Chapter 6
Poppy
THE AFTERNOON IS WARM, WITH the sun perched high in the cloudless blue sky. Today, summer is winning the fight against the coming autumn, and the heat draws students outside, inviting them to peel off their boots and walk in the grass or lounge in the sun.
I sit on an ivy-clad stone bench, my robe discarded and draped over the bench beside me. The heat from the sun tickles my bare arms and keeps me warm despite the light breeze twirling through the Maze of Whimsy, known lovingly amongst the student body as the Whim.
The Whim is a hedge maze—a shifting, semisentient one.
The layout often changes between my visits, so finding my bench—the one I’ve been sitting on and studying at since my first year at the academy—sometimes serves as a challenge.
But that’s part of what I love about the maze.
I’m usually afraid of new things, of anything I can’t control and understand, so the changing nature of the hedge maze gives me the opportunity to face the unexpected in a way that still feels safe and secure.
Open in my lap, pages fluttering in the breeze, is my journal.
I keep it held open with one hand while using my quill—Mama got it for me in Wysteria, and it’s charmed to always have ink—to jot my thoughts onto the page.
And today, my thoughts are on my first tutoring session with Aric Vandermere.
We’re meeting up tomorrow afternoon, and I need to be fully prepared.
Which means establishing guidelines for how these sessions need to go.
Tutoring Guidelines and Rules
Meet twice a week: Tuesday afternoons and Saturday mornings
No off-topic discussions—classwork and party planning only
I stare down at my notes, my two measly bullet points, and as I read the words over again, my stomach starts to tighten up.
Why did I ever agree to this? I’m not a teacher!
Gripping my quill tighter, I position it over the page, ready to write more rules down. But I’m interrupted by the sound of wheels rolling over grass, and I glance up just before Beckett rolls into my little nook from one of the hedge maze’s paths.
When he sees me, he smiles. “There you are. I thought I’d find you in here.”
“Hi, Beck.” I put a bookmark in my journal, marking my page, then close it in my lap. “You were looking for me?”
He rolls his wheelchair over to my bench, then tips his head at me, one dark brow arching. “We were supposed to meet up to eat cinnamon rolls and study for Herbal Remedies. Remember?”
It’s like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water over my head. A shudder rolls through me.
Now I remember, but a moment ago, the plans I’d made were miles from my head.
Well, except for my plans with Aric. It’s clear that those plans are muddling my brain, and we haven’t even started our tutoring sessions yet.
That’s probably not a good sign, and it just makes me even more worried that I might’ve made a terrible decision telling Aric I’ll help him.
“I am so sorry. I can’t believe I forgot.” My cheeks heat with shame and embarrassment.
But Beckett just laughs one of his easy laughs and shakes his head at me. “You’ve never forgotten a single study session the past two years. Is there something on your mind?”
Beckett was one of the first friends I made at the academy. We were tablemates in our first-year Introduction to Spellcrafting class, and we’ve been close ever since.
“I . . .” I let out a big sigh, then reach up to push my glasses back up the bridge of my nose.
“I . . . kind of agreed to tutor a fourth-year, and between that and trying to help Professor Silvermoon with plans for the ball, I guess I’ve been a bit forgetful.
” Admitting it aloud makes me slightly queasy.
I’ve always been someone who remembers everything, who’s always early—never even a smidge late—and always prepared.
But right now, I’m feeling woefully unprepared. For everything.
“A fourth-year?” Beckett’s brow furrows. “Who?”
My tongue feels like it just tied itself into a knot.
Why does needing to say his name aloud make me feel like all my blood is rushing to my face?
I clear my throat and glance at the green hedges rustling in the breeze, shielding us from the view of anyone else who might be walking through the Whim. “Um, Aric Vandermere.”
Beckett’s eyes widen a bit. “The orc runeball player?”
I don’t know why Beckett knows that, but I nod.
“Yeah. He’s Maeve’s stepbrother. She refused to help him, and he asked me, and .
. .” I recall my dream and the feeling I had when I woke up: that I needed to push forward, to say yes to potential instead of no.
With a sigh, I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll meet up a couple times and he’ll call it off. That’s what I expect, at least.”
And it’d probably be for the best. I’m so busy already . . .
“He was in one of my classes last year.” Beckett adjusts his wheelchair a bit so the sun’s not striking him in the eyes. “He’s actually really nice—not an asshole like you might expect.”
A laugh slips out of me.
“What?” Beckett smiles. “A lot of those jock types are egotistical pricks. But he’s not.” He reaches over to jostle my knee. “And he’s not bad-looking either.”
Beckett arches a brow, and my face is definitely turning red now.
Ever since Aric helped me out of the snow last year, I’ve been highly aware of him.
I see him in the halls every so often, always with a big group congregating around him, and when I found out we were in the same cooking elective, I almost dropped the class because I was so nervous to be around him—not that he even looks my way in class.
I’m pretty sure he forgot I was Maeve’s roommate until he came by our room the other day.
But I get it. I’m quiet and shy and fade into the background, and he’s always smiling and laughing and making jokes. We’re total opposites.
“Admit it.” Beckett isn’t letting me off the hook that easily.
“Fine,” I say, but I busy myself with putting my journal in my bag so I don’t have to look at him as I say it. “He’s good-looking. But that has nothing to do with it.”
This time when I look over at Beckett, he’s wearing a big smile.
“Sure makes it more fun though.”
Rolling my eyes, I reach out to swat him on the arm. “Enough of that. You still want to get cinnamon rolls?”
“Do I still want to get cinnamon rolls,” Beckett mutters, already taking hold of his wheels. He shoots me another look, eyebrow pointed. “It’s like you don’t know me at all.”
I grab my robe from the bench beside me and sling my bookbag over my shoulder. “Then enough talk of Aric Vandermere. Let’s get cinnamon rolls.”