Arthur Paladin was about to be flung across the universe, but as far as he could see, his life was going nowhere. And it was going to keep going nowhere until he died at a dreary old age — bored out of his skull — never having left this bleak, backwater town.

Arthur was a lanky seventh grader with bronze, almost Native American skin, perpetually mussed-up, shock-white hair, and sullen, gold eyes. It was a strange set of features he had inherited from his father — features that had filled his childhood with teasing and exclusion. He stood right in the middle of the open main doors of Rockville Middle School and stared miserably down the dingy, crowded hallway.

The first bell rang, triggering a mad rush into the building. Annoyed students bumped and shoved past him on their way to lockers and homeroom classes. 

He didn't care that he was in the way.

He just couldn’t make himself go in and face another day of it.

I don’t belong here.

A girl brushed by and stopped in front of him. She flicked her bleached hair back and said, “Can't you ever do anything right?”

Arthur shrugged. 

She looked him up and down. “Dirty jeans and that same old grey hoodie … you’re never gonna change, are you?”

“Don't guess so.”

“You’re such a troll.”

Nose held aloft, she huffed away. Arthur frowned as he tried … and then failed … to remember her name. He vaguely remembered seeing her in class, but not recently, not in this year’s — oh! She was in the grade above him — the grade he used to be in, before he was held back a year. Arthur sighed. He knew why she couldn’t stand him: it was because he had a way with people … a bad way.

A boy elbowed him hard, knocking him down to his knees. 

“You're in the way, doofus.”

Arthur stood and rounded on the boy: McKinley, a stumpy, neckless lump of meanness that somehow had enough intelligence to attend school. McKinley had a special hatred for Arthur, but Arthur had forgotten why a long time ago. Arthur ducked as McKinley swung a meaty fist at his face. He grabbed McKinley's jersey and was about to throw a punch of his own — but Coach Lewis stepped out of one of the classrooms and spotted them.

Arthur and McKinley broke apart.

“Paladin!” Coach Lewis shouted, jowls quivering. “You're not fighting again, are you, boy?”

“No, sir.”

“Then get to your classrooms —” he glared at the other students “— all of you!”

With a mournful sigh, Arthur shuffled inside.

* * *

Arthur fell into a prehistoric, pockmarked, wooden desk and pulled out his tattered Pre-Algebra book, a spiral notebook with most of the wire torn loose, and two worn-down pencils. He began to doodle on a blank page — drawing imaginary alien creatures with tentacles and eyestalks and batwings, while Ms. Hue droned on about equations and fractions.

He didn’t pay her any attention. He didn't need to know anything more than basic math, and if he was wrong about that … well, he was sure he could easily learn the rest whenever he wanted. School was wasting his time. He was supposed to be learning … something else … something far more important than anything in his textbooks.

Every night, Arthur dreamed his dad — a man he could scarcely remember — was trying to teach him amazing things, the sort of exciting things you’d need to know to save the world: martial arts, sword-fighting, marksmanship, surviving in the wilderness (really strange places at that), and riding … horses and giant wolves and giant cats and flying beasts. But once awake, Arthur could never remember the specifics, only the sense of companionship and purpose and the thrill of adventure. All day during school he was haunted by the dreams. It was extra frustrating to face day after long, boring day of being alone and out of place, when he knew there was somewhere out there that he not only belonged but was desperately needed. This feeling bothered him the most when he was doing equations or diagramming sentences or translating Spanish — tedious things he didn’t need to know. It made him irritable … angry … rebellious. Once, he made the mistake of telling a teacher about the dreams. That led to two weeks of intensive counseling, on top of the regular weekly sessions the school already made him attend, with his Grandma Nelson’s approval.

“Arthur, I am only going to say this one more time. Would you please go to the board and do problem number seven?”

He looked up from his doodles and stared blankly at Ms. Hue. “Seven?”

“Yes, seven. Do you think you can find your way to the board?”

A wave of snickers flowed through the class.

“Er … yes, Ms. Hue. I can. But … um … what page number is that?”

Morgan Apple, the girl sitting next to him, sighed with irritation and hissed, “You’re such a moron.” 

Most of his classmates disliked him; some even despised him. But Morgan … Morgan hated him. 

With her athletic figure, flowing black hair, heart-shaped face, and pouty lips, Morgan was without a doubt the prettiest girl in their class … maybe in the whole school. She was the smartest, too. She should have been the most popular girl in school. When she had moved here, the boys all fawned over her, and the girls were jealous. But Morgan just didn’t care about any of that. Instead, she was distant, rude, and more than a little strange. Her popularity had faded fast.

Every day Morgan wore the same outfit, a monochrome version of a classic school uniform: black shoes, a gray skirt, a white top, and a black necktie. This was all especially odd given that their school didn’t require uniforms. Arthur thought it was cool, but he was apparently alone in that. Everywhere she went, Morgan carried a ThinkPad laptop, and if she had a free moment, her eyes were locked onto the screen with her fingers machine-gunning away. In class, she somehow always knew what was going on, even though she spent all her time discreetly sketching giant robots, reading manga on her iPhone, and writing in her journal in some kind of secret code. She never got caught doing any of this, and that really drove Arthur nuts.

Arthur thought they shared a lot in common, being outsiders and freaks. He had told Morgan so a few months after she had moved to Rockville last year. After briefly considering it (maybe), she apparently disagreed. She thought he was a moron, and said so frequently. Clearly, she was out of his league. Of course, Princess Morgan was apparently out of everyone’s league. 

Ms. Hue placed her hands on her hips. “Honestly, Arthur, I don't know why you even bother coming to school.”

Arthur shrugged and said, “Because I have to, Ms. Hue. It's the law.”

Lips trembling, Ms. Hue stared at him for several moments, as if trying to figure out what to say. Then, with a groan, she slammed her chalk back into the tray. She ripped her glasses off and gripped them so tight the lenses nearly cracked. “Mr. Paladin! I’ve had enough of your attitude.”

Despite himself, Arthur did what he always did: he met anger with anger. He slung his Pre-Algebra book against the wall and shouted, “Yeah? Well I've had enough of this stupid class!”

Ms. Hue thrust her glasses menacingly at him. “Principal's office — now!”

As he stalked out, Morgan whispered, without deigning to look at him, “They’re going to expel you this time. You’re way overdue.”

* * *

Arthur twiddled a loose thread on the seat of his chair. He worked at that same thread every time he was sent to the Principal's Office. He had it pulled out about six inches now. If the school’s secretaries had noticed, they didn’t care.

Blake Cider, a sixth-grader, moped in and plopped down next to him. Blake lived down the street from Arthur. They weren't friends, but they weren't enemies either. They had played together now and then, when they were younger … before Arthur’s grandfather had died.

“What're you in here for?” Arthur asked.

Blake was one of those squeaky clean kids who followed every rule and turned in every homework assignment on time. He was just never in trouble.

“Graffiti in one of the bathroom stalls,” Blake whispered.

“You're the one who drew that picture of Ms. Orange?” Blake nodded. Arthur’s eyes widened in surprise. “Really? I can’t believe it!” 

“I know, but she … she's mean to me — really mean. I'm just not any good at Spanish. I guess we don't get along, and I'd had a bad day and …” 

“Hey, look who you're talking to. I totally understand.”

Blake was frowning and wringing his hands. “Someone ratted on me. Don't know who saw me. I didn't tell no one.”

“Don't worry about it. It's your first offense, right? They'll go easy on you.”

“But my dad's going to freak out.” Blake took a deep breath and added ominously, “You know how he is.”

Everyone knew. The higher the pile of beer cans beside Mr. Cider's front porch rocker, the farther you kept away from his lawn. 

Blake deserved better. Arthur patted him on the shoulder. “Seriously, don't sweat it. I promise it will all work out.”

* * *

Dr. Dickinson, the school's principal, leaned across the desk and crossed his hands. The painting behind his desk showed a second Dr. Dickinson in the exact same pose. He did this every time; Arthur always had to try not to laugh. He’d had enough practice that he could hold it in now, but this time it was doubly hard because of the breadcrumb stuck in the real Dr. Dickinson's beard. 

“It's not acceptable behavior for a second grader, Art.”

Arthur cringed. Ugh, stop calling me Art.

“But you're in the seventh grade. You have to grow up, son.”

“Yes, sir.” I'll get right on that.

Dr. Dickinson peered over the thick rim of his thick glasses. “You will apologize to Ms. Hue as soon as you leave this office.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Starting tomorrow, three days of in-school suspension.”

“Three days?!”

“It's already the third incident like this we've had this year, Art, and it’s barely October. Don’t look at me like that; it's not my fault. I'm not the one who had a tantrum during class. This path you're on … it's not a good one.”

Dr. Dickinson tapped the desk with his finger. “Look, son, you've got to learn to be yourself and do the things you've got to do — like school work and minding the rules. You've got all this anger inside. You've got to learn to just let that go and move on. You keep bottling that up, and something bad's gonna happen.”

Dr. Dickinson stood and adjusted his suspenders. “Three days — my office — first thing in the morning.”

Arthur sighed. There go my grades again.

Arthur wouldn't get credit for the work he did during an in-school suspension … and his grandma would punish him because the school had punished him … and the suspension would nuke his grades … and then he'd get punished at home on account of them too. But really, he didn't care. He'd just do something like this all over again in a few weeks; he couldn’t seem to help himself.

Dr. Dickinson reached out a lengthy note for him to take home. Arthur grabbed it and trudged to the door.

“Art, one last thing. Don't throw your textbooks or anything else again. You hurt someone with one of your tantrums, and you're expelled — automatically. Got it?”

“Got it, sir. I'll try harder.”

Dr. Dickinson still felt sorry for him. That wouldn't last. Dr. Sayers at the elementary school had cared for three years before losing her patience. She promised Arthur she'd celebrate when he moved up to middle school. She hadn't been kidding. On his last day of fifth grade, she had lifted a champagne bottle with a red ribbon tied around it and waved goodbye to him as he walked out to the bus. Then his sixth grade principal retired early, after only a year on the job, and so did her replacement after Arthur’s second time through sixth grade. Arthur suspected he'd had a hand in those retirements.

“See that you do try, son. You've got amazing potential, if only you could focus and realize it.”

Dr. Dickinson followed him to the door. Blake Cider was still in his chair and was choking back sobs.

“What on Earth are you here for, Mr. Cider?” Dr. Dickinson asked.

“Graffiti,” Blake responded meekly.

“The one of Ms. Orange in the bathroom stall?”

Blake nodded sullenly. 

“Oh, I did that, Dr. Dickinson,” Arthur said. “Don't know why anyone would think Blake did it.”

Dr. Dickinson glanced between the two boys. “Is this true, Arthur?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Are you sure you're innocent, Blake?”

“He is, sir,” Arthur said quickly, not wanting Blake to have to tell a lie. “I promise.”

Dr. Dickinson sighed. “Well, graffiti is not allowed. Neither is insulting a teacher. I assume you both understand and that this sort of thing will never happen again.”

“Yes, Dr. Dickinson,” Blake replied.

“Go back to class, Mr. Cider.”

Blake scurried off, and Arthur was nearly out, as well, before Dr. Dickinson stopped him.

“Art …”

Their eyes met, and Arthur knew Dr. Dickinson knew that Blake was actually the guilty party.

“You're going to have to stay for an after-school detention to clean the bathroom and remove the graffiti.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I’ll see that this one doesn’t make it onto your permanent record.”

“Thank you, Dr. Dickinson.”

“Lord knows that record's full enough as it is. Art, I honestly like you. I think deep down you’re a good kid. That’s the reason you haven’t been expelled … yet. The only reason. You could achieve amazing things if you'd just focus yourself and let go of all your anger.”

* * *

Arthur gave the note from school to his grandma. She read it, folded it back up neatly, placed it next to her sunflower coffee mug, and returned to reading her worn, leather-bound King James Bible. He stood there … waiting. After two page flips, she looked up and focused her beady, laser-sharp eyes on him.

“We'll discuss it later, Arthur.”

They had never discussed it later before. This was a bad sign, a sign of impending doom. She wasn't reading Revelations again, was she? The book was open toward the back.

As he turned to leave, he noticed, poking out of her crocheting bag, a pamphlet — THE RUGER ACADEMY FOR — but the rest was buried too far down to read. A spasm of fear clutched his heart, but he didn’t dare act like he’d seen it.

Instead, Arthur scurried out the back door and headed for the woods. That was where he spent most of his time, since his bedroom was smaller than his grandmother’s walk-in closet. The old house had two more, bigger bedrooms, but she kept them closed off to save on the electric bill. It wasn't a big deal though; he preferred being outside anyway. And it wasn’t like he had a TV or computer to keep him in. Unless it was raining, Arthur spent his afternoons wandering through the woods, sketching the half-remembered things from his dreams, or rereading the musty, 1970’s Mac Bolan and Doc Savage paperbacks that he had inherited from his grandfather. And after dinner, he would take out his telescope and watch the stars till bedtime. 

Arthur’s telescope was his most prized possession. He had told his grandma that he wanted a telescope when he was seven, and she had said, “Way too expensive. No amount of begging will change my mind. Just one of those silly tubes is worth four Christmases.”

“Then don't give me anything for the next three Christmases!” he had replied.

If Grandma Nelson was anything, she was true to her word. The next three years after that, she gave him a lame “Seasons Greetings” card, a single candy cane, and a $2 bill. But as promised, he got his telescope when he was eleven. It wasn't top of the line, even for a small reflector, but it was four Grandma-Nelson-Christmases worth, adjusted according to inflation. When he told people about the inflation adjustment part, they never believed him — unless they knew his grandma.

Arthur spent this Friday night sketching the rings of Saturn and the Andromeda Galaxy. He had hoped to get a peek at the brochure when his grandma tucked in for the night, but unfortunately, she took her crocheting back to the bedroom with her. Unable to sleep, he spent most of the night staring up at the ceiling. His grandma, his teachers … everyone was always talking about how he needed discipline. But they were wrong. They didn’t understand. What he needed was a purpose, and the space to become … well, whatever it was he felt so sure he was supposed to become.

On Saturday, he searched for the bag in her bedroom, without success, and then all through the house, skulking around when his grandma was in the bathroom, cooking in the kitchen, or taking a nap. But he couldn’t find it anywhere. Surely he hadn’t imagined it.

But then, when Grandma Nelson settled into her cozy chair to watch TV after dinner, she said to him, “Arthur, could you bring me my crocheting bag?”

“Where is it?” he asked.

“In the car. I had it with me when I ran to the Post Office this morning.”

“You went to the Post Office?”

“Not all of us sleep in till nearly noon. Not those of us who don’t do the Devil’s work, anyway.”

Arthur fetched the bag for her, then she gave him the scurry-off-and-leave-me-be look. Patiently, he waited in his room, and when Grandma Nelson fell asleep watching Saturday Night Live, something she'd never admit to having watched, he sneaked back in. He figured the blaring of the TV would cover the sounds he made. 

He drew the pamphlet out of her bag.

Arthur’s mouth fell open in horror as he scanned it.

THE RUGER ACADEMY FOR THE HOPELESS

We'll turn your little has-been-to-be into a winner. Discipline, smarts, muscle, and a future — guaranteed! Our year-round boot camp training will iron out the worst problem cases, from drugs to plain old bad attitudes. Standard academics also provided by qualified teachers.

Inside were pictures of a spartan barracks, classrooms that used picnic tables instead of desks, a slimy lake, an unattractive stretch of woodland webbed with dirt roads, and an extensive obstacle course. Worst of all was the picture of the former drill sergeant and P.E. teacher who ran it. 

“Coach Connors?!” he hissed. “No!”

His grandma stirred. Arthur replaced the pamphlet, and rushed back out to his telescope. For an hour, he targeted random stars and stared at them mindlessly. The thought of his grandma looking at military schools was gut-wrenching. Arthur tried to block it all out, but every few minutes, the thought would hit him again, full on, so hard he’d feel like throwing up. 

An image of Coach Connors — scowling, red-faced, veins bulging on his neck — flashed into his mind. Arthur shivered. Just thinking about spending a year with that demon made him want to throw up. Connors had been his P.E. teacher in fourth and fifth grade. That hulking brute of a man had loved intimidating little kids till they tripped over their own feet and messed up the simplest games. Then he would rant about how all his students were soft pansies who didn’t appreciate how good they had it. Arthur had been his favorite target. While Arthur climbed the rope, Coach Connors stood at the bottom yelling about how Arthur was a disgrace to all the brave heroes who had died so that he was free to be an arrogant little jerk. Once, he had gotten right up in Arthur’s face and told him he was a bad egg and he’d never amount to anything. Veins bulging, Connors had screamed that if — and he made it clear that was a big if — Arthur made it to eighteen, he didn’t know if even the military could straighten him out, because he was rotten to the core.

“Paladin,” he’d told him on their last day together, “you'll never amount to anything that doesn't involve prison or lying dead in a ditch.”

Arthur had told his other teachers and his grandma about how Connors treated him, but no one had believed him. Everyone thought Arthur was just trying to get out of having to exercise. He wished his grandpa had still been alive; he would’ve believed Arthur and done something about it.

Arthur had to find some way out of this. If his grandma decided to go through with it, maybe he could make some sort of deal with her, or pick out a school on his own, or … or run away, if he had to.

It was getting cold, and he didn’t have any answers. He wasn’t even sure yet what Grandma Nelson would do. So Arthur went inside, put away his telescope, and curled up in bed under his secondhand, 1980’s Star Wars blanket. Nervously, out of habit, he ran his fingers across the ridges of the device over his heart: a disc as big as his hand with a bulge in the center and ridges along the edges — like a gear out of a giant pocket watch sitting just under his skin.

Arthur didn't remember getting the device. He'd had it as long as he could remember. Grandpa Nelson was the only one who had ever talked about it. If he mentioned it to his grandma or anyone else, they'd just stare at him like he was an idiot babbling nonsense. Even his doctor would blankly say, “Oh, that's going to be just fine. Don't you worry about it.”

Arthur had asked his grandpa once, “Is it okay for me to be outside playing? Is there something wrong with my heart?”

“Your heart's as fine as any, my boy,” his grandpa had told him, running his hand through his thick, gray beard. “You can do anything anyone else can. More even.”

“If my heart's fine, then what's the device for?”

“To keep you safe, Arthur. To keep you alive.”

“I don't understand.”

“I know. I'll explain it one day … when you're older. For now, don't you worry about it. Just pretend it's not there.”

But Grandpa Nelson had died of a heart attack when Arthur was nine, six years after he moved in with his grandparents. And now there was no one to explain about the device … or to stand up for him.

Arthur looked at the two pictures on his nightstand. One was of his mother holding him on her shoulder. He was just a toddler. They were standing in front of a giant fireplace, and there was a shield with a flaring sunburst on it, hanging over the mantle. The other picture was of Grandpa Nelson in a karate uniform, his scraggly grey beard cascading all the way to his bellybutton.

Wish you were here now, Grandpa.

Arthur lay awake long into the night, unable to sleep. Visions of Connors, endless push-ups, and learning how to divide fractions at a picnic table out in the woods raced through his mind. He didn’t think about the next day. For once, he wasn't worrying about the usual, torturous Sunday afternoon he'd have to spend with his aunt and his cousin …

But he should have been.