Chapter 4: Reader Beware

While waiting in the dean’s office, nervousness and paranoia hit me. Many things filled my mind, but I was sure of one thing.

The Lovable Bubblegum Myles stole caused my delusions. This campus was full of creatives who loved edibles infused with stimulants. I’d just so happened to be the lucky recipient of a strawberry microdose of a hallucinogen.

Come to think of it, the effects must not have worn off. I swore I had been sitting for five minutes. Yet, half an hour had passed when I looked at the clock.

What is taking so long? It’s stupid that I’m even here.

The office was busy. I did my best to keep my head down, but the not-so-subtle glances from Miss Bakirtzis, the dean’s secretary, and a few student assistants, in addition to an odd number of security guards present, made me paranoid. I tried to calm myself, but I remembered that as soon as I had left Mrs. Nelson-Perkins’ classroom, I noticed a security guard in glasses seemingly—or was it intentionally—following me across campus to the office building. What was up with all the security guards? Were they there to escort me to the police?

Do I look like I’m on drugs? I feel like I’m on drugs.

In one of my nervous outward glances, I noticed Teena Aoki, a Dean’s Student Advisory Council member. Her recruitment skills, especially her ability to organize major successful school events, made her well-known across the campus—the upcoming We! Not Me! Rally! was her brainchild. However, Teena’s skills, gorgeous looks, and socially spellbinding attitude put her on the unattainable list. Before I dropped out of my pursuit of academic excellence, she and I had worked on at least two social campaigns, but I kept my distance. I didn’t want her to see me crushing.

I wouldn’t have minded her looking over at me at that moment, but she never glanced my way. Then, after a short while, she left the office, and I returned to my paranoia.

Rules of the Black Arts for Advanced Users sat on my lap. Under the illumination of the dean’s office’s fluorescent lights, there was nothing remotely scary about it—more reason to buy into my Lovable Bubblegum theory.

Sure, its eleven-and-a-half by nine, thick, leather-and-wood frame cover added to its ancient allure. The side latches were also a nice touch. But the title and accompanying graphic engraved on the cover had no artistic merit. All in all, it looked like an old-school textbook from the seventies.

I flipped the book to its side, popped both latches, and scanned the parchment pages from back to front. Only one word came to mind. Scratch that, make it two—effing badass!

This guidebook was unlike anything I had ever seen for The Lords of Omni: kickass art, occult-looking diagrams, info charts, story factoids, hundreds, no, thousands of spells, and an off-the-charts listing of monsters and demons.

What a fantastic expansion pack.

I instantly became consumed with skimming the whole book. Every randomly viewed page blew my mind. I sensed myself slipping into a zone, like discovering a graphic novel with the perfect fusion of art and words for the first time. In my excitement, it took me a few minutes to work my way back to the beginning of the volume.

I only stopped because I read the words, READER BEWARE.

This is why you start at the front of a book and not skip around. So what is that warning for, dramatic effect? Even more curious, why was 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 feeling to scan my surroundings. I soothed my inescapable urges and looked up, catching several students swiftly averting their stares. I latched the book and zipped it back into my bag.

They must think I’m tweaking.

“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 in only 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, which I immediately flicked to the ground. I’m not stupid. It had to be some sort of enchanted poison. Back in the day, Becca 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. Fuck 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? What do you want?”

“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 with complimentary advice—classic seduction! So drop the save-a-geek spiel. 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 triggered a memory of Becca and me as kids. I remembered her smile; it was the beacon of my day. Besides her now annoying personality, it was one of the reasons I avoided her so often. I just wanted to forget.

Mr. Shulenmeyers, the dean of Bramwell-Gates Arts Institute, opened his office door. Our match ended. Becca lost.

We quickly stood apart, masked with innocence. I imagined we must have looked like children almost getting caught fighting by 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 both shared a disapproving glare in my direction. Or was that just my paranoia? It seemed like forever, but 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 entered and sank into the chair by the window. It was my favorite spot in the office. Over the years, I had been in this room on many occasions. Sometimes as a youth sponsor or an academic achiever, but mostly to visit my mother, Lauren Bramwell-Gates, former dean of the academy.

It may have been the warm sunlight filtering through that made me see her sitting behind the baroque wooden desk, calmly giving orders. She had lovely features. Her voice had a stern but soothing tone.

Not to throw shade at Mr. Shulenmeyers. He had practically been a dad to me since I lost both parents. But his time as dean was mainly spent as a headpiece 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 in muddy water. What’s this about you creating anarchy in Mrs. Nelson-Perkins’ 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. It’s a scratching noise—maybe a dog scratching. Hear it. Did you hear it?”

Mr. Shulenmeyers lifted a fancy pen from its tray, clicked it, and 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 again, I was interrupted by Mr. Shulenmeyers.

“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. But I got an unexpected reaction. He tilted his head down and read the title.

“Rules of the Black Arts for Advanced Users. So that’s the book.”

Before he finished his sentence, he had turned pale. Then, his urbane presence turned fidgety, and he shrieked away as he threw himself away from the book.

If that wasn’t enough, he turned, looking 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.”

“I want you to know that 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 administration minutiae, overseeing this ridiculous We! Not Me! Rally!, and boosting security to fend off lies.”

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