Academic Assassins Read Free Page A

eats you. I read somewhere that when the body runs out of things to digest, it will turn on itself. First, it breaks down the fats. Then it moves on to the
organs and muscles.
    Eaten alive. I’m devouring myself from the inside out. Before long, there won’t be anything left of me.

JOURNAL ENTRY #???
    I never knew what silence was until I came here.
    Thought I knew. I imagined I had immersed myself in solitude—but out here, in the middle of
nowhere everywhere anywhere
, surrounded by an endless stretch of pines, I’ve
experienced a kind of quiet that makes me realize I had no idea what solitude was. Not even close.
    I, Spencer Pendleton, have lived a life mummified in white noise. I spent my days in a suburban sarcophagus. At home, there was always some hum in the background, padding my ears. A clock
ticking. A television muttering. An airplane droning overhead. Whether I was aware of it or not, those sounds shielded me from the thoughts in my own head.
    Now there is nothing, nothing but silence—and I’m left with nothing. Nothing but my memories.
    What were the last words I spoke to someone else?
    Three simple words.
    â€œI…”
    Sully hadn’t heard me clearly.
    â€œLove…”
    I could tell by the confused look on her face. Her brow furrowed, her green eyes pinching just a bit.
    â€œYou
.…
”
    Then I ran. I turned my back on her and ran as fast as my legs could take me. Now I have no one to talk to.
    I tried testing my larynx just now to make sure the gears were still in working order, cranking up the ol’ voice box for a little spin.
    â€œTesting, testing…”
    I thought a bullfrog had crawled out of my throat. I didn’t recognize the sound of myself.
    â€œMicrophone check, one-two, one-two…”
    My voice creaked, dry to my ears, in sore need of some oiling up. There must have been some corrosion covering the epiglottis.
    If I’m not careful, my throat might rust itself shut.
    I may never hear myself again.
    Who would I be then?
    Motor-Mouth Pendleton.
    Muted.
    I’m trying to capture what’s left of my voice. My words. It’s the only way to save my thoughts. I’m putting them down on the page before they’re gone, like trapping
fireflies in an empty Mason jar.
    But don’t forget to punch holes in the lid…Otherwise your voice will suffocate.
    The leaves are changing color. The green is gone. I’m surrounded by yellow and brown now. Everything is rusting out here.
    The temperature is plummeting. Autumn is on its way. Before long, winter will be here.
    Here comes the cold.
    Time doesn’t exist the way it used to. Not out here. Not the way it did back at home. There are no clocks ticktocking in my ear, no daily calendars. It’s just sun up, sun down, and
the blur in between.
    And silence. Endless silence.
    Wait—did I actually think that? I feel like I’ve read that somewhere before.
    Hatchet
. I picked up the copy and flipped through and read—“…in all his life he had never heard silence before. Complete silence. There had always been some sound, some
kind of sound.” With those words, I felt the overwhelming sense that my life had already happened.
    I wasn’t reading about Brian Robeson, some kid whose plane crashes in the woods and suddenly has to survive on his own…
    I was reading about me.
    My life.
    I am not some character in a book. I am a human being.
    I exist. I am real.
    Get a grip on yourself, Spencer—you are not a piece of fiction.
    You are not a character.
    You are real.
    You are you.
    You are.
    You
    I just read Peashooter’s crinkled copy of
My Side of the Mountain
by Jean Craighead George to get my mind off
Hatchet
. The first sentence left me feeling pretty
queasy—
“I am on my mountain in a tree home that people have passed without ever knowing that I am here.”
    I ate through the book, cover to cover. My stomach