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The stone walls of Welton Academy had a way of absorbing sound, turning even the most exuberant teenage shouts into muffled, somber echoes. It was a place where tradition was carved into the mahogany and excellence was expected as naturally as breathing. For Todd Anderson, the school had finally begun to feel less like a prison and more like a home, thanks entirely to the group of boys who had forced their way through his stuttering defenses. He had found a rhythm: the quiet camaraderie of Neil Perry, the chaotic energy of Charlie Dalton, and the whispered rebellion of the Dead Poets Society.

But as the new term began, that rhythm was abruptly shattered by a notice on the housing board. Todd was no longer in a single. He had a roommate.

Todd stood outside the door of Room 2B, his fingers curling tightly around the straps of his satchel. He took a breath, trying to summon the "yawp" Mr. Keating so often encouraged, but it came out as a faint, shaky sigh. He pushed the door open.

The room, usually a sanctuary of shadows and dust motes, was currently an explosion of color and chaos. A trunk sat open in the center of the floor, overflowing with sweaters that looked several sizes too large and a stack of magazines with titles like Amazing Stories and Fate.

Sitting on the edge of the bed—Todd’s bed, he realized with a start—was a boy who looked like he had been assembled from spare parts. He had a shock of bright orange hair that defied the Welton dress code’s preference for pomade, a face so densely packed with freckles it looked like a constellations map, and thick-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes to an alarming size.

"Oh! Hello! You must be Todd. I’m Gabriel. Gabriel Laurent. Like the saint, but less holy and more likely to be abducted by extraterrestrials," the boy said, leaping to his feet. His voice was bright, high-pitched, and moved at a velocity that made Todd’s head spin.

"I... uh, hi," Todd managed, stepping tentatively into the room.

"I was just looking at the ceiling," Gabriel continued, gesturing wildly upward. "Do you think the administration would mind if I painted a star chart up there? Not just any star chart, mind you, but a map of the Zeta Reticuli system. That’s where the Greys come from, you know. Betty and Barney Hill, 1961? It’s fascinating stuff, really. Most people think we’re alone in the universe, which is just statistically arrogant, don't you think? Imagine all that space just for us. It’s a waste of vacuum!"

Todd blinked, his mouth slightly agape. He hadn't even set his bag down, and he already felt like he had run a marathon. "I don't think they allow painting," he whispered.

"Pity. A real tragedy for the arts," Gabriel said, undeterred. He stuck out a hand, his grip surprisingly firm. "I’m from a school upstate. Perfect grades, they said. 'Gabriel is a genius,' they said. But they didn't like my thesis on the probability of the Roswell crash being a cover-up for interdimensional travelers rather than just aliens. So, here I am! Hellton! That’s what they call it, right? I heard a boy down the hall call it that. Is it really that bad? Do they perform exorcisms? I’ve always wanted to see an exorcism, though I suspect it’s mostly just bad indigestion and a flair for the dramatic."

Todd opened his mouth to answer, but before he could even form a syllable, the door swung open again.

Neil Perry led the charge, followed by Charlie, Meeks, Pitts, and Knox. They were laughing, mid-conversation about Keating’s first assignment of the term, but they stopped dead as they surveyed the scene.

"Todd, who’s the... uh, who’s the new guy?" Neil asked, his gaze drifting from Gabriel’s orange hair to the "I Want to Believe" poster leaning against the desk.

Gabriel didn't wait for an introduction. He bounced forward, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. "Gabriel Laurent! You must be the friends. The entourage. The collective. Are you all poets? You look like you might have some existential angst. I find that angst is often just a symptom of a lack of Vitamin D or the realization that we are all just stardust waiting to be recycled."

Charlie Dalton stepped forward, a smirk playing on his lips. "I like him. He’s weird."

"I prefer 'unconventional,'" Gabriel corrected, adjusting his glasses. "So, which one of you is the leader? Every group has a hierarchy. Is it the one with the eyebrows?" He pointed at Neil. "Or the one who looks like he’s plotting a small coup?" He pointed at Charlie.

"I'm Charlie. This is Neil, Meeks, Pitts, and Knox," Charlie said, leaning against the doorframe. "And we don't have a leader. We have a society."

Gabriel’s eyes widened. "A society? Like the Freemasons? Or the Men in Black? Do you have a secret handshake? Do you know where they keep the bodies? I’ve heard Welton was built on an ancient burial ground, which would explain the cold drafts and the general sense of impending doom in the hallways."

Meeks, who had been eyeing Gabriel’s stack of magazines, stepped closer. "These are science fiction. You like physics?"

"Physics is the language of the universe, my friend!" Gabriel exclaimed, grabbing a magazine and shoving it toward Meeks. "But it’s limited. We think in three dimensions. The Visitors? They think in eleven. Maybe twelve on a good Friday. Say, do any of you have any experience with telepathy? I’ve been trying to project my thoughts to the Dean, but I think his skull is too thick for the frequencies to penetrate."

The boys exchanged glances. Todd felt a strange mixture of embarrassment and protective instinct. He looked at Neil, who seemed more amused than annoyed.

"We don't do much telepathy," Neil said kindly. "Mostly just English lit and trying to survive Latin."

Gabriel sighed, a dramatic sound that involved his whole body. "Latin. The dead language. Fitting for a place that feels like a mausoleum. But tell me," he leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial stage-whisper that everyone could still hear perfectly, "is it true that the teachers here are actually clones? I noticed Mr. Nolan’s hair doesn't move. At all. Not even in a breeze. That’s a sign of synthetic fiber, you know."

Knox snorted. "He’s just got a lot of hairspray, Gabriel."

"That’s what they want you to think," Gabriel said, nodding sagely. He turned his attention back to Todd. "Todd, you’re very quiet. Are you a telepath? Is that why you don't speak? Are you transmitting right now? Because I’m getting a very strong signal of 'Please stop talking,' but I’m choosing to ignore it for the sake of social cohesion."

Todd felt his face heat up. "I'm just... not used to... aliens."

"Nobody is! That’s the beauty of it!" Gabriel chirped. He sat back down on the bed, swinging his legs. "So, tell me the real dirt. Who’s the most likely to snap and join a cult? My money is on the tall one with the glasses—Pitts, was it? He has the look of a man who appreciates a good robe and a charismatic leader."

Pitts blinked, looking down at his own lanky frame. "I... I don't think I'd like a cult. Too much standing."

"Fair point. Standing is overrated," Gabriel agreed. He then looked at Charlie. "And you. You look like you’ve kissed a girl. What’s it like? Does it feel like a biological imperative, or is there a genuine exchange of bio-electrical energy? I’ve read that it’s mostly just a transfer of bacteria, which sounds hygienic-ally questionable but potentially exhilarating."

Charlie burst out laughing, clapping a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. "Kid, you are a riot. A total, flaming riot."

"I aim to disturb the peace," Gabriel said proudly. He then looked around the room, his expression suddenly becoming very serious. "One more thing. Does this school have a policy on nocturnal research? I have a telescope coming in the mail, and I need to know if the roof is accessible, or if I’ll have to learn how to levitate."

"The roof is off-limits," Neil said, though there was a twinkle in his eye. "But we might know a way up."

Gabriel’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Excellent. I knew I liked you people. We shall be a grand collective. We shall seek the truth, whether it’s in a book or in the stars!"

He stood up abruptly and began rummaging through his trunk again, pulling out a jar of something that looked suspiciously like pickled eggs. "Anyone want a snack? My aunt says they’re good for brain function, but I’m pretty sure they’re just preserved alien embryos. Either way, they’re high in protein."

The boys backed away in unison, a wave of polite rejection.

"I think we're good, Gabriel," Neil said, guiding the group toward the door. "We'll let you and Todd get settled. See you at dinner?"

"I'll be there! Look for the orange hair and the look of cosmic wonder!" Gabriel shouted as they retreated.

As the door closed, silence returned to the room, though it felt different now—thinner, as if Gabriel had sucked all the oxygen out of the air. Todd stood by his desk, looking at his new roommate, who was currently trying to balance a pickled egg on his nose.

Gabriel looked up, the egg falling into his lap. He gave Todd a wide, toothy grin. "We’re going to be best friends, Todd. I can feel the vibrations. Or maybe that’s just the radiator. Does the radiator always hum in B-flat?"

Todd looked at the "I Want to Believe" poster, then at the orange-haired whirlwind sitting on his bed. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel shy. He just felt exhausted.

"It’s usually a C-sharp," Todd said quietly.

Gabriel’s eyes lit up. "A musician! Even better! We shall harmonize with the universe, Todd! Now, tell me everything you know about the secret tunnels under the library. Don't lie, I can smell the secrets on you!"

Todd sat down at his desk, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Welton was definitely going to be different this year. Mr. Keating had told them to make their lives extraordinary, but he hadn't mentioned anything about roommates who believed the Headmaster was a cyborg.

"There are no secret tunnels, Gabriel," Todd said.

"That," Gabriel said, pointing a finger at him, "is exactly what a member of the secret tunnels would say. I love it! The intrigue! The mystery!"

Todd shook his head, opened his textbook, and prepared himself. If he was going to survive the term, he was going to need a lot more than poetry. He was going to need a map of the stars.