Free Wuthering high: a bard academy novel by Cara Lockwood Page A

chapel is new in this picture, see? Built in 1855.”
    “I think that counts as being built on graves,” Samir says. “Even if they aren’t Indian. That’s another true campus legend.”
    There’s a woman standing beside another teacher, and someone has circled her head in pencil. She’s clearly a teacher, but her face is a bit blurred, like she just moved at the last second. It’s an old photograph, and those old cameras didn’t do well with movement. But oddly enough, all the teachers are like that. Each of their faces is blurred, even though all the students’ faces are mostly clear.
    Out of curiosity, I flip to the back to see who’s checked it out. That’s when I see Kate Shaw’s name, right on the last line. She was the last person to have this book, and it’s stamped October 1990, the very month she disappeared. That’s a strange coincidence. Who put this book in with the newspaper clippings of Kate’s disappearance? Strange.
    “Well, I’m taking this with us,” I say of the slim Bard Academy yearbook. “I think it has something to do with Kate Shaw’s disappearance.”
    “Who are you? Veronica Mars?” Samir asks me.
    “Look, I’m the one who’s living with Kate’s ghost, or whatever,” I say, noting the skepticism on their faces. And granted, a hall light isn’t a ghost, but it sort of feels like one. If it’s not her ghost, then it’s a weird coincidence that she seems to be pointing me in the direction of clues. “At least I can try to figure out what happened. Besides, if I can prove that this school is unsafe, then I get a one-way ticket home.”
    “Come on, let’s go get our schedules for Neptune High,” Samir says, as he starts to hum Elvis Costello’s “Veronica.”

Ten
    My schedule reads like some kind of insane Amazing Race itinerary. Every little bit of time from the moment I get up (6:30 A . M .) until I go to sleep (10:00 P.M. ) is marked by some activity. If it’s not class, it’s counseling or study time, and if it’s not that, it’s mandatory extracurricular activities, like yearbook or school newspaper or sports.
    “Basketball?” I cry, looking at my schedule. It’s marked there every afternoon from four to six. “I can’t play basketball. I’ve never played in my whole life.”
    I’ve had a doctor’s note to get out of every gym class since I started middle school. These came courtesy of my friend Liz, whose dad is a doctor, a podiatrist, but he’s got really cool stationery that says “From the Desk of Dr. Pauley.” Liz makes up a new ailment every year to get out of gym class herself, but I stick to the tried and true: asthma (which, by the way, is a total lie).
    “Sports are mandatory,” Samir tells me. “We all have them. And most of them are coached by Coach H.”
    “Wait? The guy who wears the baseball cap? The alcoholic?”
    “Yep — that’s the guy.”
    “Don’t talk back to him. He likes to make you run laps,” Hana says, looking like she knows about this firsthand.
    I can’t help but wonder if this is my dad’s doing. He’s always telling me about the power of sports, and trying to get me to try out for them. He doesn’t realize that the only contact sport I’m interested in is fighting the crowds at the outlet mall.
    “I wonder what sport Kate Shaw had to play,” Hana says.
    “Probably Track and Field,” Samir says. “You know, since she did try to run away.”
    “Bad taste, Samir,” Hana says.
    “What? I’m just saying,” Samir adds.
    “I wonder if I sent a copy of the newspaper article to my parents if they’d come and get me?” I ask. “The sort of place where fifteen-year-olds disappear probably isn’t the safest.”
    “Only if your parents care,” Hana adds. “Mine don’t. They wouldn’t care if I was being taught by Saddam Hussein as long as I was out of their hair.”
    “You’re lucky,” Samir says. “My parents care too much about me, which is why they want me to marry a girl who’s four feet