“Well, okay,” Javier said, sounding disappointed. “What do you have?”
James flipped his laptop toward Javier. On his screen was a collage of paintings by a man named Nicholas Roerich. James had stumbled across Roerich’s art, and the symbolist style stuck out to him immediately. The Russian painter often depicted mountains and villages, scenes that were simplistic in nature but somehow beautiful and epic, striking a chord with James that he didn’t know art could. “All right, so this dude Nicholas Roerich,” James explained. “He was a painter and a traveler. A lot of his paintings come from his travels to Asia.”
Roerich’s journey to Asia, according to a book James was reading, was to spread Western Buddhism. But as James explained to a disinterested Javier, he had run into a roadblock in his essay. Roerich’s expedition completely vanished in 1927. Roerich and his men were thought to be lost until they remerged near India in 1928, a year after their disappearance. All the sources James read had different theories for this lost year, but none seemed convincing. One book had excerpts of Roerich’s diary, where the painter said he and his team had been detained by Tibetan authorities for five months. But what about the rest of the time? And the diary excerpts themselves were odd, though admittedly, Roerich seemed like a strange and mystical guy. In the book, one passage was underlined, which James read to Javier.
“In spite of our Tibet passports, the expedition was forcibly stopped by Tibetan authorities. They asked where we were headed, and when I answered to where the blessed was born, a shout rang out and I knew then we were lost.”
“Huh,” Javier said.
“It’s an odd passage, right? What does it mean?”
When James had brought his problem to Mr. Zimmer, he had merely smiled and said it was outside the scope of the paper; it wasn’t that important. But it was the first time James had actually felt interested in an assignment, so he wasn’t going to allow the strange desire of some teachers to discourage exploration past the requirements dampen his excitement. It seemed Javier shared the teacher’s sentiment.
“Does it matter much for the paper?” he said.
“I mean, it’s part of the history,” James said, shrugging.
They spent the rest of the class silently working on their own papers, having deemed each other unhelpful. When the bell rang, James nodded to Javier and left.
Next up was chemistry, which James dreaded for one sole reason. And that reason was sitting next to the only open desk when James got there. Their teacher, Mr. Christian, hadn’t arrived yet, and the class buzzed with talking. James sighed and headed for the last desk.
“Hey, Bolt,” Brock Richards said as James sat down. “Crazy stuff yesterday, huh?”
“Yup,” James said, pulling out his phone and staring at it.
“I thought you were a goner for sure,” Brock said. “But the Bolt always has your back, doesn’t he?”
“Uh-huh,” James said.
“’Course, it must suck to always have your brother save you. It’d make me feel pretty useless.”
“Brock,” James said, pulling his eyes from his phone and looking at Brock, his face warm. Brock was one of those smart, preppy kids, already in multiple AP classes, wearing boat shoes and driving an expensive BMW to school. James detested him. “Everything you own was bought with Daddy’s money. If I wore Sperrys every day, I’d feel pretty bad about myself.”
Brock’s eyes narrowed. Smart though he was, he didn’t seem to comprehend that calling him rich could be an insult. Still, he understood the intention, and he didn’t like it.
“Yes, my father provides for our family. That’s probably tough for you to understand, considering...”
“Shut your mouth,” James said, sitting up straight, all jokes gone from his mind. His hands curled into fists.
“Too far. I’m sorry,” Brock said, though his eyes shone with malice. “It’s just, with how often your brother saves you, you’d think he would have been able to save—”
James was out of his chair in a second. He grabbed the smirking Brock and pulled him to his feet, his hands gripping the front of his V-neck.
“If you say another word,” James warned through gritted teeth.
“James Bolt!” Mr. Christian’s voice boomed from the front of the classroom. “Release him at once!”
James let Brock’s shirt slide from his grip, staring into those laughing eyes with hatred. Mr. Christian stood at the front of the class, his mouth a thin line. The entire class had turned to stare at James.
“Principal’s office,” Mr. Christian said, his face flushed red. “Now.”
“But he started—” James tried to say.
“Now,” Mr. Christian repeated.
James sighed and picked up his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. He walked to the front of the class, pointedly ignoring the stares from his classmates. When he got to the door, he glanced back to see Brock in his seat, his face the picture of innocence.
James stomped out, slamming the door slightly harder than necessary. He made his way through the now-empty hallway, stewing. Of course, all Brock wanted was to provoke him, to get him in trouble. And it worked.
Ten minutes later, he found himself sitting in Principal Brown’s office after being ushered in and told to wait by the angry-looking secretary. He still stewed, mad at Brock, mad at Mr. Christian, mad at himself. Mad at everything.
