Odin's Murder Read Online Free Page A

ever found his wallet. “The class is still under the heading of Creative and Comparative Arts of course, and the results will still be published with the college’s backing, but I’m assigning each sub-group a specific topic. Within this study I want each of you to bring your area of interest and talent to the table.”
    All through orientation the teachers and counselors have stressed the word talent. I wonder if a good right-hook-left-uppercut applies. The rest of the students are clean scrubbed, glowing with privilege and upper education. Their talents involve words and wit, not fists.
    “So all of our assignments will be based on this topic? Is there a final project? A research paper?” Julian asks. “Like last year?”
    “Yes, but more structured. Your group will need to form a direction of study, collect data on the subject matter and then complete a series of assignments that will lead up to a multi-level project, highlighting each of your skills,” He leans back on his desk, and a stack of papers spills off the edge, scattering across the floor. This guy is a disaster. “Each group will have use of an office in this building to meet, collect data, and create your final projects. Now, to keep everything fair, I’ve already assigned your group partners.”
    The class twitches, everyone glancing around the room, guessing to see who they’ve been stuck with. I do too, caught up in the mass tension. There is no way I’m going to be able to get along with any of these kids, all valedictorians and yearbook editors, and me with my GED, majoring in six months off my sentence if I passed. 
    Before I can speak, Julian’s hand shoots up again. A coal-black head of long hair shakes in his direction, but he ignores her. “How much total participation will be weighed in the final product? I’m not comfortable working in a group setting if everyone doesn’t uphold their end of the work. Last year I was—”
    “I assure you, Mr. Erikssen, there will be no problems. I will be meeting with everyone, both individually and as a group, and you all will have a chance to discuss your participation. Besides. This is a program for exceptional students, remember? No slackers here,” he says. He laughs and straightens his shirt. “Well, except me, of course.”
    “But—”
    “I work better alone,” I announce. Heads swivel to the back of the room, but I only look at the teacher.
    “A group setting is part of this program, Mr. Tyrell, I’m quite sure you’re aware of this.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” Does everyone in this place have access to my record? I’d seen Burnett lock my file away, but this guy is eyeing me like a judge.
    Dr. Anders shakes his head, gives me a lame attempt at a smile. “The groups are mandatory. In most academic and professional situations, a collective sharing of ideas and skills yields more creative and successful results than a singular approach. For instance, the Manhattan think-tank project of World War II, the Parisian expatriate writers of the early 1900’s, the La Mama Experimental Theatre Club, even the grunge scene of Seattle—”
    Who is this guy? I look around at the others, but they are enthralled by his babbling. His eyes are still on me though, and I rise to the challenge of the condescending smirk on his face.
    I stand up, my chair scraping against the floor. “Look, I’d really rather—”
    “Rather what, Mr. Tyrell? Go back home? ” His easygoing banter from before is gone, and the air snaps between us as the age-old ego battle of student and teacher raises its ugly head. I wonder how far I can push him, but I suspect his threat isn’t empty. I grab my chair and drag it on the ground a few noisy inches, and sit down under the weight of his stare. He moves to the other side of the desk. “I thought not.”
    Asshole.
    While a couple more kids ask questions, all eager to get started, I try to calm down. Anders is right, and my caseworker had warned me