Chapter 10
Wednesday morning begins with Intro to Magic at eight, and I come prepared with coffee and a notebook.
I’ve spent the morning hyping myself up in the mirror, telling myself I can handle whatever comes my way. They wouldn’t have accepted me as a student here if they thought I wouldn’t be able to handle it, right?
But if this week has so far taught me one thing, it’s that there are no blow-off classes at Arcadia Academy. Every course requires dedication, intelligence, and hard work.
It seems silly that I’m dreading this introductory first-year class more than my master’s-level coursework, but I am.
Science makes sense to me, utilizing existing information to identify, classify, and form hypotheses.
Magic, however, is nebulous. So many factors seem to be at play, and I haven’t even had the courage to attempt any sort of magic since my perturbing moment back at home.
The classroom is packed, smelling faintly of old wood that’s mostly overpowered by the expensive fragrances that waft through the air every time a student passes by. Outside, the sky is gray and overcast, and the black waves of the ocean churn and break against the coast.
Professor Showen rushes into the classroom with a stack of papers clutched haphazardly in her hands while Clarissa, the TA, sits patiently at the front desk with her legs crossed beneath her blue and black plaid skirt.
She wears a look of boredom as she surveys the room, but as soon as she catches sight of the professor, she plasters on a bright smile and stands.
“Here, let me help you,” she says, though I can’t make out the rest of their short exchange over the buzzing of conversations echoing off the walls.
Two minutes after eight, Professor Showen stands at the front of the room, waiting as the chatter trickles into silence.
“Next week, we begin practical application,” she announces, and the room shifts with collective attention.
“We’ll start to discuss basic spells that will be useful in a day-to-day context, so nothing elaborate.
Because we begin application next week, today we’ll discuss the fundamental principles of magical channeling. ”
My chest tightens with anxiety. I won’t be able to put off my magic for much longer, and the thought terrifies me more than it should, considering I’m here solely because I’m able to do magic.
Professor Showen continues in her bright voice. “Magic is a gift, but channeling it requires repeated practice, diligence, and control. You must sense it, isolate it, and direct it through specific pathways with intention, or you risk becoming a danger to those around you.”
The warning makes my stomach twist. I know the consequences of untempered magic all too well.
“The process feels intuitive for most, having been raised in households where magic is practiced regularly,” she adds.
“You've likely been channeling unconsciously since childhood, then gaining control as you got older. Magic responds to your mental and emotional states, which means that learning to regulate one often correlates to managing the other.”
Around me, a few heads nod. Meanwhile, I want to bang mine against the desk.
Is it really so rare for someone to be like me, living in a household where nobody practices magic and discovering it well into adulthood?
A pit opens up in my stomach as I realize again how disadvantaged I am.
These students seem to understand magic on an intuitive level that requires very little conscious thought, in the same way that someone understands the language they speak until you ask them to explain the grammatical rules of it.
The rest of the lecture passes in a torrent of increasingly technical information about neural pathways, energy, and the relationship between intention and manifestation.
I take notes in frantic, messy handwriting, grateful that I have a basic understanding of psychology but panicked because my understanding of how the brain works doesn’t correlate to my ability to control my turbulent emotions.
When Professor Showen finally dismisses us at nine, I gather my materials, stretching my fingers that are cramped from writing multiple pages of notes.
Students file out casually, and I allow myself to become an invisible part of the crowd as I stop by the dining hall for more coffee then make my way to my next class, Magical Law and Ethics.
Despite the abrasive professor and the dry lecture material, the class itself is less stressful than my last. It’s straightforward, and it doesn’t require hands-on application.
Dr. Lowry spends the entire hour lecturing on the foundations of Magical Law, when and why certain laws were established, and why they’re important.
I keep my textbook open beside me, referring to the pages he cites throughout the lecture and writing the page numbers in the margins of my notebook for studying purposes.
When the class is finally over, I breathe a sigh of relief and head to the dining hall for lunch. Preferring a calmer space over the noisy, crowded dining hall, I grab a sandwich and an apple and make my way back outside.
The day is overcast, but it’s a relatively pleasant temperature, so I decide to enjoy the weather while I have the chance. Within a month, I’ll be wearing thick sweaters and boots as the cool summer shifts to fall.
There’s a low wall, only about three feet tall, that borders the massive lawn in front of the castle, and it seems to be a popular spot to sit, with students reading or conversing in small groups on the flat concrete top.
I pass a man lying on his back, taking a nap using his backpack as a pillow with his sweatshirt hood pulled over his eyes before I find an empty space and sit.
On the lawn, a few dozen students clad in tight, all-black uniforms practice coordinated movements that look to be some sort of martial arts stances. I’m not entirely sure.
I eat my sandwich slowly, watching the perfectly aligned rows of people move in synchronization as they follow the lead of the instructor who’s barking orders.
It’s strange to have so much free time. I’m certain the feeling won’t last long once the semester gets into full swing, but right now, having three hours to myself with nothing to do besides get ahead on course material gives me the bizarre sensation of feeling untethered.
Back home, free time didn't exist. Every moment was accounted for, whether it be working at the nursery, helping Christopher with his therapies and activities, making sure Matty had rides to school events, meal planning to stretch the grocery budget, or researching graduate programs in stolen moments between obligations.
Even my hiking at Red Rock Canyon served the purpose of stress relief that allowed me to continue functioning as everyone's support system.
But here, at least for now, I have hours of time with no one depending on me for anything. I could go take a nap and not feel an ounce of guilt. The realization is slightly disorienting.
I watch the group practice in unison, mesmerized by their precise movements led by sharp commands from the older man before them.
“Enjoying the show?”
Startled by the voice so close to me, I jump and nearly drop my sandwich. A girl is behind me, off to the side just enough for me to see her. She looks familiar, and I’m certain she’s in one of my classes, though I can’t remember which one.
She gives me an apologetic smile. “Sorry if I scared you. Is it okay if I sit?”
“Sure, go for it,” I answer.
She settles onto the bench with fluid grace, arranging a long white skirt that flows in the gentle breeze. Her shirt is fitted and slightly cropped, revealing tan skin and a body that I’m certain gets her plenty of lingering stares.
“Thanks!” She smiles brightly and pulls out a packaged salad and a water bottle from her bag.
When she leans down, her wavy chestnut hair cascades almost to the ground, held back on one side by only a pencil that’s tucked behind her ear.
“I’m Callista, by the way,” she adds, setting down her water bottle to extend a hand toward me.
“We have Magical Law and Ethics together.”
“Oh, that’s right!” I shake her hand and the image clicks. She sits a couple rows behind me on the other side of the room, and I’m honestly a little surprised she recognizes me. “I’m Vivian.”
“Hope you’re prepared for the most boring class you’ll ever take in your life,” she states. “That man could make a bank heist sound boring. But I’m retaking the class after failing it last semester because, well, I fell asleep in it one too many times. So if you have questions, I’m your girl.”
Callista speaks rapidly with a bright, casual tone, as if we’ve been friends for months.
Strangely, I can’t bring myself to look away from her as she goes into more detail about how painfully boring the class is.
She’s beautiful, with waist-length brown hair, freckles dotting her cheeks, and a wide smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes.
But more than that, there’s an undefinable allure about her that’s magnetic in a way I can’t explain.
“Anyway,” she says with a dismissive gesture, “anything is better than that class, so coming here afterwards is a good pick-me-up. It’s always fun watching the Special Ops classes, especially when the sparring sessions start.
They get all sweaty and the uniforms cling and…
well, you can imagine.” She laughs, glancing over at me with a spark of mischief in her eyes before she finally takes a bite of her salad.
Flecks of color dot her arms, and I realize after a moment that they’re dried paint.
“Any clue what kind of training they’re doing?” I ask.
“No clue. I think it’s a mix of martial arts for the most part, but they’re out here most days of the week on a rotation with the other Special Ops classes unless it’s too cold or rainy. Are you a freshman?” she asks, turning her attention toward me.