New World Disorder

Chapter Seven

"My mom almost didn't let me come to school today. She wants me to get a bodyguard or something." Alex said. It sounded like the idea intrigued him.

The two friends discussed the event and their reactions to it until they arrived at the school's entrance. Uniformed kids milled around the doors, making an ungodly racket that reminded Pope of the raucous cries of seagulls at the beach. Once the flow had taken Oran and his group inside they started to split up to go to their lockers.

Kirstin leaned in and whispered urgently, "Be careful. I think Eric's got something planned for today. He's been griping about you almost ruining his football camp and seems really angry."

He nodded in response as she rushed off. Oran could see Noreen Mooar, Kirstin's best friend, and the social leader of the tenth grade, waiting for her just down the hall. This was the girl that had given Oran's circle of friends the nickname "the dross", a name both intellectually obscure and socially demeaning, which fit the Queen Bee's personality to a tee. It had stuck, though many of the school's less intellectual bullies mispronounced it "the droes", a mashup for "dumb hoes" Eric had once said. Noreen was watching him watch her.

"Come on," Alex said, tugging on Oran's arm. "We've got to get to our lockers before homeroom."

The first few periods of school were just as bad as Pope had feared. Even at a wealthy school like Westminster, there were too many teenagers shoved into classrooms with only a single nominal adult for supervision.

For homeroom there was Mr. J. He was young a young man with an Australasian accent and close cropped black hair. Oran knew his real name was Josh Wharehinga, a Maori from New Zealand. He preferred to be called Mr. J because he hated how New Yorkers mangled his last name. Oran thought the man did not even try to corral the over excited youths as they yammered on about what they had done over their vacations, all at the top of their voices in an attempt to be heard over the others. It was nothing like the disciplined seminars for senior officers and government employees at the National War College Pope had presided over for the last decade or more.

Several of his classmates approached Oran,

"Is it true you got kidnapped?"

"How'd you get away?"

"I heard you blew up the building they were holding you in."

"No, esé, it was a lab he exploded."

"I heard people died in the explosion."

"I heard you were in the hospital for a week."

Oran interrupted. "Great! Sounds like you have the pertinent facts. That saves me from the necessity of explaining further." With that he sat down and proceeded to ignore the others. A few, like Alex and Alona who were also in the class, looked sheepish. Most just kept throwing questions sat him. And Mr. J looked more interested in hearing his answers than in controlling the chaos.

Finally the bell rang and monitors came on to show the news and announcements. Mr. J addressed the class. "Personal Research Project status check are due by the end of the week. You should be nearing the final stages of your projects. There are only ten weeks left. See me if you're having any issues."

This seemed to agitate the students. Oran recalled that the Personal Research Project, or PRP, was a big yearlong project that all tenth graders at Westminster had to complete. He had been working on a study of extradimensional exploration and exploitation, hoping to build his own working model mini-portal. That was why he had wanted to see his father's extradimensional power generator.

He died because of a school project? Pope thought. That is if the real Oran is dead and not stuck in my old body. Or possibly stuck in some completely different body in yet another dimension. Who knows?