Free Things Not Seen by Andrew Clements Page B

gang of sophomore girls, the popular ones. Maya, Leslie, Carol, Jessica, and three or four others whose names I’ve never learned. Because what would be the point of that? I know Jessica from my honors biology class. But she doesn’t know me.
    The girls glide down the front steps like a unit, like airplanes in formation. Jessica’s the wing leader, tossing her head, lips curled in a smile. The others take their cues from her. Jessica’s talking, and the squadron is listening. They’re listening like Jessica is telling them the secrets of the universe, those funny, clever, precious secrets, the secrets that make them the chosen ones. And I’m not the only guy—or girl—looking at them. And they know it.
    But I turn away. Because I am a Greek warrior, and they are beneath my notice.
    My eyes are pulled back to the steps. Right behind the girls come the soccer gods. In Texas it was the football. At the lab school it’s the soccer. Season’s been over for months, but not the swaggering. That lasts all year. I could easily step out and trip Josh Ackerly, see him stumble and sprawl down the steps. But why should a great warrior stoop to even notice such a pathetic creature? Besides, watching Josh fall might make me laugh out loud, and I have taken a vow of silence.
    The traffic thins, and a few teachers mill around the doors. Dr. Lane. Mrs. Berg. Mr. Kaplan. And then the buses pull away, and the flow trickles down to a few stragglers.
    Show’s over. School’s out.
    I’ve been standing still too long. Now the warrior is cold. I’m tempted to go inside and warm up, but I know I wouldn’t feel comfortable in there. Still, it would be fun to find Mr. Stojis, maybe do a little floating trumpet act for him down in the band room, see if he wants to work it into the program for the spring jazz concert.
    But Mr. Stojis will have to wait. I have other things to do. Like keep my feet from freezing out here on the battlefield. If I go a few more blocks, I can relax in a place where I always feel at home, a place with no gray linoleum on the floor, a place that won’t smell like cafeteria food.
    So I double-time it toward the big university library. I need to walk on warm carpet for a while. If the ancient Greeks had lived next to Lake Michigan instead of the Mediterranean Sea, maybe they’d have reconsidered the nakedness thing.
    Walt’s at the check-in desk again, but he has no authority over me today. Warriors don’t ask permission. I march past his guard post, hidden behind my shield.
    Warmth. Heat is a good thing. Cold makes it impossible to relax. Cold plus naked is even worse. But this, this is nice. Cozy and bright. And clean, soft carpets. No broken glass to step around, no dog poop, no half-melted slush.
    I burst into the stairwell, and I feel like I’m flying, running up the stairs two at a time. It’s like this body I can’t see weighs nothing. And I know where I’m going. To the third floor. The perfect place, a little fortress where a soldier can get some R & R. I’m headed for one of those soundproof listening rooms. I should be able to smuggle a good CD into one of those rooms somehow. How tough could it be? A CD isn’t that big, right? Maybe hide one under my arm? Then I can block the door and settle into a big soft chair and listen to Miles Davis while my feet thaw out. There are four rooms. All I need is one.
    There’s a study group in the first listening room, five serious people, grim. I’m thinking they’re in law school, maybe pre-med. In the second room a guy holding an orchestra baton is facing the wall opposite the door. He’s on his feet, swaying with the music, conducting with all his might. Two people are pacing around in the third room, a man and a woman practicing a theater scene. Very dramatic.
    The last room is being used too. But it’s just one person, and she’s only using a laptop. I feel