I Am Number Four Read Free Page B

smaller room. There is a huge faded poster of a football player wearing a bright orange uniform. He’s in the middle of throwing a pass, and it looks like he’s about to get crushed by a massive man in a black and gold uniform. It says BERNIE KOSAR , QUARTERBACK , CLEVELAND BROWNS .
    “Come say good-bye to Mrs. Hart,” Henri yells from the living room.
    Mrs. Hart is standing at the door with Henri. She tells me I should look for her daughter at school, thatmaybe we could be friends. I smile and say yes, that would be nice. After she leaves we immediately start unpacking the truck. Depending on how quickly we leave a place, we either travel very lightly—meaning the clothes on our back, Henri’s laptop and the intricately carved Loric Chest that goes everywhere with us—or we bring a few things—usually Henri’s extra computers and equipment, which he uses to set up a security perimeter and search the web for news and events that might be related to us. This time we have the Chest, the two high-powered computers, four TV monitors, and four cameras. We also have some clothes, though not many of the clothes we wore in Florida are appropriate for life in Ohio. Henri carries the Chest to his room, and we lug all of the equipment into the basement, where he’ll set it up so no visitors will see it. Once everything is inside, he starts placing the cameras and turning on the monitors.
    “We won’t have the internet here until the morning. But if you want to go to school tomorrow, I can print all of your new documents for you.”
    “If I stay will I have to help you clean this place and finish the setup?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ll go to school,” I say.
    “Then you better get a good night’s sleep.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    ANOTHER NEW IDENTITY, ANOTHER NEW SCHOOL. I’ve lost track of how many there have been over the years. Fifteen? Twenty? Always a small town, a small school, always the same routine. New students draw attention. Sometimes I question our strategy of sticking to the small towns because it’s hard, almost impossible, to go unnoticed. But I know Henri’s rationale: it is impossible for them to go unnoticed as well.
    The school is three miles away from our house. Henri drives me in the morning. It’s smaller than most of the others I’ve attended and is unimpressive looking, one story, long and low-slung. A mural of a pirate with a knife between his teeth covers the outside wall beside the front door.
    “So you’re a Pirate now?” Henri says beside me.
    “It looks like it,” I reply.
    “You know the drill,” he says.
    “This ain’t my first rodeo.”
    “Don’t show your intelligence. It’ll make them resent you.”
    “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
    “Don’t stand out or draw too much attention.”
    “Just a fly on the wall.”
    “And don’t hurt anybody. You’re far stronger than they are.”
    “I know.”
    “Most importantly, always be ready. Ready to leave at a moment’s notice. What’s in your backpack?”
    “Five days’ worth of dried fruit and nuts. Spare socks and thermal underwear. Rain jacket. A handheld GPS. A knife disguised as a pen.”
    “On you at all times.” He takes a deep breath. “And keep an eye out for signs. Your Legacies are going to appear any day now. Hide them at all costs and call me immediately.”
    “I know, Henri.”
    “Any day, John,” he reiterates. “If your fingers start to disappear, or if you start to float, or shake violently, if you lose muscular control or begin to hear voices even when nobody is talking. Anything at all, you call.”
    I pat my bag. “Got my phone right here.”
    “I’ll be waiting here after school. Good luck in there, kiddo,” he says.
    I smile at him. He is fifty years old, which meanshe was forty when we arrived. Being his age made for a harder transition. He still speaks with a strong Loric accent that is often mistaken for French. It was a good alibi in the beginning, so he named himself Henri, and he has stuck with