Once the other newbies and I are all ensconced in our rooms, there's a commotion outside. I return to the doorway. Half of the academy's students are mashed together on the opposite end of the eighth floor. They're waving little strips of paper in the air. Someone in the center is gathering them. I know exactly what's happening. They're gambling on our chances.

"How did you enjoy the Beauty Pageant?" A kid emerges from a dark patch of balcony between two dim lights. He points at the room to the left of mine. "I'm Lucas. I live next door."

"Flick. So is that what they call it? The Beauty Pageant? Does that mean there's a swimsuit round? Should I unpack my Speedo and give myself a bikini wax?"

Lucas isn't laughing. Apparently this is serious business.

"I guess they're betting on who gets to take home the crown," I say, just to keep the conversation going.

Lucas moves a bit closer and lowers his voice. He's a few inches taller than me, and his skin doesn't look like it's seen sunlight in years. His expression is somber and his clothing unusually bland. With his crisp white shirt, black tie, and glasses, he could pass for the corpse of a young Atticus Finch. "I don't think there's much debate about who will rise to the top this semester. They're probably placing wagers on who'll be the first to go."

"And you're not a gambling man?"

Lucas shakes his head. "Stakes are too high for my taste."

"Well, do you suppose they'll let me in on the action?" I joke. "Or do I know too much? They might say it's not sporting."

"I don't think fairness matters much to anyone here," Lucas says. "You've seen our school logo, haven't you? The flaming brass balls? Place a bet on the Beauty Pageant, and they'll probably think you have a set of your own."

It's dark at the bottom of the atrium, but I spot a faint glimmer of gold. "Then it's too bad I don't have any money to bet with."

"Yes, you do," the guy informs me. "Check your top desk drawer. There's a black pouch inside. They fill it at the beginning of every semester. So go ahead-bet every last dime. Just make sure you're back in your room by nine. You do not want to miss curfew here."

"Thanks for the tip," I say.

"Don't mention it," Lucas responds. Before I set off, he grabs my arm. "Seriously. Don't."

I have no idea who will be the first newbie to go-Felix or Aubrey. But there's no sport in betting against either of them. Still, I can tell first impressions are important here, and I'm planning to make one that won't be forgotten. Always strive to be the best, Mandel told us. And the game starts now. So while the rest of the pageant contestants are settling into their rooms, I take a casual stroll around the eighth floor. I don't see anyone who looks younger than fifteen or older than nineteen. And the dorms are co-ed. At any other school, those two factors would be a recipe for chaos. Here at the Mandel Academy, order reigns supreme. It looks like most of the bets have been placed, and only a handful of students are still milling about on the balcony across the atrium from my room. I'm making my way toward them. They know I'm coming, but they're purposely ignoring me. I peer into the open dorms I pass. The semester hasn't even begun, and there are already kids hunched over their computers-or scouring books as if the word of God was hidden somewhere on the pages. One student is lying on his stomach in bed, with his face pressed into a goose-down comforter.

I'm a few feet away from the group, and one of them turns around. He's my age, but there's a world-weary languor about him. He leans his long, lanky body against the balcony railing, and his eyelids seem to droop with boredom. It's as though he's seen too much to be shocked by anything. I can imagine him dressed in a tuxedo, standing on the deck of a sinking ship and drinking one last martini before the waves reach up to wash him away.

"Hullo." He smiles, and his face instantly morphs. He's no longer a jaded aristocrat. He's the friendliest kid at camp.

His greeting appears to be the others' cue. They're all grinning at me now. Mandel is certainly an equal-opportunity exploiter. The kids here can trace their ancestry to every part of the globe. And whatever condition they arrived in, they've all been polished into perfect gems. There isn't a bad haircut or a zit in sight.

"So who's going to give me my tiara and roses?" I demand.

"I'm sorry. Mandel Academy pageant winners have to settle for a scholarship," says my new best friend. "I'm Caleb. That's Leila, Austin, and Julian." There are at least ten other students that Caleb doesn't bother to introduce. I'm guessing they aren't part of the in-crowd.

It takes me an instant to assess the three other individuals with names. Austin is the only one who could possibly pose a physical threat. He's like a Ken doll on steroids. Mandel must have kidnapped some Texas high school's star quarterback. Julian, on the other hand, is what the Japanese call kawaii. If he ever he makes it to Tokyo, the girls will be squealing before he steps off the plane. Leila is tiny, delicate, and filled with a rage that she doesn't bother to hide. If I were worried, she'd be the one who would worry me most.

"Flick," I say.

"We know," Caleb responds. "Gwendolyn told us all about you. I almost wish she hadn't. It made our little pageant much less exciting. Quite a few students didn't even bother to bet on the winner."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"No need to apologize. The competition for bottom place was fierce this semester. Any insider information you'd care to share?"

The no-name kids have started to creep away. Caleb keeps his attention on me. I think I'm supposed to be flattered.

"I don't know much about the other new students," I say. "I've been in solitary confinement for the last three weeks."

Caleb's eyes widen. "Really? What did you do? Were you fighting?! Are you the one who destroyed that Ivan guy's face?" He steps away from the remaining members of his group and gestures for me to join him. He wants me to feel like he's taking me under his wing and into his confidence. But I see his three friends hurrying to hop on an elevator, and I watch it deliver them to the ninth-floor dorms. I haven't laid eyes on a clock, but I have a hunch that curfew is a few seconds away. My new best friend wants me to miss it. "Tell me everything," he insists. "I've never heard of a student being sentenced to solitary confinement! Now I know why Gwendolyn's so impressed! I can't believe you were fighting in the Incubation Suites!"

"I had to teach one of my classmates a lesson," I say. "I guess I'll have to do the same thing up here."

Caleb stops just outside one of the dorm rooms. I'm pretty sure it's his. And mine is at least a hundred-yard dash away. When curfew comes, I bet Caleb plans to hop inside his room without a moment to spare-and leave me stranded outside on the balcony. I have no idea what happens to students who miss curfew, and I have no intention of finding out.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Caleb says.

"You will," I tell him. "Looks like the first lesson up here is going to be yours." I walk away quickly, but I don't run. The second I'm in my room, all the doors on the floor slide shut and lock.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

NEW BEGINNINGS.

I'm not as well rested as I'd like to be. Having spent several months sleeping in parks, I've learned to keep part of my brain on alert at all times. Even the faintest rustling of leaves can yank me out of a dream. Back on the Lower East Side, it was usually just a rat sniffing around for food. But last night, there must have been bigger beasts on the prowl.

The Incubation Suites were always perfectly silent. I didn't expect the dorms to be any different with the students locked away in their rooms. I slipped into bed around eleven and woke less than an hour later. There was movement on the balcony outside my door. At first I wondered if Peter Pan had decided to pay me a visit. But then I detected the sound of multiple shoes traveling across the old wooden floorboards. These weren't the rhythmic footfalls you'd hear if employees were patrolling the dorms. I can't quite explain it except to say that whatever was out there seemed to be prancing.

My first class of the day is the Fundamentals of Business, which sounded perfectly harmless before I skimmed the course description. (The ideal course to kick-start any business-related career. Polish your math skills. Study basic economic theory. Master the use of key terms and industry jargon. Acquire all the skills necessary for creative accounting, embezzlement, and most forms of fraud.) Ella snarls when I walk in. It's been three weeks since I told Ivan I had dibs on her body. I can't believe she's still pissed. I settle into a desk that could double as a work of modern art. An instructor in a perfectly cut suit introduces herself as Ms. Brown and begins distributing tablet computers to everyone in the class. I'm eager to play with my new toy. The dorms don't have Internet access, and I want to find out if there's Wi-Fi in the classrooms. When I turn on the device, I see no sign of a wireless signal. Instead, I discover an exam on the tablet's screen. There's nothing like having your math skills assessed after less than three hours of sleep.

"You have thirty minutes," announces Ms. Brown. The way the other students race to begin, you'd think she just fired a starter's pistol.

I'm not the first to the finish line. I'm still pondering the second-to-last problem when I hear a buzzer. Ms. Brown has turned her computer monitor toward the class. Its screen lights up.

Julian 96%. I feel a stab of envy as I swivel around to check out the competition. Caleb's little buddy is sitting directly behind me, dressed in a shiny black jacket. I bet he spent most of the morning crafting his super-cute hairdo. It's the sort of spikey, multi-layered mullet favored by anime characters, faerie kings, and Asian pop stars.

I refuse to be beaten by a wannabe member of a Japanese boy band. Still, I'm not going to rush through the test. A second buzzer breaks my concentration, but I don't look up. Another. I go back to the start of the exam and double-check my answers. Another buzz. Another. Less than a minute remains when I hit enter. My result is posted, and I hear an angry snort. 100%. I've trounced Julian's score.

Most literature bores me. Foreign languages baffle me. But math I can do.

"Time is up. Turn in your test, Frances," the instructor announces. The last student working clicks enter. Her grade flashes on the screen. 35%.

It's not the worst. She beat four other kids. So there must be something I don't know, because everyone in the class whips around to see what the girl will do. They seem to be expecting a spectacle, like bystanders watching someone who's considering a leap from a tenth-story window. Frances doesn't appear to notice the attention. The look on her face says she's already jumped.

"This will be your second attempt to pass this class, Frances. I realize you don't have a gift for mathematics, but you should know enough by now to make it through the first test. You'll need this course to complete your major," Ms. Brown tells her. "I suggest you work harder. I want to see significant improvement by the end of the Immunity Phase."

"Yes, Ms. Brown." Frances's face is whiter than the wall behind her.

The instructor studies the other scores on the monitor. "It appears that one of the academy's newest students has already taken the lead in this class. Where did you learn calculus, Flick?"

I shrug. I'm not about to reveal my academic history. No one here needs to know what I've got in my toolbox. "Math has always felt like second nature to me."

"You're very fortunate," Ms. Brown says. "But it took more than luck to earn a perfect score. There's a lesson here for you, Julian. Attention to detail is much more important than speed. If you can't resist the urge to show off, you'll never reach any higher than second place in my class."

"Right as always, Ms. Brown," Julian says with chilling good humor. "I'll be sure to find out if Flick has anything else he can teach me."

I don't need to look at Julian to know he's furious that a newbie stole his prize. I can practically hear his teeth grinding away.

The bell rings, and I gather my books. I can see Julian loitering outside the classroom. I'm preparing to give him the lesson he requested when I realize he's not alone.

"Hi, I'm Gwendolyn." Maybe she arrived at the academy with a terrible accent. Or a set of buckteeth and a hunchback. But it's hard to imagine that this girl was ever anything other than physically perfect. I've seen the results of enough plastic surgery to know that only nature produces such beauty. Full lips, glossy blond hair that looks soft to the touch, and those brilliant blue eyes. Still, she's a little too Disney princess for my taste. Some guys like perfection, but I've never been interested in playing with dolls.

She shakes my hand, and her grip is surprisingly firm.

"Flick," I say, though I know it's unnecessary.

"I'll see you at lunch," Gwendolyn says, dismissing Julian. I don't think she catches the sneer he shoots me before he hurries away. "I hear you're number one in the class."

"It's only the first day," I point out.

"It never hurts to have a head start. What course do you have next period?"

"The Art of Persuasion."

"Me too!" she exclaims, but I'd be willing to bet she already knew that. "Why don't you walk with me?"

It would be easier than finding the class on my own-as long as that's where she's planning to lead me. "Last night, I took a walk with one of your schoolmates, and I nearly got locked out of my room."

"Don't take it personally. Caleb's just jealous," Gwendolyn assures me. "If you live up to your hype, you'll have to get used to that sort of thing."

"My hype? I've been a real student for less than twenty-four hours."

"Yes, but I'm afraid I have a very big mouth."

And it smiles so sweetly.

The Art of Persuasion must be a required course for all majors. The classroom is the biggest I've seen so far, and there are only two empty seats when we enter. As luck would have it, they're side by side. My next-door neighbor, Lucas, is three rows behind Gwendolyn and me. I give him a nod, but he doesn't respond.

The course is taught by yet another blandly named instructor. I can tell from one glance that Mr. Martin is a "backslapper." A few of his kind always showed up whenever my father threw one of his parties. Jude and I liked to sit in the dark at the top of the stairs and pick them out of the crowd. They were the ones who smiled a little too broadly and laughed just a little too loudly. They answered to the nicknames they were issued at prep school and acted like overgrown boys. But each time one of them reached out to deliver a hearty slap to a fellow man's back, you could tell he wished he had a knife in his hand.

Mr. Martin ignores the podium at the front of the room and perches on the edge of his desk instead. We're supposed to find this endearing. He's trying to appear approachable. I bet this guy's watched Dead Poets Society five hundred times. But his act still needs a little more work.

"Over the course of your careers, you will each encounter individuals who'll try to make your lives difficult. It could be an employer who refuses to promote you-or a politician who wakes up one morning and decides to have principles. You may even stumble across the occasional law-enforcement official who isn't interested in supplementing his pitiful salary. When you meet these people, you'll quickly discover that all the sweet talk in the world won't alter their attitudes. If you intend to persuade them, you'll need to start digging for information."

Mr. Martin picks up a remote control from his desk, and a large television screen descends from the ceiling. It's displaying a static image of a man. He has a rugged, weather-beaten face, and his shirtsleeves have been rolled past the elbow. Everything about him screams Average Joe. But he's not.

"Let's start with a hypothetical situation."

The situation may be hypothetical, but the man is real. He's a congressman from Illinois. His name is Glen Sheehan, and he's a rising star. Last time I had access to a proper Internet connection, his speeches were all over YouTube. Sheehan's supporters call him the "voice of the people." I scan my classmate's faces. I wonder if they recognize him too. It's hard to tell.

"This man is a politician," Mr. Martin announces. "For the sake of today's discussion, let's imagine that you own a business that's about to launch a profitable new product. The politician thinks he can look like a hero by convincing the country that your product is dangerous."

Lucas raises his hand. "Why does he believe that the product is dangerous?" he asks.

Mr. Martin frowns. "This is a hypothetical situation, Lucas. There's no need to dwell on the details right now."

"You just said persuasion is all about information. The reasons he's opposed to the product seem like fairly important information to me."

"Then let's say that the congressman believes your product has not been thoroughly tested. And he's been informed that it may threaten the health of those who use it."

Lucas sits back with his arms crossed. I get the sense that he's determined to make a point. "Then we should try to address his concerns. I say we do some more tests. The results will either convince the politician that he's wrong-or help us make changes that might satisfy our critics without making our product unprofitable."

"Easier said than done," the instructor responds dismissively. "Anyone else have any thoughts? What's the best way to persuade our congressman?"

Gwendolyn lifts a hand. "He's popular with the voters?"

"Extremely," Mr. Martin confirms. "He's up for reelection next year, and so far no one has stepped forward to challenge him. He thinks he's invincible."

"Wasn't there another famous politician who bragged that he couldn't lose an election unless he got caught 'with a live boy or a dead girl'? Maybe we could arrange a little date for the congressman." She says it so pleasantly that I almost miss her point.

The instructor laughs. "A wonderful thought, Gwendolyn, but let's save that option for a last resort. Anyone else?" He points at me. "Flick, right?" I nod. "What do you think?"

I'm not going to pretend that I'm a factory owner or that the politician is fictional. "You should hire someone to steal Sheehan's phone. There are a bunch of other things you could do, but that's a good place to start. It's fairly risk-free. People lose their phones all the time. If you plan everything right, no one will get suspicious."

"And what would you hope to learn by stealing his phone?" Mr. Martin won't stop playing his stupid little game.

"I'm not all that interested in Representative Sheehan from the great state of Illinois. But if you steal his phone, you should have a look at the photos first. Even old guys snap pictures of themselves in compromising positions. It's like the Achilles' heel of the male brain. If all the photos turn out to be puppies and flowers, then check out his emails, texts, and web-browser history. A lot of phones even store GPS tracking information that will give you a map of every place that the owner's been. And don't forget to scroll through the sent and received call logs. Do all of that, and you're bound to find something you can use against Sheehan. The moment politicians start believing they're invincible, they stop being careful."

Mr. Martin is wearing his backslapper grin, but he's far from amused. He needs to prove that he knows more than I ever will. "That's why his aides will have made sure that his phone is password-protected."

I shrug. "And that's why the world has hackers. But a good thief could snag a phone right after the guy uses it-before password protection has a chance to kick in. I could show you how if you'd like." I begin to rise out of my seat.

"Sit down, Flick," he barks. Then he takes a breath and slips back into character. "We'll be putting your impressive skills to the test later this semester."

Second period just started, and I already have five enemies, a pretty blond stalker, and zero friends. It's a record, even for me.

My third class, International Politics, deserves a much snappier title. If I were in charge of writing the Mandel Academy course catalog, I'd call it Making a Killing: The Profitable Business of Bloodshed. I learned more about war in the past hour than I did during my entire stint at military school. Apparently it's not just about fighting bad guys anymore. You can peddle machine guns to Afghani warlords (as long as you don't mind being paid in opium). Or you can start a black market in a refugee camp and sell antibiotics at ten times what they'd charge at your neighborhood Walgreens. Hell, you can even form your own private army these days. Does some poverty-stricken country have something you want (bananas, water, diamonds, cheap labor)? Don't bother bargaining with the local honchos-just hire a bunch of mercenaries to go in and get it! If you don't, someone else certainly will. Poor people's lives are going to suck no matter what you do. You can't fight fate. But if you hold your nose and step over the corpses, you can make your own life a whole lot richer.

I'm hoping a strong cup of coffee will wash away the taste of death in my mouth, so I ride an elevator to the sixth-floor cafeteria. The state-of-the-art dining facility is bright and white. One wall is dominated by a giant black screen. The other walls are bare. The long steel tables with attached stools are exactly what you'd expect to find in a high school lunchroom. But someone bought far too many. There are at least six seats for every student, which actually seems to suit most of my schoolmates. Almost all are eating alone. Only two tables in the far corner are filled. Gwendolyn is sitting at one, wedged between Caleb and the angry, adorable little creature named Leila. Gwendolyn doesn't notice when I enter, but Leila does. I have a feeling the girl doesn't really like anyone-but she seems to hate me most of all.