44. High Hopes #2
The hall where they’re holding my diplomacy class is one of the few places on campus that feels more like normal college.
Obviously, that’s just based on movie and TV knowledge, but compared to other rooms and stuff, this seems like it’s the regular experience.
It’s furnished in an old style, with wooden tables arranged in narrow tiers, so if you trip on the stairs you’ll do a perfect flying face-plant and then bleed out in front of the entire class.
There are windows on one side, all facing east and catching the sharp white light off the quad.
Every row is perfectly aligned to face the smart board at the front, and there’s a desk and lectern empty and waiting for the professor.
I notice the board says ‘International Diplomacy 301’ in tiny, black-inked handwriting, but nothing else. There’s a low-level white noise of conversation, chairs scraping, and people finding their place as they get ready for the class to begin.
I get three feet into the room before I see them—Pink and Gold.
The two remaining Barbie twins of l’Academie are already staked out dead center in row two with their postures perfect and hair coordinated.
Their matching blouses are probably worth more than a car, and they sit with their arms crossed and their faces set in expressions of icy, preemptive contempt.
They don’t get a victory today, that’s for goddamn sure.
I make a conscious decision not to look at them anymore.
Unless I have to, acknowledging them is unnecessary.
I will not, under any circumstances, cede the psychological upper hand to enemies even lower on the priority list than Rockland.
Now, if they engage me and I can’t escape it?
I’ll go under the bar in hell to put them back in their place; this year isn’t the time for shitty bullies to mess with me.
So I continue up the row without a sound, walking away from the cluster of idiots surrounding them until I get to the back corner opposite the door.
There, I can put my back to the wall, see every entrance, and have a clear line of sight to both the board and my irrepressible ex-friends.
It also gives me a good vantage point to see who else is in the room that could be a problem.
As I set my backpack down and unpack my supplies, I clock every face that turns in my direction—three, four, six pairs of eyes, each evaluating me with the same predatory flicker.
None of them are smiling. Several of them whisper behind their hands as I sit.
Yeah, they don’t matter either. Not worth my time or energy.
I build my mini fortress on the table in front of me slowly—notebook open, two pens uncapped, one highlighter, and phone set face-down but within easy reach.
I line everything up with a precision that would make Chessie proud.
My hands are steady, but I can feel the tips of my ears doing that hot-cold switch that happens when I’m on the edge of a full panic, or when I’m about to do something really, really stupid.
It’s probably just because my ex-friends are nearby and I’m wondering who the fresh hell this teacher will be, but it irritates me.
Pink and Gold don’t look back at me, but I can feel them over there like the world’s most hostile weather system.
They’re talking in low voices to a third party—a raven-haired girl in designer glasses who I don’t know—but mostly they’re just radiating contempt.
Luckily, more students filter in, and it helps distract from their bullshit.
Nobody takes a seat near mine, not even within a three-row radius, which is fine by me.
Having to size them up as well would make focusing on my class even harder than it will be now.
A minute passes, and the chatter increases in pitch, the energy in the room going from boredom to anticipation. I keep my eyes on my notebook and write the date in the top right corner; the act of shaping numbers and letters gives me the illusion of control.
Still no professor after five minutes, and the remaining Heathers get restless.
Barrington checks her phone and then tosses it on the desk with an audible sigh.
E. leans in to whisper something to her, and both their faces go flat in a way that’s calculating.
I don’t like it, so I turn my phone over just in case.
I try not to let it rankle me because I’ve certainly dealt with worse than them since freshman year.
I survived the goddamn Drew household for seventeen years, and I’ve survived three major Fae attacks.
Still, the bunny inside me is restless because the room feels wrong.
I adjust my position and start writing a homework schedule on the inside cover of the notebook, just to have something to do.
The door at the bottom of the tiered rows opens finally, and every head in the room turns at once.
It isn’t a professor. It’s the Captain—yes, the pirate raccoon, in his full, battered coat and hat, looking for all the world like he’s just taken a break from an oceanic coup to check on me.
He sweeps the room, locks eyes with me, and gives the smallest of nods.
After that, he goes back outside, satisfied that I’m okay until the class is over.
It’s a long one, but I guess he’s content to wait out there.
Pink and Gold exchange a look, and it’s the first time today I see a crack in their posture.
They aren’t scared, exactly, but the Captain is an unknown factor in their world, and it shows.
Prey animals aren’t usually as aggressive as he is, and I’d bet they remember at least seeing him wrangle aquatic shifters at Apex even if they aren’t specifically familiar.
It doesn’t hurt that he had a huge scimitar strapped to his back, which was obvious once he exited, either.
Minutes tick by, and the pressure in the room builds like static electricity crawling up my skin.
I flex my toes inside my shoes and stretch my limbs a bit to keep them from locking up.
The Heathers get more and more fidgety, and it spreads to the other students quickly.
After what feels like an hour, but is probably only six minutes, a figure appears in the doorway.