Authors: Chris Blewitt
Tags: #Young Adult, #fantasy, #childrens books, #magic, #science fiction, #historical fiction, #teen, #time travel
Foxworth Academy
CHAPTER ONE
I
t was pretty much guaranteed that the students from Mr. Martin’s History class had never signed a non-disclosure form before. The teacher smiled to himself as his gaze shifted from the American flag in the corner of the room to the class of twenty-five or so students, each one contemplating the decision of whether to sign or not. Some of the kids signed immediately, putting their pens and pencils down and glancing at their neighbor to see if they were going to do it or not. No one forced them to sign. The only problem: you were transferred to a different history class if you didn’t.
Brett Logan looked up at the bushy-haired teacher with his full, brown beard and glasses hanging from a string around his neck. He’d anticipated this day for quite some time, remembering all the rumors he’d heard back in grade school. “Make sure you get Mr. Martin,” the older kids would say. He didn’t know why and the kids never told him either. All he knew was that it was important to be in his class. Now, as he stared down at the non-disclosure form sitting in front of him on his desk, he understood.
One rumor floating around the school was that a few years ago a kid threatened to tell his parents if he didn’t get picked by Mr. Martin for the “special assignment.” The upperclassmen got wind of this and beat the living daylights out of him. They told him to stay quiet or the next time he would end up in the hospital. No one wanted to shut down Mr. Martin’s class. If in fact you did not get Mr. Martin your freshman year it wasn’t the worst thing in the world because he taught sophomores, juniors, and seniors too. It was understood at Foxworth High that you were guaranteed at least one class with Mr. Martin. Some kids were lucky enough to get him twice, and a handful even got him three or four times.
Sitting on thirty-five acres of manicured land, Foxworth High was a private school in Greenville, Delaware, just outside of Wilmington. Foxworth was situated in an old English Manor type residence that was converted into the high school. The gray stone building was half covered in green ivy which gave it a Yale or Harvard sort of look. It opened in 1999 and was among the state’s best institutions. Brett was lucky enough to get a partial academic scholarship his freshman year, which helped offset a small portion of the $28,000 cost of tuition. Graduating from Foxworth was essentially punching your ticket to attend any university on the east coast.
“Two more minutes to think it over, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Martin said.
Brett glanced around the room and saw the large, ancient map that covered one side of the room, similar to the one in his bedroom. This one had a series of markings on the map, but no lines dividing countries like you’d normally see. To his left were three large windows that happened to be closed today, even though it was still very warm outside. He took another look at the teacher then re-read the paper in front of him.
Welcome to Mr. Henry Martin’s History 101. Mr. Martin is a graduate of MIT and worked for NASA for twenty years before early retirement sent him here to Foxworth High. He has been teaching here since the school opened in the capacities of Physics, Current Events, and History, and he voluntarily coaches the boys and girls golf teams. It is an honor that you are sitting in this very classroom about to begin your freshman year at Foxworth and an even bigger honor that the teacher for your first semester is Mr. Martin. He teaches a fascinating class that will engage your senses, your mind, and your heart. By signing this form, you are agreeing that the discussions and activities that play a part in this class are not to be discussed outside this classroom with anyone else but your fellow classmates. That means parents, siblings, and anyone who does not attend Mr. Martin’s class. The reason behind this is simple; Mr. Martin teaches a once-in-a- lifetime education on History and his methods for doing so should remain at Foxworth and not be used anywhere else. You are in for one special class, so enjoy it.
It was signed by the principal and there were three lines beneath indicating places for a name, a signature, and the date.
“Thirty seconds,” the teacher said, looking at the clock above his head.
Brett took a quick look around, saw others scribbling their name furiously and made his decision. He signed the form.
F
or the rest of the class, Mr. Martin called on each of the students, questioning them in front of their peers. They were asked their name, where they were from, what sports or extra-curricular activities they enjoyed, and so on. Brett knew only one other person in his history class, Frankie Montesseri. They went to the same Catholic grade school but were more acquaintances than friends. Other than that, he knew of three other people in the entire freshman class, two boys and a girl, who all came from his grade school as well.
Freshman classes at Foxworth lasted seventy-five minutes, which was considered long. Classes got shorter as you moved up in years. Beginning at 8am, you had a brief homeroom with students giving announcements on a TV in the room. Brett’s schedule was Algebra, English, History, Lunch, Chemistry, and German Language, his choice over Spanish and French.
The entire freshman class ate lunch together, so after History class was over, Brett met up with his other friends from grade school. He and his friends sat at one of the circular white tables with blue plastic chairs. It was noisy until the teacher walked into the room.
A short bald man in a brown sport coat took to the floor. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “welcome to fourth period, or better yet, lunch. My name is Mr. Kratcher and I will be your moderator this semester. I see you have all chosen tables at random. We start at the back of the room. For example,” he pointed to a table of six, “this table here will be first in line, followed by this table and this table. There will be no
more than three tables in line at one time, so please wait until a table has completely returned to their seats until your table gets in line. Understood? Good, now enjoy.”
The first three tables at the back of the room got up and went to the front of the room where the buffet lunch was set up.
“How were classes guys?” a cheerful Krista Banks asked.
Brett shrugged. “Okay, I guess. You?” He was slightly disappointed that the only friend he knew in his classes was Frankie. His other friends got to spend all day together.
“We have Miss Godfrey for Algebra. She is so awesome,” Krista replied. She had always been the eternal optimist in school. Brett thought she was cute with her short, black hair and dark, green eyes, but she was as skinny as a telephone pole. She was big into running and had received a track scholarship to Foxworth.
“Well,” Tommy Del Rio anxiously asked, “how was Mr. Martin’s history class?”
“Yeah, what happened?” Krista chimed in.
“Hey,” Frankie said, holding up his hands, “I’m not saying a word.” He smiled.
“Come on, talk,” Liam Macgregor jumped in.
“We did sign some type of form,” Brett said.
“Really?” Liam replied. “So it is true. I wonder what the heck could go on in that class that you have to sign some type of secrecy form.”
“You guys are so lucky,” Tommy said. Brett thought he was too. If Mr. Martin’s class was all it was cracked up to be, he had three more years to get him again.
When it was their turn, they walked to the line in front of the buffet. There were a handful of women and one or two men waiting behind a stainless steel counter about five feet in height. Beneath that was a glass enclosure showcasing the day’s menu. The group made their way to the front, grabbed a brown plastic tray from the pile, and placed it on the three steel rails in front of them.
The first selection was rigatoni, Brett’s least favorite food. He politely shook his head at the woman serving it before sliding the tray down to an older man holding a spatula with a piece of fish. A white sticker on the glass indicated that it was Mahi Mahi. Brett nodded his head. The man put the fish on the plate and passed it to the woman next to him, who spooned some brown rice onto his plate. He added an apple, grabbed a fruit punch that was sitting in a cooler full of ice and handed his meal card to the cashier. Each student had a meal card that was loaded with money and each meal was deducted from whatever balance their parents had set for them.
Once the group arrived back at the table they commented to each other on how good the food was. At $28,000 a year, good food was expected at Foxworth. They scarfed down their lunch and talked about their classes. Soon after Mr. Kratcher indicated that lunch was finished so they took their plates to the dishwasher station and left the cafeteria.
The previous day at orientation each student was given a tour of the school in groups of ten. This was followed by a locker assignment on the first floor. The upperclassmen occupied the lockers on the second floor. Brett stopped at his locker, threw his books inside, and made his way to chemistry class.
CHAPTER TWO
S
ince they had started school on the Wednesday before Labor Day, Brett was already looking forward to the three-day weekend as he arrived at school that Friday. His first period algebra class seemed like it was going to be a breeze. Brett had always been good at math and considered himself a numbers kind of kid, always figuring out problems before the other students using his own system. English class was much different than what he was used to. Pronouns, adverbs, and sentence structure were not his cup of tea, but he followed along, wondering when they would start reading or writing on their own.
Anticipation grew as he walked with Frankie to Mr. Martin’s history class. “What do you think happens today, Brett?” Frankie asked, brushing his long black hair from his eyes.
“I don’t know, man, should be fun.” Brett was much taller than Frankie but he was annoyed at how Frankie occupied his personal space, always standing right in front of Brett’s face when he spoke.
“I once heard that he dresses up students in all kinds of costumes from history. Like Abe Lincoln, or Julius Caesar, and the other kids have to figure out who they are.”
“That’d be cool, I guess,” Brett replied, hoping that wasn’t all they’d do.
“We should have some type of hand signals,” Frankie said. “That way one of us will always know the answers.”
“Yeah, sure,” Brett replied, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.
“Let’s come up with something this weekend. Are you going to be around?”
“Actually, we’re going to my beach house for the weekend.” Brett’s family owned a beach house in New Jersey, a place they visited as often as they could over the summer. This was the last weekend of the summer and he wasn’t spending it going over hand signals with Frankie.
“Aww, man. Next week then, after school one day. Okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” Brett responded skeptically.
They took their seats in history class, waiting for it to begin. The room fell silent, each student staring intently at the bearded man in front of the class.
“I hope we all are having a good week here at Foxworth,” Martin began.
The students nodded their heads in agreement as they watched the teacher roll in a large screen TV from the back of the classroom and plug it into an outlet in the front. He grabbed the remote control from his desk and turned the TV on. He then reached into his pocket, pulled out a set of keys and unlocked one of the drawers in his desk. The students couldn’t see what was going on until he relocked the drawer and came up with a small compact disk. It was much smaller than a DVD or CD that they were used to. He loaded it into the side of the TV, pressed a few buttons on the remote control and the screen came to life.
“Now that we’ve all signed the non-disclosure form, let’s take a look at what happened last year,” he said, facing the students, most of whom were crouching and ducking to get a better view of the TV.
The screen showed the back of someone running up a set of stairs. It was bright as the sun shone in through the window they were passing. The camera was jerky with its movements as the person tried to keep pace with what looked like a boy in front of him or her.
