Read The Assassin Game for Free Online

exhibited in London and New York, and not just on their parents’ fridges—but they’re cool. Loony but chill. And Mr. Flynn is our teacher, which is most wonderful.
    OK, I’m going to just preempt the Mr. Flynn thing with you, because I know what you’re probably thinking. Rest easy, folks. Before you go having those thoughts that something inappropriate is going on in my head about Mr. Flynn—or, yuck, something is going on in his head about me—don’t even. We have a strictly platonic relationship. Granted, it’s a little more than student-teacher, and we’re both fine with that. I think Ezra and some of the other staff might have something to say about it, and I know my parents would freak if they knew that we’re friends, because adults have filthy minds about these things. Actually, kids do too. My friends have given me grief about it, it’s true. Marcia teases me more than anything. Daniel is more hard-line, but I think that’s because he’s jealous. Face it, I’m too boring to be major news within the general populace. And Mr. Flynn would back off wholesale if he thought we were seriously being gossiped about.
    So, this is it: we hang out with each other sometimes. As I said before, he was the first person I felt any kind of connection with here, the only person who talked to me like I was someone. It started with me stopping by the studio to work in my spare time, but then there was nothing unusual with that. Most of the kids who are serious about art practically live there. But then I was working on a project with driftwood, and so Mr. Flynn would take me to where the best stuff washes up and help me lug it back from the beach to the studio in his bucket-of-bolts car. We talked about art and music and movies and London. We found out that we both laugh at the same things and are randomly freaked out by pomegranates. But mostly I bonded with him because he listened to my nonsense and insecure babble and because he kind of got me in a way that nobody here does. Oh, I know it sounds utterly boyfriend/girlfriend-y, and as if I have some loser-type of crush on him, so you’ll just have to trust me. He’s old anyway. Eighties kid. Thirty-five or forty, I don’t know. Yes, he’s fit. But in that way your mum would like. When I started being friends with Marcia and Daniel, Flynny and I kind of dialed it down, but he’s still my favorite teacher, no doubt.
    According to the clock, I get to the lesson five minutes late, which is skillful, considering I was loitering with Marcia just down the path from the studio. Mr. Flynn is in full flow when I enter, outlining the things we’ll be covering in the upcoming term. He has an air of agitation about him. He arrived back to school a week late this term for reasons unknown. The rumors were varied—a split with his girlfriend, the death of a parent, or most juicily, an arrest. The kids are nothing if not imaginative here. I’ll get the truth from him at some point probably.
    He doesn’t comment on my tardiness to class as I slip into my place in the studio and quietly begin unpacking my stuff. I’m glad to be home. And this is home.
    The next three hours fly by, and when the bell for the end of school sounds, I’m floating so high above myself that it’s a real effort to come back down to earth. But then I do, and I get that lovely excited feeling of having something even better to look forward to. The Summoning! As I gather up my belongings and glance out of the window for Marcia, Mr. Flynn walks by my table. He nods to the Guild’s band on my wrist.
    â€œYou’re involved with those shenanigans this term.”
    I smile pleasantly as kids file out past us. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy?” I say, sotto voce.
    He eyes me, face set. “Would I jump at the chance to be in your shoes? Er, no, Cate, I would not. Whatever devilry unfolds over the next few weeks