DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN NOR CLAIM OWNERSHIP OVER THE I AM NUMBER FOUR SERIES, THE LORIEN LEGACIES SERIES OR ANY WORKS MADE BY PITTACUS LORE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED PLEASE SUPPORT THIS RELEASE THIS IS FOR ALL WORKS AND POTENTIAL STORIES.

A.N. I forgot to mention in my last A.N. but this story will still closely resemble the main story for the most part, at least for the first book. As time goes on I should be adding in more original content before there are major divergences in the story. Names are also as you have seen subject to change, John here will not be the same shy goof he is in the series. I am going into this with the thought of what I believe to have been more likely. Thanks again for listening to my ramble, please enjoy.

Chapter Three-

I wake before the alarm, the house is cool and silent. I lift my hands from under the covers. They are normal, no lights, no glow. I lumber out of bed and into the living room. Henri is at the kitchen table reading the local paper and drinking coffee.

"Good morning," he says.

"How do you feel?"

"Like a million bucks," I say.

I pour myself a bowl of cereal and sit across from him.

"What are you going to do today?" I ask.

"Errands mostly. We're getting low on money. I'm thinking of putting in a transfer at the bank."

Lorien is (or was, depending on how you look at it) a planet rich with natural resources. Some of those resources were precious gems and metals. When we left, each Cêpan was given a sack full of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies to sell when we arrived on Earth. Henri did and then deposited the money into an overseas bank account. I don't know how much there is and I never ask. But I know it's enough to last us ten lifetimes, if not more. Henri makes withdrawals from it once a year, give or take.

"I don't know, though," he continues.

"I don't want to stray too far in case something else happens today."

Not wanting to make a big deal of yesterday, I wave the notion away.

"I'll be fine. Go get paid."

I look out the window. Dawn is breaking, casting a pale light over everything. The truck is covered with dew. It's been a while since we've been through a winter. I don't even own a jacket and have outgrown most of my sweaters.

"It looks cold out," I say.

"Maybe we can go clothes shopping soon."

He nods. "I was thinking about that last night, which is why I need to go to the bank."

"Then go," I say. "Nothing is going to happen today."

I finish the bowl of cereal, drop the dirty dish into the sink, and jump into the shower. Ten minutes later I've dressed in a pair of jeans and a black thermal shirt, the sleeves pulled to my elbows. I look in the mirror, and down at my hands. I feel calm. I need to stay that way. On the way to school, Henri hands me a pair of black biking gloves.

"Make sure you keep these with you at all times. You never know."

I tuck them into my back pocket.

"I shouldn't need them. I feel pretty good. Where did you get these though?"

"I had bought them back in Florida, with your legacies forming I had a suspicion that you might get your grandfather's legacy of Lumen. Good thing I did," Henri says giving me a little grin.

I arrive at school, half an hour later only wanting to do a short jog this morning. Inside, the halls are bustling with activity, students loitering at lockers, talking, laughing. A few look at me and whisper. I don't know whether they just didn't see me yesterday, or if that Mark guy has been spreading rumors. They are likely whispering about both. It is a small school, and in small schools, there is little that isn't readily known by everyone else.

When I reach the main entrance, I turn right and find my locker. It's empty. I have fifteen minutes before sophomore composition begins. I walk by the classroom just to make sure I know where it is.

Out in the hallway, don't see Mark anywhere. I pick a direction and begin walking, just wanting to familiarise myself with the schools' layout looking for any escapes out of the building. People still stare and whisper, but that doesn't bother me. I see him fifty feet ahead of me. All at once, the thrill of adrenaline kicks in. I look down at my hands. They're normal. I'm worried about them turning on, and that worry might just be the thing that does it.

Mark's leaning against a locker with his arms crossed, in the middle of a group, five guys and two girls, all of them talking and laughing. Sarah is sitting on a windowsill about fifteen feet away. She looks radiant again today with her blond hair pulled into a ponytail, wearing a skirt and a gray sweater. She's reading a book, but looks up as I walk towards them she gives me a small smile and a wave. He notices me after I walk by them. Mark is wearing his letterman jacket, and his black hair is carefully styled to look like he rolled straight out of bed and into his clothes. He pushes away from the locker and walks towards me. When he is inches away he stops. Our chests nearly touch and the spicy scent of his cologne fills my nostrils. He is probably six one, now that we are this close I know that we are the same height. We have the same build. Little does he know that what is inside of me is not what is inside of him. I am quicker than he is and far stronger. The thought brings a confident grin to my face.

"You think you can stay in school a little longer today? Or are you going to run off again like a little bitch?"

Snickers spread through the crowd.

"I guess we'll see, won't we?"

"Yeah, I guess we will," he says and moves even closer.

"Did I do something to offend you already? We haven't even been introduced yet" I give him a cocky grin.

He's clenching his teeth now knowing that he doesn't have any valid reasoning behind his dislike of me or at least nothing that he can vocalize to the school. There are probably thirty people around us now. I do not doubt that the entire school will know what has happened within ten minutes of the start of the first period.

"Well I hope that you have a good day," I say.

Walking away I can hear a murmur in the crowd, focusing my senses I can hear him grinding his teeth. The fact that this is the first time I've confronted someone has me grinning like a loon with adrenaline pumping through my veins.

I go to the bathroom, enter an empty stall, and latch the door behind me. I open my hands. A slight glow in the right one. I close my eyes and sigh, focus on breathing slowly. A minute later the glow is gone. I shake my head. I didn't think the Legacy would be that sensitive. I shake my head in disgust and accept the inevitable. I grab the biker gloves out of my back pocket and put them on thankfully they don't look horrible on me and can be ignored. I leave the bathroom and walk the emptying hallway to my classroom. Everybody stares at me when I enter like I am an alien a stranger to their small-town world. I sit in the center of the room, the class going by quickly. When the bell rings I gather my things, drop them into my bag, and pull the straps over my shoulder. I'm still wearing the gloves. When I exit the room I lift the cuff of the right one and peek at my palm. It's still not glowing but I leave them on just in case. I walk the hall at a steady pace. When I enter the classroom Mark is sitting in the same spot I was sitting at yesterday, Sarah beside him. He sneers at me. Trying to act cool, he doesn't notice the gloves.

"What's up, runner? I heard the cross-country team is looking for new members."

"Don't be such a dick," Sarah says to him.

I look at her as I pass, into her blue eyes that make me feel shy and self-conscious, which makes my cheeks warm. The seat I sat in the day before is occupied of course, so I head to the very back right. The class fills and a kid sits next to me. He's wearing a black T-shirt with a NASA logo in the center, army pants, and a pair of Nike tennis shoes. He has disheveled, sandy blond hair and his hazel eyes are magnified by his glasses. He pulls out a notepad filled with diagrams of constellations and planets. He looks at me and doesn't try to hide the fact that he is staring.

"How goes it?" I ask.

He shrugs.

"Cool gloves, do you ride a dirt bike or something?"

I open my mouth to answer, but Mrs. Burton starts the class. During most of it, the guy beside me draws pictures that seem to be his interpretation of what Martians look like. Small bodies; big heads, hands, and eyes. The same stereotypical representations that are usually shown in movies. At the bottom of every drawing, he writes his name in small letters: SAM GOODE. He notices me watching, and I look away.

'That was easier than I thought, I've already found him and already ascertained some of his interests," I internalize.

As Mrs. Burton lectures on Saturn's sixty-one moons, I look over at the back of Mark's head. He's hunched over his desk, writing. Then he sits up and passes a note to Sarah. She flicks it back at him without reading it. It makes me smile. Mrs. Burton turns off the lights and starts a video. The rotating planets being projected on the screen at the front of the class make me think of Lorien. It is one of the eighteen life-sustaining planets in the universe. Earth is another. Mogadore, unfortunately, is another.

Lorien. I close my eyes and allow myself to remember. An old planet, a hundred times older than Earth. Every problem that Earth now has—pollution, overpopulation, global warming, food shortages—Lorien also had. At one point, twenty-five thousand years ago, the planet began to die. This was long before the ability to travel through the universe, and the people of Lorien had to do something in order to survive. Slowly but surely they made a commitment to ensure that the planet would forever remain self-sustaining by changing their way of life, doing away with everything harmful—guns and bombs, poisonous chemicals, pollutants—and over time the damage began to reverse itself. With the benefit of evolution, over thousands of years, certain citizens—the Garde—developed powers in order to protect the planet, and to help it. It was as though Lorien rewarded my ancestors for their foresight, for their respect.

Mrs. Burton flicks the lights on. I open my eyes and look at the clock. Class is almost over. I feel calm again, I have six periods left in the day. I have to remain at peace through all of them. The first half of the day passes without incident. I remain calm, and likewise have no further encounters with Mark. At lunch, I fill my tray with the basics, then find an empty table at the back of the room. When I'm halfway through a slice of pizza, Sam Goode, the kid from astronomy class, sits across from me.

"Are you really fighting Mark after school?" he asks.

I shake my head. "No."

"That's what people are saying."

"They're wrong."

He shrugs, keeps eating he opens his mouth to say something else but a giant meatball that I'm sure is aimed for me comes out of nowhere and hits him in the back of the head. His hair and shoulders are covered with bits of meat and spaghetti sauce. Some of it has splattered onto me. While he starts cleaning himself off a second meatball flies through the air. I was paying attention this time and had already turned around, dodging it was child's play as I look over at where it came from. A smiling group of jocks which of course includes Mark. Oohs filter throughout the cafeteria. I stand and wipe the small amounts of sauce off of me anger coursing through me. In that instant, I don't care about my hands, but there isn't a chance in hell I'm letting this slide.

"Don't," Sam says.

"If you fight then they'll never leave you alone."

I start walking. A hush falls over the cafeteria. A hundred sets of eyes focus on me. My face twists into a scowl. Seven people are sitting at Mark James's table, all guys. All seven of them stand as I approach.

"You got a problem?" one of them asks me.

He is big, built like an offensive lineman. Patches of reddish hair grow on his cheeks and chin as though he's trying to grow a beard. It makes his face look dirty. Like the rest of them, he's wearing a letterman jacket. He crosses his arms and stands in my way.

"This doesn't concern you," I say.

"You'll have to go through me to get to him."

"I will if you don't get out of my way."

"I don't think you can," he says.

I bring my knee straight up into his gut. His breath catches in his throat, and he doubles over. The whole lunchroom gasps.

"I warned you," I say, and I step over him and walk straight for Mark.

Just as I reach him I'm grabbed from behind. I turn and it's the lunchroom attendant.

"That'll be enough, boys."

"Look what he just did to Kevin, Mr. Johnson," Mark says.

Kevin is still on the ground holding himself. His face is beet red.

"Send him to the principal!"

"Shut up, Mark. All four of you are going. Don't think I didn't see you throw those meatballs," he says and looks at Kevin still on the floor.

"Get up."

Sam appears from nowhere. He has tried to wipe the mess from his hair and shoulders. The big pieces are gone, but the sauce has only smeared. I'm not sure why he's here. I look down at my hands, ready to flee at the first hint of light, but to my surprise, they're off. Was it because of the urgency of the situation, allowing me to approach without preemptive nerves? I don't know. Kevin stands and looks at me. He is shaky, still having trouble breathing. He grips the shoulder of the guy beside him for support.

"You'll get yours," he says.

"I doubt it," I say.

I'm still scowling, the four of us walk to the principal's office. Mr. Harris is sitting behind his desk eating a microwavable lunch, a napkin tucked into the neck of his shirt.

"Sorry to interrupt. We just had a slight disruption during lunch. I'm sure these boys will be happy to explain," the lunchroom attendant says.

Mr. Harris sighs, pulls the napkin from his shirt, and throws it in the trash. He pushes his lunch to the side of his desk with the back of his hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Johnson." Mr. Johnson leaves, closing the office door behind him, and the four of us sit.

"So who wants to start?" the principal asks, irritation in his voice. I stay silent. The muscles in Mr. Harris's jaw are flexed. After ten seconds of silence, Mark starts.

"Somebody hit Sam with a meatball. He thinks it was me, so he kneed Kevin in the stomach."

Mr. Harris turns to Kevin "You okay?" Kevin, whose face is still red, nods.

"So who threw the meatball?" Mr. Harris asks me.

I say nothing, still seething, irritated at the whole scene. I take a deep breath to try to calm myself.

"I don't know after Sam got hit I stood up and turned to look where it came from, just as I did another flies by me it came from their table," I say.

My anger has reached new levels. I don't want to have to deal with Mark through Mr. Harris, and would rather take care of the situation myself, away from the principal's office. Sam looks at me in surprise. Mr. Harris throws his hands up in frustration.

"Well then, why in the hell are you boys here?"

"That's a good question," says Mark.

"We were simply eating our lunch."

Sam speaks. "Mark threw it. I saw him and so did Mr. Johnson."

I look over at Sam. I know he didn't see it because his back was turned the first time, and the second time he was busy cleaning himself off. But I'm impressed at him saying so, for his taking my side knowing it will put him in danger with Mark and his friends. Mark scowls at him.

"Come on, Mr. Harris," Mark pleads. "I have the interview with the Gazette tomorrow and the game on Friday. I don't have time to worry about crap like this. I'm being accused of something I didn't do. It's hard to stay focused with this shit going on."

"Watch your mouth!" Mr. Harris yells.

"It's true."

"I believe you," the principal says, and sighs very heavily.

He looks at Kevin, who's still struggling to catch his breath.

"Do you need to go to the nurse?"

"I'll be fine," Kevin says. Mr. Harris nods.

"You two forget about the lunchroom incident, and Mark, get your mind straight. We've been trying to get this article for a while now. They might even put us on the front page. Imagine that, the front page of the Gazette," he says, and smiles.

"Thank you," Mark says.

"I'm excited about it."

"Good. Now, you two can leave."

They go, and Mr. Harris gives a hard look at Sam. Sam holds his gaze.

"Tell me, Sam. And I want the truth. Did you see Mark throw the meatball?"

Sam's eyes narrow. He doesn't look away. "Yes."

The principal shakes his head.

"I don't believe you, Sam. And because of that, here is what we are going to do."

He looks at me.

"So a meatball was thrown—"

"Two," Sam interjects.

"What?!" Mr. Harris asks, again glowering at Sam.

"There were two meatballs thrown, not one."

Mr. Harris slams his fist on the desk.

"Who cares how many there were! John, you assaulted Kevin. An eye for an eye. We'll let it go at that. Do you understand me?"

His face is red and I know it's pointless to argue.

"Yep," I say.

"I don't want to see you two in here again," he says.

"You're both dismissed."

We leave his office.

"Be careful," I tell him. "You'll be on Mark's radar now."

I have home economics after lunch—not because I necessarily care about cooking, but because it was either that or choir. And while I have many strengths and powers that are considered exceptional on Earth, singing is not one of them. So I walk into home ec and take a seat taking my gloves off knowing it will be a bit easier to cook without them on. It is a small room, and just before the bell rings Sarah walks in and sits beside me.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi."

Blood rushes to my face and my shoulders stiffen. I grab a pencil and begin to twirl it in my right hand while my left bends back the corners of my notepad. My heart is pounding. Stay calm, I think. She's just a girl. Sarah is looking at me. Everything inside of me feels as though it is turning to mush. She may be the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.

"I'm sorry Mark is being a jerk to you," she says.

I shrug. "It's not your fault."

"You guys aren't really going to fight, are you?"

"I don't want to," I say.

She nods. "He can be a real dick. He always tries to show he's boss."

"It's a sign of insecurity," I say.

"He's not insecure. Just a dick."

Sure he is. But I don't want to argue with Sarah. Besides, she speaks with such certainty that I almost doubt myself. She looks at the spots of spaghetti sauce that have dried on my shirt, then reaches over and pulls a hardened piece from my hair.

"Thanks," I say.

She sighs. "I'm sorry that happened." She looks me in the eye. "We're not together, you know?"

"No?"

She shakes her head. I'm intrigued that she felt the need to make that clear to me. After ten minutes of instruction on how to make pancakes—none of which I actually hear—the teacher, Mrs. Benshoff, pairs Sarah and me together. We enter a door at the back of the room that leads to the kitchen, which is about three times the size of the actual classroom. It contains ten different kitchen units, complete with refrigerators, cabinets, sinks, ovens. Sarah walks into one, grabs an apron from a drawer, and puts it on.

"Will you tie this for me?" she asks.

I pull too much on the bow and have to tie it again. I can feel the contours of her lower back beneath my fingers. When hers is tied I put mine on and start to tie it myself.

"Here, silly," she says, and then takes the straps and does it for me.

"Thanks."

I try cracking the first egg but do it too hard, and none of the egg actually makes it into the bowl. Sarah laughs. She places a new egg in my hand and takes my hand in hers and shows me how to crack it on the rim of the bowl. She leaves her hand on mine for a second longer than is necessary. She looks at me and smiles.

"Like that."

She mixes the batter and strands of hair fall into her face while she works. I desperately want to reach over and tuck the loose strands behind her ear, but I don't. Mrs. Benshoff comes into our kitchen to check our progress. So far so good, which is all thanks to Sarah, since I have no idea what I'm doing.

"How do you like Ohio so far?" Sarah asks.

"It's okay. I could have used a better first day of school."

She smiles. "Are you feeling any better?"

"I feel super," I laugh. "I have really bad asthma. For some reason I had an attack yesterday mixed in with the fever was just a bit too much," I say, and feel regret at having to lie.

I don't want her to see weakness within me, especially weakness that is untrue.

"Well, I'm glad you feel better."

We make four pancakes. Sarah stacks all of them onto one plate. She dumps an absurd amount of maple syrup over them and hands me a fork. I look at the other students. Most are eating off of two plates. I reach over and cut a bite.

"Not bad," I say while chewing.

I'm not hungry in the least, but I help her eat all of them. We alternate bites until the plate is empty. I have a stomachache when we finish. After she cleans the dishes and I dry them. When the bell rings, we walk out of the room together.

"You know, you're not so bad for a sophomore," she says, and nudges me. "I don't care what they say."

"Thanks, and you're not so bad yourself for a—whatever you are."

"I'm a junior."

We walk in silence for a few steps. "You're not really going to fight Mark at the end of the day, are you?

"Look at me," I say, and motion to what's left of the sauce on my shirt.

She shrugs. I stop at my locker. She takes note of the number.

"Well, you shouldn't," she says.

"I don't want to."

She rolls her eyes. "Boys and their fights. Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Have a good rest of the day," I say.

After my ninth-period class, American history, I take slow steps to my locker. I think of just leaving the school quietly, without looking for Mark. But then I realize I will forever be labeled a coward. I get to my locker and empty my bag of the books I don't need. Then I just stand there and feel the nervousness that begins to course through me. My hands are still normal and still covered by the gloves. I take a deep breath and close the locker door.

"Hi," I hear, the voice startling me. It's Sarah. She glances behind her and looks back at me. "I have something for you."

"It's not more pancakes, is it? I still feel like I'm about to burst."

She laughs nervously. "It's not pancakes.

"Okay," I say. She looks behind her again and quickly reaches into the front pocket of her bag. She pulls out a small piece of paper and hands it over to me

"What's this?"

"That's a piece of paper," she says while giving me a coy smile.

Laughing I begin to open the piece of paper, seeing just a couple of numbers on it I look up at her with a confused look on my face.

"My phone number," she says before continuing. "I know that you are new here and it can be tough moving to a new place without any friends so I hope that you can count me as one and that we can stay in contact."

I can't believe she went to such lengths to help me—she barely knows me. But I'm not complaining.

"Thank you that means a lot."

"You're welcome," she says, then turns and rushes down the hall.

I watch her the whole way, unable to stop smiling. When I head out, Mark James and eight of his friends meet me in the lobby.

"Well, well, well," Mark says. "Actually made it through the day, huh?"

"Sure did. Thank you for your concern." I say.

I pass by him, head down the hall, and walk out of the building.