Chapter 2 Atticus
Atticus
Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same.
—Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights
On my first day of work, a black cat follows me across campus.
As I step out of the front doors to the redbrick town house—wearing my father’s old tweed coat, tuxedo pants I found at a thrift store, a cable-knit fisherman’s sweater, and a pair of shiny leather brogues I hunted down on eBay—the cat joins me, its tail curled around its feet, looking up at me with expectant yellow eyes.
“Hello, kitty,” I say.
“What was that?” my mother asks, her voice warped through the phone.
I pinch it between my shoulder and my cheek as I open my umbrella with a snap. It’s begun to rain lightly. “Hi, Mom. I’m talking to a cat.”
This is not news to someone like my mother. “Oh, just one?”
“So far,” I say, glancing up and down the street to try to catch a glimpse of any more darting out of sight.
Animals sometimes shadow me, especially when I least expect it.
Cats, dogs, birds, even a fox during a school field trip to the Hudson Valley.
When I was in elementary school, I was sent to the principal’s office because a swarm of frogs had crawled through the window and, for whatever reason, had chosen to gather and sit on my desk.
My teacher thought I was somehow responsible.
Animals have never bothered me; they’re quiet and often uncomplicated emotionally, and I greatly appreciate having the company. I don’t have to be anything other than myself when I’m with them.
The cat slowly blinks and flicks the tip of its tail.
It doesn’t seem to mind the rain, but then again, neither do I.
Autumn in Vermont is cold and dreary and gray.
In other words, perfect. The last vestiges of summer have long faded, the air dominated now with chilly mist and dead leaves.
Rain clouds hang low in the sky, draping the mountain skyline like a shroud.
“You’re settling in, then?” my mom asks.
I can hear her at the breakfast table in our apartment in Brooklyn, the groan of the wood as she slides her chair back, followed by the clink of silverware on porcelain.
I picture her sitting with a mug of hot coffee and a stack of expense reports spread out in front of her before work.
“Yep. My apartment is just off Sibylline’s campus. You should see it.” Luckily for us, Sibylline is in a sleepy, small rural town and most off-campus housing was cheap and available.
“Draw it for me,” she says. It’s a game we play, describing our surroundings with ink instead of words. Mom wanted to be an architect, but her family never had the money for graduate school. So she works at a firm as their secretary, keeping track of accounts and blueprints.
“I will, but I can tell you about it, too. The buildings are colonial-style town houses, lined with the golden leaves of sugar maples, just like home.” I’ve only been gone a week, and I’m already a little homesick.
I extend the umbrella to the cat. The cat seems appreciative and matches my stride as we make our way down the puddle-strewn sidewalk.
“Sounds perfect. Do you have your portfolio? And your drafting pencils? What about your new architect’s scale?”
“I’m just the new admin assistant at Mansart Hall,” I say.
“I doubt they’ll want me doing design work for them, but…
” I smile. “I brought them anyway.” It hurts to think that after all her sacrifice—scraping by so she could send me to Wellington—in the end I’ve landed just where she has.
Working as a secretary. The irony doesn’t escape me.
I hope this plan works, that somehow, some way, being so near to Sibylline will lead to being accepted one day.
“Good boy,” my mom says. “You’re going to blow them all away. You’re…—y son, after all…—oud of you.”
“What? I’m getting too close to campus,” I say.
“You’re breaking up.” A veil of woven spells covers all of Sibylline, rendering cell phones and internet useless, as they want the students to focus on studying magic.
I won’t be able to text my mom, email, or FaceTime her whenever I’m on campus. It’s one of the school’s many charms.
My mom raises her voice and enunciates as best she can. “I! Am! Proud! Of! You!”
I swallow a lump in my throat. I haven’t done anything to make her proud yet, but I swear I will one day.
The call ends before either of us can hang up.
The magic of Sibylline waits for no one.
I stuff my phone into my bag, and the cat silently slinks next to me, creeping over wet autumn leaves with its tail held high as we make our way west down the block toward the old campus.
We take the path around the cemetery, where a moss-covered building rises above the others, a strange symbol carved into the pediment.
It looks something like an eye surrounded by a pentagram.
My curiosity spikes, and I make a quick sketch of it on the back of my hand.
I round the corner, and the cat and I join the students entering the wrought-iron gates of Sibylline’s main campus. I can’t help but feel a jealous longing, seeing them in their billowing apprentice wizard robes, juggling wands, books, and bottles of potions.
I’m early for work as I climb the steps to Mansart Hall, the architecture building, and walk through the front doors, the black cat stopping at the entry, guarding it like a Sphinx. “Wish me luck,” I say, bidding it farewell.
I find my way to my employer’s office on the first floor, but when I come to the waiting area, no one’s there.
The front desk is empty, though I do notice there’s a still steaming mug of coffee on the table where an old-school typewriter sits by a rain-streaked window, the gray sunlight illuminating its black keys.
“Hello?” I call into the back hallway, but no one answers. Maybe they stepped out.
So I hang my coat, leave my umbrella in the rack, and take in my surroundings.
Forest-green damask wallpaper lines the upper walls, bordered by dark hickory wood paneling.
An ornate Persian rug covers the polished wood floor, flanked by miniature models of buildings from the Sibylline campus: the Rosette, the iconic library with its gargantuan medieval stained-glass windows; Old Bones, the Gothic-style museum of magical items, artifacts, and even human remains; the historic Piranesi Auditorium, said to have been inspired by Piranesi’s own designs and made real by the legendary architect Anna White—all protected behind glass cases, each model more beautiful than the next.
Shelves of architecture books line almost every available surface.
A part of me wonders if this might be the most diverse collection of architectural knowledge in the world, a veritable museum on its own.
I think about texting Dorian, knowing he would love this, and my hand automatically moves for my phone; then I remember it won’t work here.
Disappointment makes my stomach twinge. I dreamed about him only last night, and it felt as if he were right next to me. I still recall the dream.
His lips touched mine.
It happens a lot. Dreams about Dorian. We’ve known each other since ninth grade, but what started out as friendship turned into something more for me.
I don’t know when, exactly, my feelings for him changed.
It was gradual, like the dawn turning to day.
It crept up on me. Then something just clicked.
When we weren’t admitted to Sibylline, I realized that I could lose him forever.
Our paths might diverge, and the thought of not having Dorian in my life scared me, but I kept my fears to myself.
I didn’t know how to tell him what I was feeling.
How could I expose my heart to a friend and not be afraid?
There’s a certain radiance about him, like the flashbulb from an old-fashioned camera. It lingers after he’s gone.
He’s the only person I’ve ever liked in that way.
Whom I dream of in that way.
It’s torture, knowing him as a friend but not knowing if he’d want more than that.
I walk into the office, and the moment I do, I’m overwhelmed with noise. Not just audible sound, but mental noise. The air is thick with it, so thick it stops me in my tracks, and my eyes close like I’ve been met with a sudden, brisk gust of wind.
People aren’t like cats; they’re so damn loud.
The cacophony thrums hard in my skull, vibrating like I’m pressing my ear directly against a concert speaker. My own thoughts are drowned out, and I forget to breathe. I have to take a moment, reeling with the force, my hand held in front of me as if seeking to grab on to something.
See, I have this thing, a sort of psychic thing.
My aunt has it, too, and I think I got it from her.
She works as a phone medium, talking clients through work and relationship problems. I can sense people, their emotions, at times even their thoughts.
My power manifests often without my control.
I have good days and bad. Some days I can see hazy colors floating around people’s heads; other days I can feel their moods as if they’re my own.
Once in a while, I see people’s moods as colorful auras: pink or red when they are angry or agitated, blue when they are calm, sometimes all mixed up like a kaleidoscope, as it so often goes with the complexity of human emotions.
I’ve had this power ever since I can remember, picking up on the energy of those around me, maybe to an unnerving degree.
I think I knew my parents were getting a divorce before they did.
Being here at Sibylline now, though, it’s as if my power is dialed up to eleven. Maybe it’s the magic that’s collected in Sibylline amplifying my ability, but it takes me by surprise just how loud it is all of a sudden. Like I’ve had earplugs in my whole life, and now they’re gone.