Free Fallen by Laury Falter

time to get there. When I pulled into the parking lot, there were several things I noticed immediately . It was a far cry from the public schools I’d attended . There were n o security gates, bars on the windows, or trash piled up in the corners. In fact, it looked more like a mansion than a place of learning. It was a lone, three-story , brick and ivy , U-shaped building with an enormous park in the center of the U. Trees and benches dotted the park where I could envision students hanging out and studying hard, as I’m sure would be the case.
    I knew that driving up on my loud, rumbling Harley Davidson motorcycle was not going to leave a good , first impression with anyone who saw me .
    I didn’t care.
    Even the astonish ed looks from the teachers who’d arrived early , as they stared at me from across the parking lot , didn’t bother me.
    What did bother me was the blue Ford Mustang parked in the student lot. It looked like the one that had followed me a few weeks ago , the one that possibly tried to run me down – if I chose to believe that Eran had been right about the driver’s intentions. There was no one in the car , but if the owner was around , I knew I would recognize him instantly.
    I walked toward what looked like the main entrance , set in the center of the middle building, where a sign read Main Hall. Arrows pointed to either side reading East Hall and West Hall.
    I found Mr. Warden’s office in the far left corner of t he West Hall and was just about to open the door when my hand paused on the knob . It started to rattle and I registered that it was a result of my hand - still holding it - now shaking. I felt sweat begin to bead up on my forehead just as the hair on the back of my neck began to rise.
    This feeling was , by now , all too familiar to me.
    I peered down both halls , searching for the creepy owner of the blue Ford Mustang or for Sharar , but I found I was completely alone. Not even a teacher was in sight.
    Get a grip, I told myself ; I felt foolish . I chalked up the feeling of fear to the fact that this was my first day of school , but since I’d had so many first days at new schools , my rationalization was weak and laughable.
    I shrugged off th at thought and opened the door ; I found a heavy set secretary sitting behind a cluttered desk. She frowned at me , and I recognized her as one of the ladies in the parking lot that gaped at me as I rode up. She stopped typing long enough to point a thick, sagging arm toward a separate room.
    “Thanks,” I repl ied , but she ignored me and directed her attention back to the computer that was precariously perched on top of the mess y desk in front of her .
    My voice must have alerted Mr. Warden that I had arrived , because he was standing by the time I entered his office.
    “Ms. Tanner … , ”
    “ Maggie … actually, ” I said, extending my hand to meet his abrupt handshake.
    Mr. Warden was stoic ; he show ed no hint of a smile and offer ed no reply .
    Immediately, I noticed that he didn’t look much like a warden at all . I’d pictured tall, meaty, and stress wrinkles. I got the stress wrinkles right , but he was shorter than me, looked very frail, and had a receding hairline. Glasses were hanging from a chain around his neck , like you’d see on secretaries in the late 1960s , and that made him all the more disarming. Still, I’d already decided that he would be The Warden from now on.
    As he closed the door behind me, my attention was drawn to the diplomas and the pictures of him , posed w ith people who appeared to be prominent and wealthy , that crowded the wall behind his desk … a n ego - wall. So The Warden had a prideful side, I contemplated , as he ushered me to a seat facing his desk.
    I sat, still fighting the shaking and the sweat ing, trying despe rately to appear normal despite the physical reactions my body was suffering .
    I guess th at was why I didn’t see the creepy owner of the blue Ford Mustang seated in the