The Faker Rulebook - Baylin Crow

One

Noah

Eleven Years Old

Being the new kid at school sucked.

The sounds of lockers clanging shut and the constant hum of chatter, broken by bursts of laughter, trailed my steps as I navigated the long, unfamiliar hallways of Blakefield Middle School.

Dodging the students hurrying to last period, I followed the scuffed floors, squinting at the metal numbers mounted on the exposed red brick trim around the doors. I had been given vague directions when I’d picked up my schedule from the office this morning, but for a school only a fifth the size of the one I'd transferred from, the layout was confusing.

As the hall emptied and classroom doors closed, I quickened my pace. The bell rang, signaling I was officially late and I groaned. After the curious stares that had followed me all morning, the last thing I needed was more attention drawn to me.

Room 202. I breathed a sigh of relief at finding my science class and pulled open the heavy door.

The teacher, a woman with graying hair and rosy cheeks, paused what she was saying and every set of eyes turned, trained on me while my face burned.

"Hello, can I help you?" she asked in a bright tone that contrasted with my sullen mood.

"I'm Noah Stephens," I offered quietly while passing her my schedule.

She grabbed it and quickly scanned the page. Nodding, she handed it back. "Welcome to Blakefield, Noah. I’m Mrs. Bradshaw, and I’m happy to have you in my class." She gestured to the far side of the classroom. "Find a seat. I’ll spare you the embarrassing introduction."

Thank god. My shoulders sagged beneath the weight of my backpack. The other teachers hadn’t been as generous.

Scanning the room, I noted large white-topped tables with two seats each, set in rows instead of single desks. All but one was taken, and I was glad it appeared I wouldn't have to share with anyone. I trudged along the aisle of the last row and dropped my backpack by the third table before sliding into the squeaky plastic chair.

"We are going to pick up where we left off on Friday," Mrs. Bradshaw said before glancing at me. "Mr. Stephens, I'll send you home with the materials to catch up if you need it. Stop by my desk on the way out."

"Yes, ma'am." I kept my eyes aimed forward, ignoring the murmurs around me. Back home, or rather what used to be home, I'd had friends. But with my parents’ divorce still fresh, I couldn't muster up a smile, much less try to meet new people.

One minute it had seemed we'd been a happy family with our portraits filling large picture frames mounted on the walls. The next, my mom, brother and I were packing our things. Nothing made sense, and I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that my life had been uprooted simply because my parents had grown apart. Whatever that meant. I shoved the thoughts away.

Mrs. Bradshaw beamed before shifting her focus over my shoulder. "Mr. Oliveira, could you retrieve an extra textbook for our new student?"

"Sure." A voice deeper than any eleven-year-old I'd met answered from behind me. His chair scraped back and several seconds later a heavy book thudded against my tabletop.

My gaze flicked up to the guy, surprisingly tall for a seventh grader. His hair was the color of a starless night and cropped short. Wearing a red hoodie and jeans, he appeared relaxed as he casually tapped the hard book cover.

"Here. Page fifty-nine." He studied me with eyes a shade I hadn't seen before. A light brown with bright flecks of gold that glowed with warmth.

"Thanks…" I hesitated because I had no idea what his name was.

“Rook,” he filled in just before his lips slanted in a crooked grin. White straight teeth—minus one that slightly overlapped the other—stood out against his heavily bronzed skin.

I was still self-conscious about the new braces that were doing their best to close the wide gaps in my teeth, so I held back the impulse to smile for the first time in weeks.

He didn't move, and I suddenly realized he was stubbornly waiting for me to answer as if he had all day instead of holding up the lesson.

I cleared my throat and croaked, "Noah."

Rook chuckled. "I was beginning to think you didn't have a name other than Mr. Stephens." He tossed me another grin before he retreated to his seat.

His chair creaked in protest as he plopped back down, and I battled the urge to glance back at him.