Chapter 1: New Day, New School, and Ghosting Anew

"Wake up, honey!"

The voice seemed to pierce the darkness as I was freefalling through the pitch black at speeds unheard of, with only the stars winking behind me. I shrugged it off, maintaining my heading, and listened to the air stream by my ears.

"Wake up, or you're going to be late!"

I ignored it, mumbling my discontent. The dim glow on my altimeter showed the needle descending from ten to nine and then again to eight thousand feet. By all estimates, I still had another thirty seconds before it was time to deploy, halting my body's hurtling trajectory back to earth and settling me into a more tactical descent.

Five thousand... four thousand... three thousand...

"I said, get up!"

I felt a rough tug on my right hip, rolling me over and halting the falling sensation. My eyes bolted open, arms and legs flailing as if I was a turtle on its back. It took me a moment to orient myself and gain my bearings, but the ceiling fan above me and the cardboard boxes I could see out of the corner of my eye clued me in that I was in fact not doing a night jump.

"What the hell?" I said, more out of confusion than anything else. Then it came to me: My family had just moved into our newly built home in the Catalina Foothills, an upscale community to the north of Tucson, Arizona. Several months ago, my father closed the sale of his engineering firm, netting what could only be described as a luxurious retirement for my mother and himself. Then, in order to escape the brutal cold of another hellacious winter in the northeast, particularly at my mother's insistence, the three of us packed our lives into cardboard boxes and hit the road.

Personally, I would have preferred if we would have waited until after I had graduated from high school, but my parents would have none of it. When I said we had moved to escape the brutal cold of the northeast, I wasn't kidding; my mother suffered from arthritis and Raynaud's Syndrome, a circulatory ailment that can make living in colder climes rather painful. I can understand their justification for wanting to move, even finding myself fully agreeing with them, but at the same time I was a just-turned-eighteen high school senior who had to leave his friends, nay, his whole life, behind.

"Come on, sweetheart, it's time to get up and get going to school."

As I wiped the sleep out of my eyes, I looked up at our family's ever-faithful maid, Miss Angela Robinson. Angela, or Ange as I preferred to call her, had been with my family since before I had been born, and I considered her to be closer relations than most people would their own siblings. Generally speaking, Ange was the person to whom I turned whenever I had a problem or questions about the mysteries of life, and I was very fond of her. That being said, I most certainly was not a morning person, and both her presence and her waking me from my dreams only served as a focus for my grouchiness.

"All right, all right, I'm moving," I groused, pulling myself upright. I yawned widely, covering my mouth, and then stretched, slinging my legs around to the side of my bed.

When she assured herself that I wasn't going to fall back asleep, as I've done occasionally in the past, Ange turned and walked to the door. "Once you've had your shower and gotten dressed, I'll have breakfast waiting for you in the kitchen."

Now before I get naked and jump into the shower, I figure it's only fair that I give a more rounded introduction of myself. My name is James Gordon, and I've been eighteen years old for a few months. I'm 5'8" tall, 155 pounds, and in athletic shape. I've got short blond hair in a buzz cut, olive green eyes, and I keep a trimmed beard. Also, I have a few tattoos, but those can only be seen when I'm shirtless. I've got a small red maple leaf tattooed on my left breast, heritage of my Canadian birth. I got this when I was sixteen years old, my father having to stand in the tattoo parlour while I had it done. I've got a tricep-sized black dotted "M" on my right arm in recognition of my having completed the Boston Ironman earlier this year, shortly after my eighteenth birthday. Finally, I've got a winged sword and parachute tattooed on my right shoulderblade, indicative of both my sport and my belief that the Archangel, winged warrior, watches over me when I voluntarily throw myself out of a perfectly good airplane. That was my most recent acquisition, done immediately after I earned my skydiving license.

And, as you may have gathered, today is my first day as a senior at Catalina Foothills High School. Since my parents both had meetings with lawyers, doctors, and the director of the La Paloma Country Club, I was on my own. Hell, I was eighteen years old, after all; I didn't feel like they needed to hold my hand anymore, and I was grateful for it. But Ange was right; if I didn't get my ass into the shower, I would be late, and pissing of the school's jefe was not something I wanted to do on my first day.

"So, are you looking forward to your first day of school?" Ange asked me as I sat down at my place at the kitchen table.

I chuckled. "You make it sound like high school is a great place to be, Ange."

"You mean it's not?" she mused. "I remember when I was in my senior year, the fun never seemed to end... and it's not the kind of fun you'd want to miss out on."

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, because as you know, the periodic table of elements, applications of price elasticity, and the incessant ramblings of Ernest Hemmingway are all rides to 'Fun City.' "

As Ange put my plate in front of me, she gave me a playful swat upside the head, as friends and family do from time to time. "I didn't mean the learning, James," she said, the sarcasm dripping from her tongue. "I meant all the other stuff that goes along with being a senior. You know... lettermen, cheerleaders, rallies, dances..."

I sighed. "Not really my style, Ange, you know that. Maybe in your day, when dinosaurs ruled the earth, it was all in vogue, but..."

My smartass comment earned me yet another smack upside the head. What else was family for?

"Eat your breakfast, Jay, or you're going to be late for your meeting."

Following my post-meal brushing, I checked my watch and noticed it was time to get going. I grabbed my backpack, stuffed a handful of notebooks in it, and headed for the garage. Once inside, I slung my backpack over my shoulders, hit the lights, and looked back, shutting the door behind me.

When I turned back around, my eyes came to rest on my "baby." Bought and paid for with money I had earned as a result of years of hard work, and not as a result of "daddy's wallet," I felt an immense amount of pride whenever I went out with her. A sleek, brand-new Yamaha-blue YZF-R1 sports bike allowed me an inordinate amount of freedom that most eighteen-year olds didn't have. Plus, it had the added benefit of being as cool as shit.

I put my helmet on, grabbed a pair of batting gloves, and fished my keys out of my right jeans pocket. I hit the electric garage door opener, mounted my motorcycle and put the key in, turning the bike on. Then, making sure the bike was in neutral and my hand was depressing the clutch, I hit the ignition.

The engine purred to life, just waiting to be driven. Flicking down the visor of my racing helmet, I put my baby into gear and then rolled her out onto the street, making a right turn and heading towards school.

"So, Mr. Gordon, your transcripts say you just finished your junior year at Quincy Upper School, and quite frankly, your grades are nothing short of excellent."

The school principal, John Josephs, looked up from the papers on his desk and took a good look at me. In his mid-fifties with what must have been years of experience as a public school principal, the man commanded an air of authority which brooked no nonsense, all while declaring he was a man who very seldom didn't get what he wanted.

"Yes, sir."

"And I notice you were also a varsity member of Quincy's track team, cross-country running team, and swim team," the man said.

Again, I nodded. Looking at the principal, I got the vague impression that his eyes sparkled like a gold digger's when spotting an aging mark with extremely deep pockets. It left me feeling a little uncomfortable, despite the fact that I had given up varsity sports in order to train for my Ironman on my own schedule, without external demands and pressures.

"Well, as you may or may not know, Catalina Foothills has a top-notch athletics program. We have both excellent coaches and facilities, and I'm sure that..."

"Pardon me for interrupting, Mr. Josephs, but I gave up being a letterman. I just want to put my head down, do my thing in class, and graduate all while attracting as little attention to myself as possible." I kept my voice as level and respectful as I could manage, but I didn't want to be pressured into a public and visible role within the school.

"I'm certain once you take a look at our track and meet our track coach Mr. Jensen that..."

"No, sir, I think I'll be just fine with my classes," I said, interrupting him again. "I have to keep my grades up and all if I want to go to college."

"Well, we'll just hold that thought for the time being, and maybe later you'll change your mind. Now, about your classes. You've elected to take calculus, chemistry, and physics, all solid requirements for admission into any bachelor of science program. You've got your standard English class, as well as advanced French; and, you've also decided to take courses in both history and economics," he read off my admissions form.

"That sounds about right," I replied.

"Are you certain you don't want to drop one of your electives and change your physical education section from regular to varsity? For you, it'd still be easy credit, you'd be able to make friends quickly, and you'd have no trouble catching the eyes of the coaching staff."

The man just wouldn't give up, it seemed. I shrugged it off. "The electives keep my doors open, and I haven't decided what I want to study yet in college. Besides, like I said before, varsity sports aren't really my thing anymore; I keep fit enough on my own schedule."

Mr. Josephs sighed, a man defeated, finally realising that pursuing the issue was a lost cause. "Well, I guess that's that, then. Here's your schedule..." He shuffled through a pile of papers on his desk, came up with one and handed it to me. "... and if you'll wait just outside my office, I'll have one of the student aides show you around campus."

That was my cue to get up and exit, stage left. We both stood up, and I shook his hand, thanking him for his time. I grabbed my helmet and shouldered my backpack, making my way out of the office. I closed the door behind me, and grabbed a vacant chair just outside, and waited for someone to show me the ropes.

A few minutes later, a rakish-looking guy made his way through the school's office and beelined it towards me. The first thing that came to mind in describing him was gangly, but as he got closer I found that the word didn't quite suit him. Instead, he reminded me of some of the triathletes against whom I had raced in the past; piss-poor swimmers on account of their relative lack of upper-body density, but absolutely murderous on the bike and running legs of the race.

"How's it going?" he asked me, extending his hand. "I'm Sketchy."

The look of confusion on my face must have shown as I stood up from the chair and shook his hand. "Sketchy?" I asked.

"Yeah," he laughed. "My real name's Jason Fitterer, but after a year of questionable dating decisions on my part concerning the quality of the virtues of the women I was seeing got me irrevocably branded."

I nearly choked. I couldn't tell if he was being serious or not; and, if he was being on the up-and-up, I wasn't certain if I wanted to endure the potential attention which would result from my being seen with him. Sketchy seemed nice enough, and I wasn't being snobbish — I just wanted to keep a low profile.

He must have caught on somewhat to my thought process. "Don't worry about it," he said. "The rumours are vastly exaggerated and no one places any truth on them anyway." He paused, grinned, and then put on British airs. "Your reputation shall not be besmirched as a result of your being seen with me, sir."

I laughed. Sketchy had quite the sense of humour, and was definitely an all right guy. While I didn't want to enter the high school popularity rat race, and wanted to attract as little attention as possible, it couldn't hurt to have someone to talk with every now and again.

"Gordon," I replied in my best Sean Connery imitation, shaking his hand. "James Gordon."

And thus began my nickel-and-dime tour of Catalina Foothills High School. Sketchy and I left the administration office and I kept pace as we took our time walking to the school's bookstore. I had been assigned a locker number in the N-wing of the school, but I still needed to get a few supplies before I went to class.

"To the left, you'll see some of the school's more commonplace classrooms, flanked on either side by docile lockers. But if you'll look to your right, ever so carefully... don't make any sudden moves... you'll see some of the more exotic lockers of this region," Sketchy went on in a Crocodile Hunter impression. "Look now," he whispered in a lowered voice, "a very elegant yet distinguished water fountain! Notice the plumage!"

I cracked up. "Sketch, you are something else, lemme tell you."

"That's why they pay me the big bucks. School aide and all that nonsense, although you won't catch me dead six ways from Sunday wearing one of those lame-assed uniforms that public schools try to force on their representatives," he cautioned. "Just jeans and T-shirts for this boy."

"You know, that's something I can understand. I was never really one who went in for attracting attention, and a dorky vest is just the thing which brings on the kind of attention that nobody wants." I sighed and shook my head, memories of Quincy flooding back. Whether it was an aide's vest or a letterman's jacket or sweater, I was never really keen on being in the limelight.