Title: New School, Part One: How I Became a Jewel Thief
Featuring: Desade
Date: Last weekend.
Location: Seattle and Oakland and Berkeley

Everybody keeps secrets, right?

I mean, sure... maybe they're not the kind that I keep â€" not the heart-stopping, life-or-death, tell-anyone-and-they'll-waterboard-your-bunny kind â€" but for most kids my age, cheating on your diet or being ashamed to admit you think a boy is cute are just as big a deal. Face it, if everybody admitted everything we did or said or thought, life would soon devolve into a series of wacky misadventures, and I've seen The Invention of Lying, and that didn't turn out well for anybody. (Especially Jennifer Garner â€" remember after Alias when she was gonna be the next big star? Yeah, me neither.)

So let me preface all of this by repeating it again: everybody keeps secrets. So it's not so much what secrets I kept or who I kept them from. It's not about who I may or may not have lied to, or even who might have gotten hurt these last few days â€" though, if it helps, I only meant to hurt one person, but he totally deserved it and I think you'll agree. What it is about are what the secrets I kept meant to the people I kept them for, and the harm they caused when they got out.

If anyone knows about secrets, it's me â€" my name is Quinn Gregory, and while you might have heard of me, it's much more likely you've heard of my mother. Alex Pierce is a professional wrestler for Sin City Championship Wrestling, and a pretty good one. Her t-shirts call her the Spider in the Web, and I don't think a better name could be found. She's won this big-ass tournament they call the GTT, and she's faced a laundry list of the famous and the infamous (I won't name names, except to say, "Fuck off, Jared Sykes").

Things You Might Not Know About My Sorta-Kinda Famous Mother: A List by Quinn Gregory
1.) She's kind of awesome at the whole "mom" thing, and she's way more considerate than you probably think. (Is that two things?)
2.) Incomprehensibly, she hates both cherries and cookie dough. (I know!)
3.) As good as she is at being a wrestler, she's even better at the job people don't know she has.
4.) That job is "spy".
5.) Since she's a spy and as everyone thinks she's a soulless bitch when she's totally not (and, I guess, since I've lived with her for a year and a half now and I just learned about the cherry and cookie dough hatred like last week), she's sort of great at keeping secrets.

Not to beat a dead horse, but I should know. I am my mother's daughter, and, for almost a decade, I was the biggest secret she kept â€" Desade's super-secret daughter, hidden away at private school in Dallas.

Sometimes I think I'd be happier if I was still there. Sometimes I daydream about my biggest worry being Mrs. Ortiz' geometry class (that woman loves pop quizzes in ways that have to be unhealthy), instead of whether any number of Big Scary Dudes (caps mandatory) might kick down our front door tonight.

But only sometimes.

Secret #1: I sort of love this stuff.

I like the rush, the pins-and-needles feeling of thinking on my feet, the palms-sweaty nerves while I'm trying to read the flicker of a mark's eye to decide which way to push â€" or whether I've already gone too far. I know it's dangerous, believe me. I know it's not glamorous. It can be the hardest thing in the world. But oh my GOD, on a good day, is it fun.

Today isn't so much of a good day. I was in Lucy's Fine Consignments in downtown Seattle, trying to look cool and relaxed while I balanced in the tallest pair of high heels I've ever worn, and that wasn't fun. Neither was my skirt, which wasn't exactly optimized for the weather on a windy December afternoon.

You might not believe me if I were to tell you I was dressed like this and it wasn't because I got roped into another one of Mom's crazy-ass schemes, but you'd get a sense of just how frakked up my week had been. For the record, Mom was in Oakland (or I think she was), though I would've really liked it if she wandered in right then, and not just because we had some pretty heady mother-daughter shit to discuss.

It also would have meant I would have had someone to distract this creep staring through the glass display case at my legs through the glass display case like I couldn't see him. He was a thick-lipped snake of a man named Lionel, and he was trying really hard not to seem like he was staring, which wasn't nearly as nice as it sounded. (Though I guess it could be worse.)

So there was an old dude trying really hard not to drool as he showed me necklaces I wasn't really interested in, but I pretended because that was the easiest way to maybe make him pay attention to the fact that I may spend a lot of money here and not because I'm an underage girl. (Wow, run-on sentence, sorry.)

"Uhh..." I stammered a little â€" pretend it was because I was selling the character and not nerves. "How about that one?" I tapped a press-on nail against the glass, and that jarred his attention away from the hem of my skirt. "The one with the pink diamond? That's hot."

He nodded and stuck his key into the lock, sliding aside the glass backing. Sausage-fingered hands pulled the silver necklace out of the case. It was pretty, I guess â€" I mean, if you liked that sort of thing. "This is one of our newest acquisitions," he explained, and I nodded but wasn't really listening, because all I wanted was to lift one foot off the ground for relief because those shoes really didn't fit.

I leaned forward, elbows on the display case, eyes all wide. "Really?" I prompted. "Because I think I've seen that one at another store..."

It was true, of course, but his brows crooked in that way that was supposed to look like he was offended, but really, it just looked like he was pretending and thought I was too dumb to notice.

"No!" he said, maybe a little too quickly. He caught himself with a huffy little sigh. "I assure you, this piece is unique, and is only available here at Lucy's!"

"Oooookay..." I drew out the word, wrinkling my nose into smile. I don't do "cute" very well, though. "It was just a question." Best not to push too hard. Instead, I pulled wheat-blond hair over my shoulder. "Help me try it on?"

I'd turned away already, so thankfully I couldn't see his reaction. I imagined nerves. I imagined he'd take a long look. I imagined a lot of things, but all I heard was a slow breath. "Okay," he said. The chain tinkled as he lifted the necklace from its box, and I braced myself for him touching me. (It was just as grody as you'd imagine.)

"Your skin is very smooth," he said, and he was so close I could smell the garlic on his breath.

"Thanks," I told him, because I didn't want to dwell on that particular subject. "Do you think this necklace sets off my eyes?"

He paused. I hoped it was to consider his answer. I hoped he wasn't looking down the front of my shirt. "Turn and face me," Lionel said, and I did, keeping my eyes low because I don't know how to lie with them quite yet. Once I faced him, he grabbed my arms, that genial little fish-lipped smile still on his lips. "My dear," he said in that way that you say things to teenaged girls, and for a moment I thought I was wrong, that this guy wasn't as bad as they said.

Then he grinned again, and his arms slid down mine. It was a simple thing, really, but my Spider-Sense flared. His eyes were too intense, too... too something. I was still too new at this to say for certain. "Miss Crenshaw," he said, voice mock severe, like he was deadpanning a joke. "Eyes like yours are the kind men will lose themselves in for years, no matter what you wear. I myself have been lost inâ€""

He didn't get to finish that sentence, and I was just as glad of that as you are, believe me. Right then was when the door to the jewelry store burst open and the two guys in ski masks stormed in bearing machine guns.

Because, see, my life isn't complete unless there are guys with guns.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," the lead man said. He was tall and young and he was smiling like a man who knew he was good-looking, mask or no mask. "This is a robbery. If you'd all be kind enough to move away from the windows and hand your cellphones to my burly friend, we can all go about this peaceably."

A smile hooked under the mouth slash of his mask as he looked my way, and I couldn't help but picture what he looked like without the mask hiding his face. I felt myself blushing, which I didn't need to be Alexandra Pierce's daughter to know you're generally not supposed to do when a guy with a gun is robbing you. He walked â€" no, he strutted â€" our way, the heavy heels of his boots loud on the floor, providing a background rhythm for his little speech.

"If you go out of your way to ruin my day, I will ruin yours, and I guarantee you..." There he slipped a finger under the necklace Lionel had hung around my neck. He smelled nice, some expensive cologne. (Yes, I was aware I shouldn't be thinking that either, but some things can't be helped.) He was looking right at me, his eyes on mine. "Then I will ruin yours."

As speeches went, it wasn't bad â€" playful but intimidating, calm and cocky, and made him seem in control. Little bit rehearsed, though. "Miss?" He extended a hand â€" it would have been gallant if not for the fact that he was robbing the place. "If you'll join me?"

Lionel's fish lips curled into a sneer, and I could guess what he was going to say before he said it. In my defense, I did put my hand on his in an effort to stop him, but by that time, he was in leap-to-the-damsel's-defense mode. "Now listen here, son," he said, and he even â€" and I swear I'm not making this up â€" raised a finger imperiously. Give the guy a monocle and he could have gotten away with saying, "I say!"

The robber turned his attention away from me and I could feel this spiraling out of control. "Misterâ€"" I said, tugging on Lionel's arm, but the man in the ski mask cut me off with a smile I'm fairly certain could cut glass.

"Now, now," he said (purred?). "It seems the owner of this fine establishment has an objection." He stepped back slightly. "Please, sir, do continue."

Being asked for his opinion dumped a bucket of cold water on Lionel's chivalry. "I..." he stammered. "That is to say..."

"You were going to tell me to 'unhand' this girl, right?" The guy â€" it seemed weird to call him anything but "kid" â€" scratched under his mask. Even with the wind, it was humid today, and wool couldn't be comfortable.

"Only... only that it seems unnecessary," Lionel allowed. "Surely we couldâ€""

The wet slap of flesh against flesh resounded in the shop, and my world turned upside-down. The blow spun me down to the floor and knocked my purse out of my hand. Lionel dashed around the display case with surprising speed, dropping to my side.

Okay, so it wasn't the most dignified position I've ever been in, sprawled on the cold tile in a skirt I could only hope wasn't riding up, trying to gather the odds and ends and pocket litter that I'd packed to sell my cover, looking up at a guy who just happened to be robbing the place.

His partner looked over from where he was gathering the employees and the few shoppers, and he looked surprised. I don't know why I remember that, but I do. All the lies I'd practiced disappeared.

"O-okay..." I said, both hands up. I dug my cellphone out of the pile of detritus. "Let's just talk about this." I don't do cute very well, and I can't cry on cue, but innocent? I'm pretty good at innocent. I tossed a wide-eyed glance to Lionel. "No more arguing, sir, please?" I slid the pink cell across the tile to the masked man's feet. "Just give them what they want."

The robber stomped the heel of his boot into the phone, smashing it, and Lionel nodded in resignation. And right then, despite my ignoble position and the fact that I'm pretty sure I was bleeding... I had to repress a smile.

---

In the face of the excitement of my mother's double life or the fact that she fights professional on a semi-regular basis, I'm just going to come out and say it: eighth period math is downright unfair.

It was the end of the day, and, as usual, I was staring out a window while Ms. Nielsen nattered on about... I don't know. She called them applied geometric equations, but it could have been theoretical physics for as much sense as it made.

I'm not going to lie here â€" I'm not a great student. I don't suck or anything, but my life is too hectic for me to focus on the volume of a circle or whatever. I'm not the teacher's pet or the top of the class, and I'm not the troublemaker or the class clown. If I didn't have a semi-famous mother who my classmates could watch beat people up on cable television, I'd probably go through my whole high school and not be remembered for a single thing.

These last few weeks had been especially hard, too. A few weeks earlier, my boyfriend had asked me for some "space" (whatever that means). I was traveling a lot â€" Mom brought me to most of the shows, since she didn't trust her enemies not to use me as leverage â€" and he was feeling neglected and not a little cut off from things, since it's not like I could go to him and explain what else I did on these little trips.

So if you'll forgive the cliché, I was the teenage girl, chin in my hand, staring morosely out the window into yet another bleak and gray Oakland evening. Brandon shared this class with me â€" we used to sit next to each other, but his new seat partially blocked the chalkboard â€" so even on the days I was feeling attentive, I only got about three-quarters of the notes, because I could never quite bring myself to look at him. At least not without staring.

So I'm looking out this window, right? And it's gray like Mom's eyes (or cloudy like my mood, if you prefer), and what to my wondrous (and obviously holiday-stained) eyes should appear, but a white Rolls Royce. (No tiny reindeer, though, which was kind of a bummer.)

I don't want to brag or claim I've got some kind of ESP or anything, but I knew that car was there for me. I go to private school, sure, but it's not one of those nose-in-the-air, girls-in-pleated-skirts, my-daddy-got-me-a-Maserati-for-my-birthday schools. It's kind of normal, so when a Rolls Royce shows up unannounced, I assume something is up.

As always, when the bell rang and unleashed the horde of rabid schoolchildren onto the unsuspecting world, I was one of the last people out the door. It's not that I don't have any friends at school, more like I don't really want any. Maybe it's because I'm mature for my edge, maybe it's because I think the rest of the people my age are somehow less mature than people think they are, or maybe it's just because most of the school has sided with Brandon in this stupid argument. If I were on Glee, I would totally be the recipient of one of those slushy facials.

So I'm the last person out and the Rolls is still there, which, hey, looks like I was right, right? But in case I'm not paying any attention, the horn honked, two sharp bleats like a pissed-off goat. I trotted that way, glancing back over my shoulder. It's silly, but I always thought Brandon would be there one day, just waiting for me to say he was sorry and that he really wanted to get back together.

No such luck yet with that.

I stayed on the sidewalk, keeping the angle as sharp as possible. I couldn't sneak up on them, but I could make it more difficult than just knocking on the window and letting them do their worst to me. Maybe it was a little bit paranoid, but if you hang out with my mother for that long, you'll develop the same nervous habits.

Still, the window was rolled partway down when I approached, and my shadow had barely touched the back bumper before I heard a voice inside. "Oh, get in the car, Quinn." It was my mother â€" you'll find almost everyone does a Desade impression, that dead, sepulcher whisper that's been a staple of wrestling shows for years â€" except that she sounded weird, because she was laughing.

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised â€" I basically live in a bubble built with Mom's favors and more string-pulling than I'd care to admit, so kidnappers would have to work a lot harder than "show up in a fancy car". Somehow she always manages to catch me off guard, but I've never minded.

At least until I pulled the door open and found my mother and Kieran fucking Whitechurch sharing a bottle of champagne in the back seat of the car. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that they were canoodling or anything â€" if you know the players, you know that Kieran's not exactly her... her type. They did make a swell-looking couple, though â€" her with her flawless skin, dancer's build, and surprisingly-under-control-since-she-and-Amy-started-talking hair, him with his chiseled good looks and ineffable skill at wearing high-priced Italian suits.

Oh, and did I mention that he's my dad?

It's a long and ugly story, featuring drugged teenagers, attempted blackmail, and fifteen-plus years working together without mentioning, "Oh, hey, bee tee dubs, we might have fucked while you were insensate and conceived your only child." So, yeah, not really a fan.

I think that was clear in my tone. "Uh, hi?" I saidâ€"maybe asked as I climbed into the car. There were two seats facing each other, and I took the one neither of my parents were sitting in. "This is a surprise."

"I told you she wouldn't like it very much," Kieran said, the lines around his eyes crinkling in his smile.

"To be fair, she's got quite a good reason," Mom said. Her own smile was kind of plastic, like she wasn't putting her full weight behind it. I made a note to ask her about it when we had a free moment.

I have to give him some credit for at least having the decency to shift uncomfortably. I don't know why he didn't tell her about that night sooner, but I wasn't keen on asking.

The car started in motion, pulling away from the curb with the quiet hum of luxury engineering, and I looked out the window, more for something else to do with my eyes until I was able to figure out what was going on. I am my mother's daughter, but I am nowhere near skilled enough to pretend that I wasn't confused at the fancy ride and their overall chumminess.

"So," I said at length. Silence sucks.

"So." Kieran leaned back in the seat, draping one arm over the headrest. It was supposed to look cool, calm, and confident. Instead, it looked forced.

Mom hardly ever relaxed, but she leaned into the door, looking down and to the side rather than turning her head. I was suddenly struck by the thought that they'd been arguing. "Your father and I had lunch this afternoon," Mom began, and just from her word choice, I knew I was right.

It didn't stop the anger from bubbling up. "Don't call him that."

"Quinn..." Kieran leaned forward, elbows to knees. He tried to hide his frustration â€" we'd gone round and round about this for the month or two I've known the truth.

Likely for fear of another argument, Mom pressed on. "Kieran and I both know how upset you've been about your breakup with Brandon, andâ€""

"We're not broken up!" Even as I said it, I knew how it sounded, and I could feel my cheeks flush. I slumped back into the chair seat, folding my arms. For the record, I was perfectly aware I was being a sullen teenager, but I couldn't help it â€" the wound was still fresh. "We're just on break."

"Well, between that and the trips to the SCCW shows, I've noticed your schoolwork has started to suffer."

People will tell you I'm old for my age â€" some asshole on a website once accused me of being a twenty-something actress playing a teenager, like on one of those shows on the CW. But underneath the hard, only-child-in-a-single-parent-home façade, I can assure you I'm still sixteen.

"Really?" I asked, not a little petulantly. "This is a come-to-Jesus meeting about my grades?"

Kieran chuckled, slow and rich. "Your mother and I are actually en route to another, ah, engagement."

"That's not important," Mom said, and she'd put on her full-on I'm-your-mother-and-this-is-serious-Quinn face. "It's... Kieran thinks the school is the problem."

"I like it there." I see now I was just being a child. "I like the teachers, and they don't stress about homework, and the other kids are... okay, they're not exactly 'nice', but I'm happy there, and you can't ask me to change schools in December."

Kieran is one of those guys who smiles all the damn time, whether he means it or not. It's supposed to be comforting, even charming, but after a while, if you're paying attention, you start to notice the little things, quivers in his lips that give away the truth, like an expression under the expression.

"We're not," he said, and one corner of his smile died just a little bit. I figured I knew what point Mom was arguing. "Your... your mother believes you should be given the choice."

"Oh, heavens no, don't give me a choice." I looked outside the window at the gray landscape whizzing by. Sometimes I don't remember I am sixteen, either, and the thought of people deciding things for me is positively infuriating.

Mom's voice sharpened like a razor, somehow managing to pack quite a lot into a single syllable. "Quinn." It was enough to get me to shut up, at least for a little while.

"There's a school up in the Berkeley area, the Ellis Academy, and I've managed to pull some strings."

I glanced back to the pair of them, brow arching. "You mean like a boarding school?"

Mom leaned forward, plucking a bottle of water from the cup holder between them. The seal on the cap snapped with the violence of the twist that opened it, drawing Kieran's attention briefly. In that moment, I met Mom's eyes and I knew there was more to this than they were telling me.

When Kieran looked back, I gave him my best "fine, but I'm not happy about it" look. (I'm pretty good at that one.) "Is that where we're going now?" I asked.

He nodded. "I was able to arrange a weekend visit, to let you get a feel for the place. If you like it, we can get you in after the New Year. If not, you'll never hear about it from me again."

"It's not like you're missing anything here. It's just reconnaissance,

I turned fully in the seat, curling one leg underneath me. I managed to restrain myself from tucking my hair behind my ear; that's a nervous habit I picked up from Mom, and it's pretty much a giveaway. If there was something going on here â€" something I wasn't aware of, something that they were keeping from me and maybe each other â€" I didn't want him to know I knew.

Even if I didn't know yet. Hell, especially then.

"All right," I said, trying to make it more of a grumble. "So what is the Ellis Academy like?"

---

It turns out the Ellis Academy is pretty much my dream school.

Founded in 1965 at the height of the Cold War, the Ellis Academy was specifically designed for the children of people with high security clearance. Diplomats, analysts, intelligence agents... these are people have children, people like me who make for easy targets for people whose interests run counter to theirs. A kidnapped child can make people do things they'd never otherwise consider, betray people they would fight for to the death, give up secrets they'd sworn to hold onto until the grave.

The Ellis Academy was designed to prevent that sort of thing, and the first things that I noticed were the walls, tall and thick and made from solid red brick. I don't have the knowhow that my mother does, but I could tell you that the wrought iron spikes at the top weren't just for show, and the cameras I could see gave an easy 360° of clearance. From the outside, it looked like a fortress.

Inside, it was like a paradise. The lawn was sprawling and a vivid shade of green, the main building was tall and stately in that old-fashioned, 1800s colonial way that always makes me feel like I've just stepped onto the set of Gone With The Wind. The driver (I'd only ever seen the back of his head, and neither of them said his name) pulled into the circular driveway, and I felt like a princess going to the ball.

The man that met us was tall, with broad shoulders and salt-and-pepper hair that was distinguished in that "I probably have hair plugs" kind of way. I was somehow disappointed he didn't have a British accent, but the Texan one would have to do.

"Afternoon," he said, and I swear he lifted his hand like he was going to tip the brim of his hat, only he wasn't wearing one. Maybe he left it in his office. "I'm Blake Halverson, and you must be the Whitechurches?"

This is where Kieran excels â€" nobody chats up random people like my dad. "That would be us." Their handshake was firm, just a single pump. "I'm Kieran and this is Eloise."

He gestured to Mom, who didn't flinch at the name, so I guessed they'd talked about this earlier (but maybe not, this is my mom we're talking about). She offered her hand, and Halverson brought it up to his lips in a way that was surprisingly not the creepiest thing I'd seen that day. "Aren't you just a vision?" he asked.

"Thank you," she said, a little bit crisp and a little bit thin. I wasn't sure if she was going for an accent and just didn't get there or whether she was trying to mask her irritation at the whole thing. She did retract her hand as quick as she could without the motion having to be described as "snatching it away".

"And who is this vision?" He turned his smile on me and all I wanted to do was hit him. (Yes, I realize hanging out with Amy so much is probably bad for my impulse control problems.)

Mom came to the rescue, sliding her arm over my shoulders. "This is our daughter, Quinn."

"Ah, yes..." His hands dropped to his sides, like he didn't know what to do with them. "I've heard so much about you."

"Whatever it is, I didn't do it."

I don't know whether it was my smirk or Mom's laugh, but he took it as the joke it was (mostly) intended to be. "Well, if you'll just follow me, we've arranged a tour by one of our star pupils while your parents and I have a chat about the ugly business side of things."

I shrugged, as diffidently and I'm-a-prissy-teen-like as I could. "I guess, sure."

We trudged forward, Halverson explaining the history of the place, which I won't bore you with. Basically, it opened on the second anniversary of the Kennedy assassination (yes, I know no kids were hurt then, but it was an easy publicity opportunity that I doubt you would've passed up).

The inside of the main building was somehow just as luxurious as the outside, all marble floors and a fancy spiral staircase that led upstairs, to what I was told was the coed dorms. (Mom's brow did this adorable little wrinkle when she found out the girls and the boys shared the same floor.) The students were all quiet and kind of reserved, and â€" unfortunately â€" there appeared to be a school uniform, which I never did well with back in Dallas and was already a big black mark against the place.

We stopped in waiting room area, and a nervous kid with black, curly hair and a pair of glasses that were thicker than mine was waiting. He jammed the rest of a Red Vine into his mouth as we approached.

"Here we are," Halverson said with the same white-teeth-against-tanned-skin smile. "Robert, if you'll show the lady around campus and then to her room?"

The kid just nodded â€" I don't know if he couldn't find his voice or had been told not to say anything until we were gone â€" gesturing vaguely towards the door.

"Have a good time this weekend," Kieran said. "We'll be here to check in with you Sunday night, that way you won't miss school Monday if you decide not to stay."

"Great?" I said-slash-asked.

"You'll be fine, Quinn," Mom said. "Just be yourself and you'll be fine."

I nodded as I followed, and I'm pretty sure my eyebrows were scrunched up in confusion, because, hey, why wouldn't she just tell me what was going on? I paused briefly in the doorway, only long enough to look back in hopes of catching Mom's eyes. I succeeded, but someone really needs to invent telepathy, stat, because I can't tell you what the synchronized raising and lowering of her eyebrows really meant.

"Uh, this. This way." Robert didn't trail off like most people. His sentence fragments were fully broken into entities of their own. I hoped he didn't talk that way normally. "I'll show you around."

"That's... what the man asked you to do." I tromped after, wishing I wasn't wearing my heavy-soled clompy boots.

Robert smiled, ducking his chin a little. "Yeah, I guess he did. I just... sorry, this is the first tour I've given. I hope I don't stink at it."

"I'm sure you'll do fine," I said. Sue me; I'm a nice person. "So you, like, live here?"

He led me upstairs, nodding again. "Most of us do." He looked back over his shoulder, and I tried to smile like that wasn't the worst thing ever. I apparently failed at that. "It's not that bad," he assured me. "I mean, we're close to stuff, and the school is good about trips to see stuff. We all went to see the Harry Potter movie."

"We went with armed guards, Robbie." The new speaker wasâ€"okay, I need you to understand there are some common misconceptions of what other teens do that I don't particularly follow. One of them is exaggeration â€" every movie is not the best movie of the year, every episode of every TV show isn't the greatest I've ever seen, and I rarely ever make "Best Anything Ever" into three one-word sentences.

But seriously? Ian Spencer is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the hottest. Boy. Ever.

Ever.

He is take-your-breath-away hot. He is should-be-on-the-cover-of-a-magazine hot. Tall, thin, with sparkling green eyes and a head of dark brown hair the color of new soil. I'll forever remember how he was dressed â€" sure, it was just some sandy-brown slacks and a green-and-white checkered flannel over a white t-shirt, but my God, that memory is burned into my mind for forever.

"Ian..." Robert began reluctantly. "I'm taking Miss Whitechurch on aâ€""

Another student â€" a girl I only saw the back of (and that skirt really couldn't be regulation) â€" slid effortlessly in between my guide and I, the gentle touch of a turquoise-nailed hand pushing him backwards. "Bobbie?" the girl I'd later learn was named Maritza asked. "I'm having some trouble with my math. Do you think you could help me out?"

I turned to give the girl a piece of my mind that would have started with how my godmother should never be your role model (and, yes, I know she wouldn't have a damn clue what I was talking about), but Ian stepped up to my side and I swear he stole away my voice.

"Why don't you let us show you what the Ellis Academy is really all about?" he asked. "Call it a field trip."

"I..." Give me credit â€" I looked downstairs, back to where Mom and Kieran were trying to find out how much money going to this crazy place would set them back.

I mean, I went anyway, of course, but at least I thought about it.

---

That was how we ended up here â€" or, more precisely, how we ended up in the hotel across the street overlooking the jewelry shop.

"I don't get it," I said, for perhaps the fourth time. Maybe the fifth.

"I know you don't." Maritza sat on the vanity bench beside me. "Believe me, I didn't get it for the longest time."

I looked up. She really was a striking girl, with big, brown eyes, an aquiline nose and dark, wavy hair. She dressed like a damn Goth, though. Little too much fishnet-and-foundation, if you know what I mean. She'd dyed just the tips a vivid shade of pink.

"And now, what? Some light bulb went on over your head?"

The smile she gave me was a little too impish to fit her image, which I figured was about 80% rebellion. "Not really. The Academy is great, but there's... there's stuff going on out here, you know? People think the world is simple, but it's not. It's really way more complex. You see it on the news and you think it's bad, but it's worse than that. You probably don't believe me."

I swallowed to hide a smile. "Maybe, but I have a good imagination. So... what, you guys are like superheroes?"

"Is not bad comparison." The fourth member of our little trip was a big Russian kid, the kind who'd be an offensive lineman if the Ellis Academy fielded a football team (which they don't, FYI). His name was Pavel, and he had a round face made rounder by his love for cheeseburgers.

Maritza looked from Pavel down to me. "We try. No one can ask for more than that, right? People come to us with... with clues and hints, and sometimes we find out things we shouldn't. And we do what we can."

"By robbing jewelry stores?"

Ian stepped in through the balcony, giving me that weak-in-the-knees-making smile again. "It's not as simple as that. But we have to go now."

"Now?"

He nodded. "Within the hour, some very bad people are coming to Lucy's Fine Consignments, and they're going to pick up some of the gems, and they're gonna use that money for some very bad ends."

"How bad?" I can't help myself sometimes, I know.

"They launder money through the store," Maritza explained. "It's easy to turn cash into diamonds, easier still to transport them."

I shook my head. "How do you know this? What aren't you telling me?"

Ian smiled. "I can't explain it all, not in the time we have." He gestured to the mirror. "You have to get ready."

"What? I can't... why do I have to do it?"

"Because we need to know that the proper pieces are there," Maritza said, her lips twisting in a little smile. "And because I can't do it."

"Why not?"

She looked down, folding her hands in her lap. "Because it's my father's store."

And that's how I ended up becoming a jewel thief, and finding a new boarding school. Kind of. There's more, but... I'm not sure how to tell it yet.

This is where I ominously say, "To Be Continued," right?
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