hug and shuffled off to get ready.

“Good luck,” I called, but she was already half-way up the stairs.

I hitched my messenger bag over my head and tugged on a stocking cap. It was chilly enough this morning for a hoodie, but it would warm up in no time. The hat would be good enough.

As I started the six block walk to the bus stop, I remembered that I never checked the results of my ‘popular music software’ request. I pulled out my phone and found a lot of options. I studied them as I walked, glancing up every few feet so I didn’t do something stupid like step into the pathway of a bicyclist. I’d only needed to do that once to learn my lesson. No, today my mistake was that I didn’t look behind me.

“Morning, Tweety.”

I stopped breathing and my gut tightened. I knew who it was without looking: Zane Zimmerman.

Zane was the school’s star athlete. I didn’t pay attention to sports, but even I knew Zane killed it on the pitching mound. He was about five-seven, an inch taller than me, and a good twenty pounds heavier. All muscle.

I was about to put my phone back in my pocket when I got bull rushed. He didn’t actually tackle me, this time, but did hit me hard enough to knock what little breath was in my lungs out of them and send my phone flying. It landed six feet away and slid down the sidewalk another two or three feet before coming to a rest, teetering on the curb like a jumper about to leap from a bridge.

“Careful, Tweety.” Zane said. “You should watch where you’re going.”

My breath returned as a gasp and I rushed to retrieve my phone—bent at the waist, duck-walking with my hands stretched out, dorky as hell—before someone stepped on it or kicked it out into the street. The screen had cracked. Great. Maybe I could convince my parents to upgrade to a phone with gorilla glass instead of just replacing the screen. Again.

“Oh, snap,” Zane said, making a dramatic aw-shucks motion. “Tough luck there, dude.”

Zane wasn’t just a bully. He was the really dangerous kind, in my opinion, because he was smart. Not just book smart but street smart, too. He knew when he could get away with stuff and when he had to wait to dole out his attacks. As far as the teachers and any other adult were concerned, Zane was a dream kid.

“Yeah,” I said. “Tough luck.”

Unfortunately, I was used to being harassed. It started years ago, in fifth grade, back in Wisconsin. I made the mistake of laughing at Cole, a meathead of a kid. He thought he was the greatest thing to ever attend Cleveland Heights Elementary. He was a boy’s boy. He played tackle football and the other roughest of the rough sports at recess. He also had an older brother that beat on him every chance he got. I’m talking bloody noses, black eyes, and bruises all over his body. It made him, justifiably, angry. A cork ready to pop.

We’d all been walking to our classroom first thing one morning. It had been snowing hard and the hallways were wet from everyone’s boots.

“Careful, kids,” the janitor told us as we walked past. “The floor is slippery.”

No sooner had the words come out of his mouth than Cole’s feet went out from under him. His backpack went flying one direction, his lunchbox the other. It was funny. So I laughed.

“Shut up, ass-wipe,” Cole snapped as he picked up his backpack and lunchbox. His face bright red.

A bunch of other kids were laughing, too, but I had started it and I was closest.

He started swinging, using moves he’d surely learned from his brother. He was the same size as me and not much stronger so the punches didn’t really hurt. The problem was, I took a defensive swing just as our teacher came out of our room to see what all the noise was about. All she saw was the back of my fist connecting with Cole’s jaw. I got suspended for two days because no one would come to my defense.

When I got back to school everyone was on Cole’s side. He was more popular than me. He was funnier. He had a big brother who would defend him to the death in public even though he pounded the snot out of Cole at home.

The harassment got so bad I started having nightmares, got headaches, and lost weight. We moved to a nearby town as soon as Dad’s promotion and raise went through. The harassment from Cleveland Heights stuck to me like a bad smell and I became everyone’s target at my new school, too. Then came Dad’s transfer to Colorado.

“You’ll have a fresh start,” Mom said, fully believing her own words. “You can reinvent yourself, be whoever you want to be.”

That sounded like a good idea and during the two-day drive I decided I was Robin the technology dude instead of Robin the un-athletic, scrawny, bullied wimp.

“The bus is here,” Zane said and ran the last half block to the stop. “Better fly fast, Tweety.”

Because we went to a private high school, transportation was up to the parents. Most of the kids got rides. If I asked, my dad might drive me the five miles. It was on his way. For that to happen, though, I’d either have to get to school super-early or Dad would be late to work. Well, late by his standards. Mom almost always had early-morning calls and was already in work-mode by the time I came down to breakfast. If I made a big deal out of it she’d probably take me. It would only be twenty minutes out of her morning. But she’d want to know why I was making a big deal about riding the bus.

During the Cole incident, Mom tried to fix things by calling and talking to his mom. When that didn’t work, Mom went to the principal who dragged Cole and me into her office and gave us a lecture about staying away from each other. Things got better for a while but as soon as everyone forgot to pay attention to us, things got way worse. I didn’t want to risk a drama like that again so just took the city bus.

I got in line behind Mrs. Richards, a tiny great-grandmotherly looking woman with leathery, wrinkled skin and pure-white hair.

“Good morning, Master Robin,” Mrs. Richards said, happy like always. “Oh my. What happened to your phone?”

I glanced up at Zane who was moving to the back of the bus with his minions Thad, Wayne, and Ben.

“I dropped it,” I said and frowned at the splintered screen. “My parents are going to be so angry.”

“Pish-posh,” Mrs. Richards said with a swat of her hand. “Accidents happen.”

I helped her climb the bus stairs, scanned my pass, and looked for a seat.

The front seat was full. The next three rows were full. Along with the perceived protection of the driver, the other reason I preferred to sit up front was that I got motion sick in the back of the bus. Today I ended up in an aisle seat in the middle, right on the fringe of the danger zone.

I stared at my worthless phone during the ride, trying to concentrate on anything other than Zane’s group behind me. For a few minutes the smell of the guy next to me—body odor covered up by too much cologne and lingering cigar smoke—distracted me. Then Zane and the Minions started talking louder, a sure sign they were building up to something. Birdcalls were their favorite torment. Tweet, tweet. Sing for us, Tweety. I expected the performance to start any second.

Why hadn’t I included adopting my middle name as part of the Reinvention of Robin? A crucial mistake on my part. I could have been Alexander. Or better yet, Alex. A strong name. Not a little yellow bird name.

We were over halfway to school and still not a single chirp. It was Monday morning. Maybe they were talking about stuff that happened over the weekend. As the bus came to our stop, Zane’s group jumped up first. As he passed me, Zane smacked the back of my head and simultaneously snatched my cap.

“Hey!” I called out then bit back the other words that wanted to follow it. Not worth the retaliation. Not even for the cap my grandmother had knitted for me with her crooked, arthritic hands. I thought of throwing my phone at the back of Zane’s head. My pulse raced as I imagined suddenly having enough strength in my puny excuse for an arm to pitch that phone so hard it would connect with him better than any flaming fastball he could ever dream of throwing. The baseball coach would hear about the kid with the miraculous arm. He’d beg me to take over as the team’s star pitcher. Zane would go down, humiliated at being bested by some unknown, un-athletic, computer geek.

As I followed them down the aisle, I went through the full cycle of emotions starting with pissed off to high on fantasy to afraid of what was coming next all within a few seconds. An adrenaline letdown would come next, but first my fear turned to energy and I started to bounce as we waited for the bus door to open. Why couldn’t he just leave me alone?

“Tweety’s jumpy today,” Minion Thad said.

“Maybe he’s trying to fly,” Minion Ben said.

My first day at Woodland Academy had been the first day of the fourth quarter of my freshman year. It had been five months and I hadn’t made a single friend. I barely knew anyone’s name. Despite Mom’s best efforts, my clothes hadn’t, and still didn’t, come from the right swanky store. My book bag wasn’t quite expensive enough. My phone wasn’t quite new enough. I wasn’t quite enough. I never would be.

The school’s policy was for new students to wear a nametag. Theoretically this was so everyone would be nice to me. They’d offer me assistance if I got lost or help me with the daily routine. The secretary handed me my class schedule and that nametag—Hi, I’m Robin written in hot pink ink because that was the first pen her hand touched. A bull’s-eye in the center of my chest wouldn’t have been more obvious.

It started my first day, between second and third period. I was standing in line, waiting my turn at the drinking fountain. Out of nowhere everyone burst out laughing and started fist-bumping each other. Zane was at the center of it. A replay of Cole slipping on the wet floor flashed in my mind like a sickening premonition. Zane’s moment of embarrassment had quickly turned into humiliation. He looked around in a panic, desperate for someone or something to rescue him. His eyes locked on me, the new face in the crowd, and then darted to the nametag.

“Hey, Tweety,” he had said in a sneering tone that made my guts drop to my feet. “You gonna teach us all to sing a pretty birdie song?”

It was so stupid. A really lame-ass thing to say. But it had the effect he wanted. Everyone turned and laughed at me. I hadn’t even made it to lunch on my first day and I was a target. An outcast. A freak.

Again.