3

Rafael can only stand the sound of my rattling suitcase for about two minutes and fifteen seconds before he snatches it out of my hands and, in a surprising feat of strength, hurls it behind a massive potted plant in the corner of the main hall.

“Remember that image for future reference,” he hisses at me, grabbing me by the collar of my hoodie and dragging me down a side hall in pursuit of the voices echoing towards us from further on.

The inside of Bleakwood is all dark mahogany paneling and portraits of very unhappy-looking headmasters. Or deans. Or principals. I don’t really know what they call them here. And I suppose it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that whoever is in charge is going to be the person who’s probably going to end up kicking me out of here when the rest of the school figures out I’m an imposter.

Though technically … no one ever did ask if I was a boy. It was never on any of the forms. I guess everyone else just inherently knew this place was an all-boys school and assumed anyone applying with the name of Alex was a boy. For the first time in my life, I guess I’m grateful it was never short for anything else. Just Alex, good ‘ol androgynous Alex.

Rafael doesn’t let go of me until we stumble out into a study area looking out on a short, surprisingly green lawn outside. Somehow, he manages to compose himself immediately to join the rest of the boys looking on as a man at the head of the group explains something about the mountains shielding the school from some of the more extreme Alps weather.

I, meanwhile, draw angry stares as I loudly shuffle to re-gain my footing after being so abruptly abandoned.

That boy from the car keeps throwing glances my way, then leans in to whisper something in the ear of a boy standing next to him. The second boy doesn’t look back but just shakes his head. Something tells me he’s the one from the back of the car, and just like before, there’s something unsettling about him. Maybe it’s the way he stands, his back rigid and his head staring unmovingly forward.

So still, so calm. Something so … pompous about it, like the rest of us are so beneath him that he can’t even be bothered to see who’s made the tour guide huff twice now out of frustration. It makes me want to purposefully trip on the corner of the oriental rug just to cause even more of a scene than I already have.

Maybe that would make him turn.

“If we’re all quite certain of how to use our feet,” the tour guide growls loudly, his voice raised just high enough to carry a warning, “then let us proceed to where you’ll be spending most of your time here, the classrooms.”

That pit in my stomach grows as I follow along at my classmate’s heels, doing my best to blend into the crowd. It’s going to be a little harder to do, I realize, when I discover that everyone else—including Rafael, though I didn’t notice it before—is already in uniform. Suddenly the oversized hoodie feels suffocating.

For all my years surrounded by pre-pubescent boys, I really should know how to blend into them better. They always treated me like I was invisible enough.

As if sensing an impending meltdown, Rafael drops back to walk casually by my side. He keeps his head facing forward, nodding along as the classroom layouts and schedules for the upcoming semester are explained.

“Stop acting so weird,” he whispers, as soon as the guide has motioned for us all to move on. “Just be yourself. And stop looking at everyone like they’re about to narc on you. Only narcs look like that.”

“But I’m not a—”

“Shh!” Rafael sees someone glance our way again and hushes me loudly, as if I was the one talking to him in the first place.

I have to look away, my tongue poking into the side of my cheek to keep myself from making some snappy retort. I find myself looking for a certain set of familiar faces in the crowd … but they’re gone.

“If you’re looking for The Brotherhood, they’re already gone,” Rafael whispers.

“Brotherhood?”

He keeps his face trained forward, nodding like an imbecile again. “You’ll see soon enough.”

And I do.

The tour culminates back in the main entrance after a brief tour up to the dormitories, and back down through the library, equipment storage, and study rooms.

The tour guide, who I’ve since learned is the dean himself, Withers, stands in front of us all with a tablet. I keep expecting him to take some kind of roll call or just … something … but he just keeps standing there, waiting expectantly. They all are.

With the notable exception of myself, everyone seems to be looking up towards the top of the stairs just … waiting.

Now would be a great time to slip up to Dean Withers and explain my whole uniform situation, but I have a feeling Rafael will out me here on the spot if I do one more thing that might potentially embarrass him. Especially with the serious side-eye I keep catching him giving one of the other boys.

I’m just about ready to explode from having to stand here waiting so long when I hear the slam of doors coming from somewhere up above. At the top of the stairs.

It starts as a muffled sound muted by distance. But with each slamming door, it grows louder. Closer. So it continues until the thundering sound is more like weather, like the sounds that echo through the very mountains that surround us.

And then, when the storming of footsteps nearly out-deafens the slamming doors, three boys appear at the top of the steps. The boy from earlier is among them, but for the first time, I get a good look at the other two. A very thorough look … because all three of them stand before us stark naked.

The trio halts suddenly when they reach the top step, each one assuming a wide stance, shoulders thrown back, heads held high, steely gaze staring straight ahead. Even as I look on in total shock and confusion, I wonder at the fact that these boys are anywhere near the same age as me. They don’t look like sixteen or seventeen-year-old boys. They look like men.

The tall, lithe Scandinavian. The long-haired sporty type, with freckles across the bridge of his nose. The statuesque, stoic one in the center.