Just Like That

Chapter One

Albin Academy was on fire.

Summer Hemlock saw the plume of smoke before he saw the school itself—just a thick coil of black puffing up into the cloud-locked sky, spiraling above the forest of thin, wispy paper birches that segregated Albin from the rest of the town. He ground his rental car to a halt at the foot of the hill and clambered out, staring up the winding lane...then over his shoulder, at the clustered handful of shingle-roofed houses and stores that barely qualified as a town.

No sign of alarm from the Omen police department. No fire trucks lighting up and screaming out into the streets.

With a groan, Summer thunked his forehead against the top of the Acura’s door.

Business as usual at the boarding school, then.

He guessed seven years away hadn’t changed a thing.

He climbed back into the Acura and sent it coasting forward once more, struggling with the gear shift on the steep hill and the narrow lane that crawled its way up the slope. Thin fingers of branches kissed their tips across the road to create a tunneled archway, a throat that spilled him from the lane and into the academy’s front courtyard.

He remembered, as a boy, walking up this lane every morning as the only local who attended the academy, the thick layer of mist that seemed a staple of Massachusetts mornings coming up to his shoulders, making his uniform cling to him damply. He’d always been a little scared, on those walks. Something about the fog, the thin black trees, the silence of it, where he could hear his own lonely footsteps on the pavement and imagine them echoed back by some strange ghost in the woods.

Maybe the ghost of Isabella of the Lake, the drowned girl who haunted the rowing pond behind the school.

Or maybe just his imagination, chasing him with all the fears he hadn’t been able to face.

At the moment, though, he was driven less by fear and more by resigned curiosity as he forced the Acura to make the steep ascent. By the time he pulled into the courtyard, the plume of smoke had turned into a brooding cloud hovering over the school, wreathing its pointed spires in ominous black. Most if it seemed to be coming from one upstairs window in the front west tower, the pane pulled up to let the smoke escape.

The entire courtyard was crowded with teenage boys, all of them lounging about in loosely knotted groups. They wore ennui like cologne, draping it around them as casually as their expensively tailored uniforms—and utterly uninterested in both the burning school, and the harried-looking teachers trying to shepherd them away from it.

Maybe Summer was a little weird.

Because the chaos of it was a familiar, bittersweet ache of homecoming, and it made him smile.

He stole an empty parking slot, cut the engine, and slipped out to weave through the crowd, holding his breath against the stink of chemical fumes on the biting early spring air. As he pulled the front door open, a severe-looking man in a navy blue suit—someone new, Summer thought, no one he recognized—reached for his arm.

Without even thinking, Summer stepped back out of pure instinctive habit, pulling out of arm’s reach and edging past the man.

Until he was forced to stop, as the man stepped in front of him, blocking the door.

Excuse me, sir. The man looked at him coldly through half-rim glasses. Visitors are not allowed at the moment. In case you can’t see, we’re in the middle of an emergency.

Summer smiled, not quite meeting the man’s eyes. It made him uncomfortable, always, this feeling like people were crawling inside his skin with a single stare—but most never noticed that he was looking right over their shoulders, instead. It’s okay, he said. I work here. And I’m used to Dr. Liu’s explosions. I’m just gonna grab a fire extinguisher and help.

The man just blinked at him, cocking his head with a quizzical frown.

So Summer stole his opportunity and slipped inside, just barely managing to squeeze past the suit-clad man without touching.

He barely had a moment to register the disorienting feeling of familiarity—as if he’d traveled back in time, back to that rawboned thin pale boy he’d been, walking into the eerily quiet, high-ceilinged entry chamber of dark paneled wood and tall windows with his shoulders hunched and head bowed—before he vaulted up one side of the double stairway, taking the steps two at a time, and dashed for the northwest wing. The smell of bitterly acidic smoke led him on, beckoning him through vaulted corridors where the air grew thicker and thicker, until the murk fogged everything gray and stung his eyes.

Coughing, he pulled the collar of his button-down up over his mouth, breathing through the cloth and squinting. Just up ahead, he could barely make out a few shapes moving in the hallway—but a familiar voice rang down the hall, low and dry and authoritative, this thing of velvet and grit and cool autumn nights.

Extinguisher first, then sand, the voice ordered. "Dr. Liu, if you insist on getting in the way, at least make yourself useful and remove anything else flammable from the vicinity of the blaze. Quickly, now. Keep your mouths covered."

Summer’s entire body tingled, prickled, as if his skin had drawn too tight. That voice—that voice brought back too many memories. Afternoons in his psychology elective class, staring down at his textbook and doodling in his notebook and refusing to look up, to look at anyone, while that voice washed over him for an hour. Summer knew that voice almost better than the face attached to it, every inflection and cadence, the way it could command silence with a quiet word more effectively than any shout.

And how sometimes it seemed more expressive than the cold, withdrawn expression of the man he remembered, standing tall and stern in front of a class of boys who were all just a little bit afraid of him.

Summer had never been afraid, not really.

But he hadn’t had the courage to whisper to himself what he’d really felt, when he’d been a hopeless boy who’d done everything he could to be invisible.

Heart beating harder, he followed the sound of that voice to the open doorway of a smoke-filled room, the entire chemistry lab a haze of gray and black and crackling orange; from what he could tell a table was...on fire? Or at least the substance inside a blackened beaker was on fire, belching out a seemingly never-ending, impossible billow of smoke and flame.

Several smaller fires burned throughout the room; it looked as though sparks had jumped to catch on notebooks, papers, books. Several indistinct shapes alternately sprayed the conflagration with fire extinguishers and doused it with little hand buckets of sand from the emergency kit in the corner of the room, everyone working clumsily one-handed while they held wet paper towels over their noses and mouths with the other.

And standing tall over them all—several teachers and older students, it looked like—was the one man Summer had returned to Omen to see.

Professor Iseya.

He stood head and shoulders above the rest, his broad-shouldered, leanly angular frame as proud as a battle standard, elegant in a trim white button-down tucked into dark gray slacks, suspenders striping in neat black lines down his chest. Behind slim glasses, his pale, sharply angled gray eyes flicked swiftly over the room, set in a narrow, graceful face that had only weathered with age into an ivory mask of quiet, aloof beauty.

The sleek slick of his ink-black hair was pulled back from his face as always—but as always, he could never quite keep the soft strands inside their tie, and several wisped free to frame his face, lay against his long, smooth neck, pour down his shoulders and back. He held a damp paper towel over his mouth, neatly folded into a square, and spoke through it to direct the frazzled-looking group with consummate calm, taking complete control of the situation.

And complete control of Summer, as Iseya’s gaze abruptly snapped to him, locking on him from across the room. Why have you not evacuated? Iseya demanded coldly, his words precise, inflected with a softly cultured accent. Please vacate the premises until we’ve contained the blaze.

Summer dropped his eyes immediately—habit, staring down at his feet. Oh, um—I came to help, he mumbled through the collar of his shirt.

A pause, then, You’re not a student. Who are you?

That shouldn’t sting.

But then it had been seven years, he’d only been in two of Iseya’s classes...and he’d changed, since he’d left Omen.

At least, he hoped he had.

That was why he’d run away, after all. To shake off the boy he’d been; to find himself in a big city like Baltimore, and maybe, just maybe...

Learn not to be so afraid.

But he almost couldn’t bring himself to speak, while the silence demanded an answer. "I’m not a student anymore, he corrected, almost under his breath. It’s...it’s me. Summer. Summer Hemlock. Your new TA. He made himself look up, even if he didn’t raise his head, peeking at Iseya through the wreathing of smoke that made the man look like some strange and ghostly figure, this ethereal spirit swirled in mist and darkness. Hi, Professor Iseya. Hi."

Fox Iseya narrowed his eyes at the young man in the doorway.

He had nearly forgotten his new TA would be arriving today—or, more truthfully, he had put it out of his mind, when he was not particularly looking forward to training and shepherding an inept and inexperienced fresh university graduate in handling the fractious, contentious group of spoiled degenerates that made up the majority of Albin’s student body. He only needed a TA to ensure his replacement would be properly trained when he retired. Otherwise, having a second presence in the classroom was little more than an unwanted but unfortunately necessary nuisance.

The nuisance he had been expecting, however, was not the man standing awkwardly in the doorway, face half-obscured by the collar of his shirt.

The Summer Hemlock he remembered had been a gangly teenager, so pale he was nearly translucent, all angles and elbows everywhere. Fox recalled seeing more of the top of his head than anything else, a shaggy mop of black falling to hide blue eyes and a fresh, open face; he’d always huddled in his desk with his head bowed, and mumbled inaudible things when called on in class.

The young man in front of him almost mirrored that posture...but that was where the resemblance ended.

Summer was tall and athletic now, a lithe runner’s build outlined against his dress shirt and low-slung jeans; pale skin had darkened to a glowing, sunny tan that stood out vibrant even in the smoke-filled murk of the room. The lank mess of his hair had been tamed into a stylishly bedheaded tousle, perhaps in need of a trim but framing his face and rather strong jaw attractively. Too-wide, nervous blue eyes had deepened, shaded by firmly decisive brows.

Considering that Fox guided his students through to senior graduation and rarely ever saw them again, it was rather bizarre to contrast the boy he had taught with the man who had apparently come to take Fox’s place, when he retired next year.

But right now, he didn’t have time to think about that.

Not when Dr. Liu was currently racking up exponential increases in charges for property damage.

Fox flicked two fingers, beckoning. Sand. Join the chain. Let’s do our best to keep this contained.

Summer’s head came up sharply, and he looked at Fox for a single wide-eyed moment—and that drove home that sense of bizarrely unfamiliar familiarity, when Fox recalled quite clearly that direct eye contact could turn the boy into a stammering wreck, cringing and retreating. That moment of locked gazes lasted for only a second, before Summer nodded quickly and averted his eyes.

Of course, sir—yes.

Summer strode forward swiftly on long legs, and skirted around Fox to pick up a bucket and scoop up sand from the massive black trash bin that had been repurposed specifically to deal with Dr. Liu’s regrettably frequent accidents. The man was a nightmare and a half, and Fox supposed they could consider themselves lucky it had been two months since the last time the good doctor had practically burned the school down.

But they were running out of empty classrooms to repurpose for chemistry lessons while previously damaged rooms were repaired, and Fox intended to have words at the next faculty meeting.

Honestly, he didn’t understand how Dr. Liu still had a job.

And he quite firmly directed the chemistry teacher out of the way once more, as he returned to marshalling the emergency response group to put out the secondary fires that had erupted from jumping embers and ample fuel throughout the room. Fortunately this was rather a practiced habit, at this point—and within twenty minutes the blaze was contained, the last of it smothered beneath sand and fire extinguisher foam. They had, regrettably, learned years ago that Liu frequently worked with substances that only burned hotter when doused with water.

At Albin, the students weren’t the only ones who often had to learn from experience.

Yet throughout the suppression efforts, Fox repeatedly found his gaze straying toward Summer. His apparent shyness had vanished the moment he dove into the fray, joining the others rather energetically and hauling bucket after bucket of sand to chase down one sparking blaze after the other before it could get out of control.

By the time the clouds of smoke began to thin, Summer was a mess—his once-white shirt smeared with soot and ash, streaks of it along his cheeks and jaw, underscoring one eye in a rakish dash like face paint. But he was laughing, as he helped an older student shovel sodden, charred remnants of notebooks into a trash bag.

But the moment Fox called, Mr. Hemlock, Summer went stiff, every bit of ease bleeding out of his body to leave his back rigid and his shoulders tight.

Hm.

Interesting.

Summer glanced over his shoulder, looking toward Fox but not quite at him. Yes, Professor Iseya?

Leave the cleanup to Dr. Liu. It’s the least he can do to compensate for his crimes.

Hey! came from the corner Liu had sequestered himself in. Fox ignored him, crooking a finger at Summer.

If you’ve brought your possessions, fetch them. You can use my suite to clean up and change. We have matters to discuss.

Summer ducked his head, scrubbing his hands against his jeans. Beneath the smears of soot streaking pronounced cheekbones, tanned skin turned a decided shade of pink. He nodded quietly, obediently.

Yes, Professor Iseya.

Fox frowned. There was something...off about Summer’s furtive behavior, something more than just a reticence he clearly hadn’t shaken over seven years away from Omen and Albin Academy.

It didn’t matter.

Summer’s demons were Summer’s demons, and Fox wasn’t staying at the school long enough to figure them out.

Fox waited only long enough for Summer to retrieve his suitcase from his car, then retreated to his private suite in the southwest tower. While he let Summer have the run of the bathroom, Fox wiped off his face, washed his hands, and changed into a clean shirt, slacks, and waistcoat, then settled in the easy chair in the living room to wait; to keep himself busy he flipped to his last page marker in the absolutely abysmal Jordan Peterson book he was forcing himself to read for a class exercise.

Pop psychology, all of it, based in flawed and inhumane principles, but it provided an interesting exercise in logical fallacies and poor application of outdated psychological principles; examples he could use to demonstrate poor reasoning to students as a caution against falling into the same traps. He underlined another passage riddled with subjective bias in red, and jotted down a few notes on his legal pad, idly listening as the shower shut off with a faint squeak and an ending of the quiet, rain-like sounds of water striking tile.

A few moments later Summer emerged, steaming and still dripping, a pale gray T-shirt clinging damply to his chest and slim waist, a fresh pair of jeans slouching on narrow hips. He scrubbed a towel through his messy wet hair and peeked at Fox from under the tangle of it in that way he had, offering a sheepish smile.

Sorry, he said. Not really up to dress code, but technically I’m not checking in for work just yet.

I hardly think you need to worry about work attire in my living room. Fox pointed his pen at the plush easy chair adjacent to the sofa. Sit.

Like an obedient puppy, Summer dropped down into the chair, resting his hands on his knees. Thank you for accepting my application.

Your qualifications met the requirements, and as a former student you’re familiar with the school, the curriculum, and the standards of my classes. Fox crossed his legs, tapping his pen against his lower lip, studying Summer thoughtfully. However, I don’t think you’re suited to teach.

Wh-what? Summer’s gaze flew up quickly, then darted away. Then why did you accept me as your assistant?

No one else applied. Fox arched a brow. Look me in the eye.

Immediately, Summer bowed his head, staring fixedly at his knees. Why?

You cannot, can you?

Does it matter? Summer threw back, biting his lip and turning his face to the side.

It matters. Fox set his pen, notepad, and atrocious tome aside to lean forward, resting his hands on his knees and lacing his fingers together. The longer he watched Summer, the more uncomfortable the young man seemed to grow, sinking down into his shoulders and curling his fingers slowly until they dug up the denim of his jeans in little divots. Do you recall why most parents send their sons to Albin Academy, Mr. Hemlock?

Because... Barely a murmur. Because they’re rich and horrible and don’t want to deal with their problem children themselves, so they ship them off where no one can see them?

That is a more crass explanation of our function here, yes, Fox said dryly. "The point is that these boys have no respect for authority—and while we are not their parents or their disciplinarians, we do at least have to maintain the appropriate seniority and boundaries to keep them out of trouble. They will push those boundaries at every turn, and considering you haven’t changed a bit from when you were a student... I don’t think you’re capable of dealing with that."

That’s not fair! Summer protested. I’m not a kid anymore. You don’t know me. You’ve spent all of five minutes talking to me.

One can generally make an accurate psychological assessment in less.

Well, your assessment of me is wrong. Summer’s jaw tightened. I can do this job. And since you accepted me, you can at least give me a chance before telling me how much I suck.

So there was something of a backbone there, Fox thought—and wondered just what it was that had made Summer so shy, so withdrawn. Leaning back, he steepled his fingers. You interviewed with Principal Chambers, did you not?

Y-yeah. Summer nodded.

And what did he tell you?

That no one else wanted the job. Summer smiled faintly. He had a soft, sad mouth that seemed ill-used to smiling, yet was haunted by a perpetual ghost of warmth nonetheless. And that my mother must be happy to have me back home.

Are you?

Am I what?

Happy to be here.

I... There—an almost imperceptible flinch. She needed me here. She’s not young anymore, and it’ll be better for her if I’m close by to help.

That, Fox thought, was not an answer. It was a reason, but not an answer to the actual question he had asked. He pressed his lips together, tapping his fingertips to his knuckles.

I have a proposition for you, he said. We can call it a training exercise, or a psychological experiment—whichever suits you.

Am I a TA or a test subject?

Both, perhaps. Fox tucked a loose lock of hair behind his ear. Irritating mess; he always meant to cut it, and yet... He let his gaze drift to the mantle. The butsudan resting there, its deep-polished rosewood glinting in the afternoon light drifting through the windows, its doors currently closed and its contents private...as they should be. Tearing his gaze away, he made himself focus on Summer. Once per day, I expect you to do something outside your comfort zone. Challenge yourself to take on a role as a leader, or mentor. Challenge yourself to approach this job with confidence, rather than asking permission to do what you must do. If you cannot learn to be bold, Mr. Hemlock, at the very least learn to fake it in the necessary environments so that your knees knocking together do not drown out the lesson you are trying to deliver.

Summer’s lips twitched faintly. Pavlovian conditioning is a little 101 level, sir. Are you trying to make me assert my own authority?

"I’m not trying to make you do anything, Fox replied. My only goal is to see if you can take the steps needed to face down a classroom of unruly, disrespectful children on your own. Do I need to hold your hand in that, or do you feel capable of attempting it under your own impetus?"

Summer plucked at his jeans. The children don’t scare me.

Oh? Then what does?

No answer. Simply a heavy silence, fraught with meaning, and yet—for all his understanding of psychology, of psychiatry, of the small markers that gave away intent and thought and emotion... Fox couldn’t quite read what that meaning might be. Not when the Summer he had known as a boy was necessarily a stranger to him, with the appropriate distance between teacher and student; not when the Summer he saw now was a new person, shaped by years of experiences Fox as yet had no insight into, and technically stood on almost equal footing as his peer and assistant.

And if he were honest with himself...no matter how he tried, no matter what clinical understanding he possessed...

He somehow always felt at one remove from other people’s feelings, observing them and yet never quite understanding them, the soul of his own emotions locked away.

Summer took a deep, slow breath, his shoulders rising and falling. Every day? Does that include today?

You don’t technically start work until Monday, so you may take the weekend to consider, if you’d like, Fox said. Or you may start today. But that is still not an answer as to what frightens you.

Okay, Summer said shakily, rising to his feet with wooden motions. Okay then. I’ll show you what scares me.

He stepped rigidly across the living room, navigating the low polished coffee table with an awkward bump of his shins against the wood. Fox watched, brow raised, as Summer drew closer to the couch—but startlement prickled down his arms in a rush like goosebumps and fine hairs raising as Summer