I Am Number Four Read Online Free Page B

can’t be more than twenty classrooms in the whole building. I count them as we pass.
    “Here we are,” Mr. Harris says. He extends his hand. I shake it. “We’re happy to have you. I like to think of us as a close-knit family. I’m glad to welcome you to it.”
    “Thank you,” I say.
    Mr. Harris opens the door and sticks his head in the classroom. Only then do I realize that I’m a little nervous, that a somewhat dizzy feeling is creeping in. My right leg is shaking; there are butterflies in the pit of my stomach. I don’t understand why. Surely it’s not the prospect of walking into my first class. I’ve done it far too many times to still feel the effect of nerves. I take a deep breath and try to shake them away.
    “Mrs. Burton, sorry to interrupt. Your new student is here.”
    “Oh, great! Send him in,” she says in a high-pitched voice of enthusiasm.
    Mr. Harris holds open the door and I walk through.The classroom is perfectly square, filled with twenty-five people, give or take, sitting at rectangular desks about the size of kitchen tables, three students to each. All eyes are on me. I look back at them before looking at Mrs. Burton. She is somewhere around sixty, wearing a pink wool sweater and red plastic glasses attached to a chain around her neck. She smiles widely, her hair graying and curly. My palms are sweaty and my face feels flushed. I hope it isn’t red. Mr. Harris closes the door.
    “And what is your name?” she asks.
    In my unsettled mood I almost say “Daniel Jones” but catch myself. I take a deep breath and say, “John Smith.”
    “Great! And where are you from?”
    “Fl—,” I begin, but then catch myself again before the word fully forms. “Santa Fe.”
    “Class, let’s give him a warm welcome.”
    Everybody claps. Mrs. Burton motions for me to sit in the open seat in the middle of the room between two other students. I am relieved she doesn’t ask any more questions. She turns around to go to her desk and I begin walking down the aisle, straight towards Mark James, who is sitting at a table with Sarah Hart. As I pass, he sticks his foot out and trips me. I lose my balance but stay upright. Snickers filter throughout the room. Mrs. Burton whips around.
    “What happened?” she asks.
    I don’t answer her, and instead glare at Mark. Everyschool has one, a tough guy, a bully, whatever you want to call him, but never has one materialized this quickly. His hair is black, full of hair gel, carefully styled so it goes in all directions. He has meticulously trimmed sideburns, stubble on his face. Bushy eyebrows over a set of dark eyes. From his letterman jacket I see that he is a senior, and his name is written in gold cursive stitching above the year. Our eyes stay locked, and the class emits a taunting groan.
    I look to my seat three desks away, then I look back at Mark. I could literally break him in half if I wanted to. I could throw him into the next county. If he tried to run away, and got into a car, I could outrun his car and put it in the top of a tree. But aside from that being an extreme overreaction, Henri’s words echo in my mind: “Don’t stand out or draw too much attention.” I know that I should follow his advice and ignore what has just happened, as I always have in the past. That is what we’re good at, blending into the environment and living within its shadows. But I feel slightly off, uneasy, and before I have a chance to think twice, the question is already asked.
    “Did you want something?”
    Mark looks away and glances around the rest of the room, scoots his weight up the chair, then looks back at me.
    “What are you talking about?” he asks.
    “You stuck your foot out when I passed. And you bumped into me outside. I thought you might have wanted something.”
    “What’s going on?” Mrs. Burton asks behind me. I look over my shoulder at her.
    “Nothing,” I say. I turn back to Mark. “Well?”
    His hands tighten around the desk but he