47

Chapter 47: Forty-seven, Assassin School Girl

"Everyone!"

The first class teacher took the stage, addressing the students, "From today, we welcome our new student, Megan Vasi, an exchange student from Canada."

Locke glanced at Liz nearby, rolling his eyes.

"Applause."

The teacher called towards the door, "Please come in, Miss Megan Vasi."

Applause filled the room as Megan entered.

Instantly, the applause died.

Next moment, several energetic basketball players started laughing uncontrollably.

Liz sighed, covering her face, shooting Gwen a look that said, "Now you know what I mean!"

Locke observed Megan on stage with a perplexed expression.

In short, Megan Vasi was attractive, around an 80 in looks.

But...

Couldn't dress.

Even Cinderella needs matching attire to catch a prince's eye.

Megan gave Locke the impression of possibly having mental issues or emerging from some deep forest, unaware of urban standards. Dress-wise.

This girl was probably vulnerable.

Locke thought so.

School's disadvantaged—victimized or bullied.

Midtown High, too.

Texas was the same.

Not disadvantaged, nor a powerhouse, Locke was Locke. Talk or not, made no difference.

Locke's physique deterred trouble. Once, vest off, displaying eight-pack abs and robust arms, dissuaded any ideas of bullying.

They figured, Locke could make them cry.

So they didn't start, and Locke didn't engage.

Locke didn't mind.

But Megan Vasi?

Predictably.

When Locke and Gwen's schedules clashed, they met at lunch, where Gwen mentioned being mocked in the morning due to Megan's strange attire.

Talking.

Gwen, curious, asked Locke, "What do you think?"

Locke raised an eyebrow. "Me?"

Gwen nodded, "Yeah."

Locke grinned, "I never judge by appearance!"

In making friends, wealth or beauty didn't matter; mutual understanding did.

Locke glanced at Gwen; initially appealing, now less so.

Gwen chuckled, eyes lighting up as he waved, "Meghan, over here!"

Grade nine assistant, it was Gwen's duty to aid newcomers.

As Locke once.

Later.

Gwen, meal in hand, approached Megan's table, introducing, "Locke Broughton!"

Megan extended her hand like an adult. "Hi, Locke. Megan, Canadian exchange."

Locke smiled, shook hands.

Raised an eyebrow!

Her hand...

Odd.

Locke retracted, nodded, sat.

Megan, excited, sat down, oblivious to morning mockery or dress.

Indifferent or resilient.

Locke admired.

Megan Vasi...

Not simple.

A normal hand, like Gwen's, soft and fragrant.

But Megan's?

Locke felt calluses, a shooter's grip, like Mechanic Arthur Zai's or famous killers'. Gun, unique hand calluses.

But at 16? Shooting since 5-6, 100 daily rounds?

Incredible.

Locke raised an eyebrow, noticing Gwen and Megan engaged, while others pondered.

"So..."

Locke bit a hamburger, asking casually, "Megan, which Canadian school?"

"Tron High."

Megan, to Gwen, heard, added, "Yeah, Coron. Heard of it, Locke?"

Locke shook his head, "No."

Relieved, Megan.

Afternoon.

Locke, packing up, noticed Gucci teasing Megan, patting her hand, seized, Megan caught, backhand gripped Gucci's desk face.

Locke raised an eyebrow.

Megan, aware, panic flashed, "God, Gucci, sorry. No snooping."

Gucci, awkward, right hand, "..."

Locke moved, gripping Gucci's hand, scrutinizing, "Bearable?"

Gucci froze, "Wha—oh—oh!"

Locke released, "Okay."

Gucci danced, almost in tears.

Megan, wide-eyed, Locke—knowing cowboy—wisdom.

Locke to the door, "No thanks, call me cowboy!"

Cowboys, hurt normal. Long ill, good doctor.

Top Texas teen cowboy, knowing basic repairman logic, wrench in pocket.

But 16-year-old Megan, callused hands, subconscious defense—unusual for student. Disconnected from logic.

Megan Vasi.

Something's off...

Could it be...