Chapter 2 #2
The afternoon sun burns hot, making me sweat through my already travel-worn clothes.
I don’t have an extensive wardrobe, but that doesn’t matter.
Validus Vale has a strict uniform policy; even the PJs are academy-issued.
At least I’ll look like everyone else. I already know my up-cycled fashions won’t fly here.
Pulling my bag up the grand entrance steps, I enter the high-ceilinged reception hall.
The place is buzzing with students and various staff and faculty.
Hundreds of inner thoughts bounce around the room, making me dizzy.
I see a long table with a sign floating over it, reading, “Registration,” but I don’t make my way towards it.
The voices are so overwhelming, I think I might freak out. Or pass out.
Neither option is good to do right now, so I stand to one side and quickly start going through all the word combinations found in REGISTRATION until I’m calm again.
Gain, gaining, rate, rating, ratings, station, strait (is that a word?)
OK, hopefully I’m alright now.
“Name?” the woman behind the registration table asks, not looking up at me.
“Theo Wilson,” I reply.
Now the housing coordinator lifts her eyes. “You’re Theo Wilson? Yeah, I heard you were coming back, took the Guggenheimer Scholarship somehow. You’re two days late.” Her voice echoes in my head. —She must have connections. Wouldn’t think so to look at her—
Ugh. I feel myself turning red. Fidgeting with my luggage strap, I wait as the woman goes back to staring at her screen. “Huh, for some reason, Dean Crankshawe has you listed for Communis House,” she says, a frown creasing her brow. “That must have been a mistake, but I'll fix it for you.”
There are three student houses at Validus Vale.
Electi House for the Elites. Communis House is for the general population, or Ordinarii as they’re more frequently known, and Defectivum House is home to the remedial students.
The academy isn’t subtle with its naming conventions.
Anyway, it doesn’t take a genius (or an Elite) to know where I belong.
After swiping a few screens, the woman looks up. “I’ve switched you to Defectivum,” she says, giving me a bland smile.
Good. I'd much rather be around low-level witches who might be more sympathetic to my unawoken state. “Thanks,” I say, and relief must seep into my tone. She raises an eyebrow, like my response surprises her, and I wince as her thoughts push inside my head again. —Gods, being an AUA is worse than being just human. This girl won’t last a semester—
I guess I’ll be hearing a lot of that kind of thinking. After all, being an AUA is the worst possible fate for a witch.
Kids with magical DNA, aka witches, have their spark awaken during puberty—but not me.
After I started my period at age thirteen, I’d wake every morning brimming with excitement, thinking, ‘this will be the day,’ but it never was.
At first, everyone thought I was just a late bloomer, but after I turned eighteen, I was designated an official Adult Unawoken Anomaly.
Oh well. When you’re at the bottom of the pile, isn’t the only way up?
“Here’s a map,” the housing coordinator says. “Someone in Defectivum will take it from there. They’ll have your orientation packet, and if there are any problems, they can sort you out.”
“Thanks,” I mutter again, as I take the paper and then head towards my new home. First, I pass Electis. It’s a crazy, opulent set of student apartments with staff to attend to their every whim. I mean, why not? If you’re an Elite, the world is your oyster. That’s just how the world works.
The twins are Elites. Shite, they could be watching me right now. I search out their penthouse with its floor-to-ceiling windows, embraced by the little Juliet balcony. Memories swim to the surface of my mind, making my eyes water. Gods dammit. I won’t cry. I won’t give them another solitary tear.
That’s harder said than done. My ridiculous heart clenches at the thought of my twin lovers—the two men who I’d foolishly thought the universe had gifted me forever.
Nope, I wasn’t going to think of Donovan’s strong, athletic hands playing with my naked body.
Or Wes’s smoldering eyes that would linger as he framed us through the lens of his Hasselblad camera.
Click, whir, another perfect, stolen moment captured, until the tension coiled too tight, and he stopped being the voyeur photographer and joined us on that sprawling, king-sized bed.
What a ridiculous idiot I was; the affair hadn’t even lasted two months.
With a wrench, I drag myself out of the painful landscape of my mind and focus instead on the manicured perfection surrounding Validus Vale.
Emerald lawns and elegant fountains dot the grounds.
Someone must have just mowed, as I can smell fresh grass cuttings.
A couple of peacocks peck the ground at the base of a marble statue of a griffin.
The landscape gets less magnificent as I keep walking.
Communis House is plain but perfectly acceptable.
The gravel has been raked, and the windows are clean and sparkling.
Communis is where eighty percent of the Validus Vale students live. Most witches are Ordinarii; not many rise to the ranks of the Elite.
I’ve never been to the remedial block before.
Rounding a corner, I come face to face with Defectivum House, which is a narrow four-story building.
The upkeep of this part of the grounds is obviously low on the list of priorities.
Weeds poke up through the patchy stone pathway, and several black trash bags are piled against the wall by the entrance.
I guess no one cares about the aesthetics because students only remain in Defectivum for a term or two. Validus Vale has a perfect success rate in helping remedials quickly increase their spark. Once that happens, the student is transferred to Communis.
I have a sinking feeling that’s not going to happen for me. No, I will be the last woman standing in Defectivum, trailing through echoing, deserted dorms, like a modern-day Miss Havisham.
Ah well. Here we go.
The large front door is ajar, and as I push it fully open, the hinges groan, desperate for oil. It honestly wouldn’t surprise me to find Lurch waiting inside the gloom. But in the dim light, the only person around is an older man sitting back in a wing chair.
He’s tapping panels on a tablet, looking exceedingly engaged. “Gotcha, you little trickster,” he suddenly announces, making me jump.
I edge nearer and clear my throat. “Um, hello?”. There is dust, mold, or something in the air that makes my eyes water. “Sorry to interrupt, but could you direct me to the housing coordinator?”
The beeping and chirping of the tablet cuts off, and the man’s balding head lifts. “Who are you?” he asks, eyeing me beadily.
“Um, Theo Wilson. I’ve been assigned here.”
“Room allocations on the board,” he replies, returning to his tablet, the beeps starting up again.
The noticeboard is covered in flyers, including one for ‘Fateball try-outs’, a study group sign-up for the Defectivum-delayed, and a note about the third floor having bedbugs. In between them all is a handwritten list; each name has a room number beside it, but my name is not there.
Seriously?
Returning to the man in the chair, I nervously interrupt his gameplay once more. “Um, sorry, but my name isn’t on the list,” I tell him. “Do you know where I can find someone to help?”
Baldy-man has thoughts of pixel-art potions flying around his head; the game is some kind of alchemy puzzle. He sighs deeply, then hits pause. “What did you say your name was?” he asks, not standing up but at least directing his attention towards me and away from his high score.
“Theo Wilson.”
“Hold your horses.” He pushes some buttons on his device, then shakes his head. “Yeah, nope. Not on the list.”
I feel stupid tears pushing into my eyes. I’m so tired. “Are you sure?” I ask. “I was originally to be in Communis but just got transferred here.”
“Then why didn’t you say that?” the man tuts. He presses something else on the tablet and then lets out yet another deep sigh, like all the world is conspiring against him. “Great work, housing team. Just switch people around and expect me to accommodate.” With a groan, he pushes up from the chair.
The man has very short legs, which seem barely able to hold up his rotund body.
At his full height, he is only a few inches taller than me, which is saying a lot, considering I am five feet and one inch tall.
“I’m Professor Bilderblast, head of Remedial Studies for my folly,” he tells me as he waddles over to a small door next to a wide staircase.
“We’re out of official rooms,” he says. “So you’ll have to take the spare.
” He grimaces, then looks at me. “You’re not the complaining type, are you? ”
Complain about the spare room? Why would I? As long as it has a bed, I’ll be happy as a clam. Thoughts from the bald head in front of me start to invade my brain. The professor is considering his next move to secure the top potion prize.
POTION = Pit, pin, pot, ion, nip, not, into, point…
“Wilson?”
Whoops. I’d zoned out, hopefully for only a few seconds. I quickly pick up my bags. “Sorry, sir.”
“Come along then, hop to it.” He looks at me expectantly, and I scurry over as Professor Bilderblast opens the narrow door and heads down some steep stairs.
The stairs lead into a basement area. Storage shelves are filled with dusty boxes and various pieces of broken and discarded furniture.
Within the space is a room, partitioned off from the rest of the mess.
A door stands open in the plasterboard wall.
Professor Bilderblast gestures me in, and I get the first look at my new home.
It’s maybe a little disappointing, if I’m honest, and definitely a scholarship girl cliche.
A simple twin bed, a wooden chair, and a tiny dresser (that is missing all but one of its drawer handles), the sum total of furnishings. The false ceiling sags with water stains, and a beige carpet, which has a nineties corporate office vibe, covers most of the floor.
Professor Bilderblast frowns. “Well now, not quite the Ritz, but you’ll manage, will you?”
I nod in agreement, deciding that accommodations are the least of my worries. “Yes, sir, no problem.”
He gives me an approving look, and I’m glad I didn’t make a fuss. “You can get bedding from laundry services,” he tells me. “They are on the back side of this building. And you’ll have to use the shared bathroom on the second floor.”
I have to climb three flights just to pee?
I mustn't complain, I remind myself; I’m here for free, after all. “Thanks,” I say, dropping my backpack on the bed. “The lady in the main building said you'd have an orientation packet for me?”
The professor grumbles again, saying something about an office and making a copy.
“And pick up some uniforms from the laundry when you get your bedding. No civvies allowed, unless it’s the weekend,” Professor Bilderblast says with a finger-wag.
This time, I think I see a sparkle in his eye.
“You may prefer your own get-up,” he continues, eyeing my stained sweater, “but we prefer uniforms over fashion statements. Are all the kids wearing coffee these days?”
That makes me grin, and I think the small Professor can’t be too bad.
He turns and waddles back to the staircase.
“Ah, and Wilson, we have an all-Academy assembly in two hours. Please don’t be late, Defectivum has enough of a reputation to deal with without adding tardiness.
” He puffs his way up the stairs, then disappears, leaving me alone in the basement.
I slump down onto the bed and think positive thoughts. Sure, mi casa is a little rough around the edges, but I can make it cozy, and it’s a room all of my own, with not a single square of quilting fabric, so that’s pretty wonderful.
In general, I don't mind being alone, though making a friend or two while here would be nice.
A potato-bug scurries across the floor, marching up to my foot, then roly-polying into a ball.
“Are you volunteering to be my friend, little guy? If so, I promise to be a fun roommate, as long as you do the same.” The bug and I will be like rabbits in their burrow, tucked away and safe.
“Can’t rest yet, though,” I tell my new bug-mate. “We've got an assembly coming up.”
I arch my aching back and force myself to stand. Only a few more hours and I’ll be able to crash.
First, though, I’d better head out laundry-ward and find myself some clothes that don’t make it look like I’ve been bathing in fucking Starbucks.