Chapter 6
The morning finds me decidedly unrested.
My night had been a riot of disturbing, vivid dreams—all starring, of course, them. Even in my subconscious, I’m not free of their hold on my heart. I rub my eyes as the last tendrils of the sharp and unsettling dream vanish.
My twins, but different. Pale and drawn, as if the very life had been bleached from them.
Not how they looked in real life. Wes and Donovan aren’t identical twins, but close to it.
The same dark, untamed curls and dimpled cheeks that would make my stomach do a little flip.
Those crooked, disarming smiles that could melt glaciers.
And their scent, oh, their scent. A mix of sunshine and salt spray, underscored by something deeply, panty-tinglingly musky.
Goosebumps prickle my flesh as the last whisper of that bright, sea smell drifts through the room, then vanishes entirely.
Gods, I will never get over them, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise. They’ve ruined me for anyone else. I will never love again.
Those bastards. I can’t let them see the wreckage they've made of me. I will erect the highest wall imaginable around my heart, top it with shards of broken glass, and project nothing but a glacial disinterest.
With that resolve burning inside, I pull myself up from the thin mattress, stretch the stiffness from my limbs, and grab my washbag. I am going to attempt the near impossible: making myself look cute despite the hideous uniform and my jetlag.
As I exit my basement sanctuary, a box waits for me on the floor by the door.
Ooh, it’s a tablet like the one I had assigned last year.
That’s a relief. I wasn’t sure if I’d have to pay for my own or if one was included with the scholarship.
I skip down the basement steps and leave the tablet on the bed before heading to the bathrooms.
Just outside the communal showers, I literally bump into Willow. “Oof, sorry.”
She’s wearing a brown plaid wrapper, and her sandy brown hair is frizzed in a chaotic halo around her head.
A beaming smile splits her face. “Theo! Good idea to get in here early, gives us the best chance at hot water.” Willow leads me into the shower block, a depressing space containing four cramped cubicles where the tile grout is speckled with black mold.
Limescale has hardened like gnarly barnacles around the faucets and showerheads.
Willow glances down at my sneakered feet, a grimace twisting her features.
“You might want to get shower shoes,” she gestures to the floor.
She’s not wrong. The drains are clogged with hair and Gods knows what other unidentifiable debris.
Grumbling inwardly, I extract a washcloth and place it gingerly on the slimy tile floor as a meager form of foot protection, then kick off my shoes.
When I turn the water on, it comes out in warm dribbles, but it’s enough to work with.
Using shampoo and conditioner from industrial-size bottles mounted on the cubicle wall, I scrub myself thoroughly and try to feel zen about whatever is to come.
“I’ll see you downstairs, Theo,” Willow yells as she heads out.
Ten minutes later, I’m back in the basement, trying my best to avoid a walking-dead appearance.
I put a generous amount of concealer under each eye, then a black slick of liner on the lid.
Really should have brought a mirror and a hairdryer.
I guess a long, wet braid will be my signature look for the foreseeable future.
Once I’m as glammed as I’m going to get, I shake out my uniform several times and then put it on.
Using my phone for a fit-check, I cringe at the result. Rumpled polyester. Gods. What a mess I am.
With the new tablet under my arm, I close the door to my little room.
“I need a desk, some hooks or hangers, and maybe a mirror…” I mutter to myself.
I’d noticed the rest of the basement held a chaotic jumble of discarded furniture.
Maybe I can scavenge something to make my ‘apartment’ slightly less depressing?
But there’s no time for exploration now; a glance at my phone confirms I’m already running late.
Once again, Duncan and Willow are at the entrance so we can all walk together, strength in numbers. “Thanks for waiting, guys.”
“Morning, Theo,” Duncan says, his energy already buzzing. “No worries. Sleep OK? I didn’t, the guy in the room next door snores like a rhino.” —Rhinos love mud/I love mudpie/Yum, ice cream for breakfast—
“Yeah, I slept fine,” I reply, trying to keep my head separated from Duncan’s ADHD brain; my thoughts are already racing enough.
Is this the day I come face-to-face with the twins?
Probably. I might even see them in the next few minutes. Oh, Gods.
“Are you OK?” asks Willow. —What’s she stressing about?—
I give her a half-hearted smile. “Just something and nothing,” I tell her vaguely. “Old baggage from the last time I was here.”
Duncan and Willow come to a halt. “Last time?” Willow yelps, her voice a startled squeak. A small group of passing students turns to stare, and she quickly lowers her voice. “What do you mean, last time?”
Oh yeah, I hadn’t filled my new friends in on the thrilling Theo Wilson backstory. “I was one of the lottery students last year. You know, the ones who come for the six-week intensive?”
“You were?” Willow looks bewildered, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “And that didn’t awaken your spark? That…that never happens.”
I give her a wry smile. “It had never happened…until...” I gesture at myself and shrug like it’s no big deal. “Frankly, I think they used me as a control group. You know, 'Exhibit A: This is what magical ineptitude looks like.”
“But you still got the Guggenheimer Scholarship,” Duncan says, frowning and looking confused. “They don’t award that to just any rando.” I hear a flash of his inner voice. —She’s gotta be something special—
The only truly remarkable thing about me is the weird ability I was born with, a secret I can’t afford to share.
Instead, a weak, self-deprecating laugh escapes my throat.
“I’m running with the theory that I’m the most feeble unawakened admissions has ever come across, and they want to test the ability of the Academy.
If it can wake pathetic Theo, it can do it for anyone.
You know, ‘Queer Eye for the AUA guy’. Just with magic instead of make-up. ”
Willow ignores my attempt at being funny. “Don’t think like that. We’ll all be Ordinarii before Halloween, mark my words.”
A sudden burst of laughter erupts from behind us.
I turn to see a couple of Ordinarii girls, their expressions smug and superior.
“In Communis by Halloween? Who are they kidding?” one sneers.
My shoulders tense, and beside me, Duncan stares intently at the ground, like the gravel is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.
I give the two Ordinariis a timid piece of stink-eye.
“Who do you think you are, remedial?” The second girl wrinkles her nose, as if I smell bad. “Show some respect.” Her thoughts project out of her sharply. —Thank Gods my power came in. Shit, I was so nearly a dud—
The two Ordinarii exchange a look, and then a cruel grin spreads across their faces.
Instantly, both Willow and I stumble and fall forward onto the gravel path.
A swirl of power keeps us pressed to the ground.
Willow whimpers. My body is utterly useless against them.
“You feel that, Dud? That’s what real magic feels like. ”
“So grateful for the demonstration,” I mutter, the taste of gravel dust and humiliation coats my tongue.
“For fucks sake.” A pair of stylish ankle boots comes into my line of sight. “Haven't you dumb bitches got something better to do?” I’m unsure what happens next, but the magical pressure is lifted off my body, and Duncan is helping Willow and then me to our feet.
The ankle boot wearer eyes us critically. “Are you OK?” she asks. Her hair is shaved at the sides and features a faux-hawk on top, totally rocking a Janelle Monáe vibe.
Willow straightens up from brushing gravel from her knees and turns bright red as she blushes. “Uh-huh. T-thank you, s-so much.”
“Yep,” I say, giving a tentative smile. “Thanks for the intervention.”
Janelle Monáe gives us both a cool look.
“Intervention? Hardly! I don’t mess with petty status battles.
” But she follows this sentence up with a wink.
“I’m Naomi, by the way. Try to avoid those bitches in the future, and chin up, you won’t be in Defectivum forever.
” She makes an elegant turn and heads inside.
I’m a little stunned that a high-ranking Ordinarii girl like her would come to our aid.
Willow must feel the same way, as her mouth is open and she’s blinking her big eyes at Naomi’s retreating form.
“Come on,” says Duncan, giving both of us a poke. “Can we finally get breakfast without any more drama? I think I’m literally dying.”
Willow and I exchange a look, the indignity and gravel burn still stinging, and hobble along the final few yards toward the cafeteria. My stupid brain chooses this time to remember a haiku Donovan had made.
Donovan sighs deep,
Theo walks by, his heart melts,
Trips on his own feet.
It had come about because I’d been shamelessly gushing over Wes’s photographs, the way he captured light and shadow, and Donovan had play-pouted. “At least I can impress you on the FateBall court,” he’d declared, chest puffed out like a gorilla.
“She prefers artistic pursuits to jock ones,” Wes said, sliding a hand around my waist. “You lose.”
Donovan had looked genuinely horrified, his vibrant turquoise eyes wide. “Is that true, baby girl? You prefer huffing fumes in a dark room rather than gazing at my manly athleticism out in nature?"
“Um, maybe? But I'm sure I'll be wildly enthusiastic about whatever you do in your sports stuff,” I hedged, kissing him on the cheek.
“Not good enough,” Donovan muttered. “I’ll take up something arty-farty. Poetry, perhaps? I could do that, it’s just like writing a song, but without a tune.”
That haiku had been his first and last foray into the world of poetry. He’d ceded the arts to his brother.
“Bloomhower, Links, Wilson. Hurry it up now.” A woman, stationed like a gatekeeper at the entrance to the building, pulls me sharply from my melancholy memories. She holds a tablet and frowns at the three of us. “You’re the last of the remedials.”
—Thank Gods we don’t have too many. This year’s crop seems even more useless than last year—I shake her out of my brain as she peers at me more carefully. “And what have you done, Wilson? Trip over yourself?” Her tone suggests this wouldn't surprise her in the slightest.
I offer her a weak, apologetic smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
She shakes her head, looking pained. “Clumsy. Join the breakfast line and watch where you go.” As we join the other students queuing for food, a ripple of giggles and commentary drifts through the air. “Stupid duds can’t even stand on their own two feet.”
This day, I can already tell, is going to be a delightful exercise in humiliation. Though I’m heartened to see Naomi and her friends have flattened mouths, disapproving of our treatment. At least there are some decent people here.
When we finally reach our turn at the food station, the muttered comments have subsided into a low hum. Three women in chef whites stand behind the counter, but two are already whisking away empty serving dishes, leaving only a solitary, questionable option.
“What the hell is that?” I whisper to Duncan, side-eyeing the pale, lumpy mass.
“Grits,” he hisses back, his face wrinkled in disgust.
Willow, however, takes a generous double helping. “Grits are delicious,” she declares with conviction, “you’ll see.”
Duncan shakes his head vehemently. “I don’t care how early I have to drag myself out of bed tomorrow; I’ll be here in time for pancakes.”
A wave of guilt washes over me. I’m why he’s so late today. It feels like a just punishment that the woman server tells me they don’t have English breakfast tea, and I have to go with drip coffee.
Once the unappealing-looking slop is dished into our bowls, the three of us brave the seating area. “How can you like this stuff, Willow?” Duncan moans, pushing his spoon around.
“Because my mind is not on one culinary track, Dunc,” she sighs. “Anyone would think you had a pancake fetish.”
That makes him grin. “Pancake fetish? Moi? You’d batter believe it.”
He winks, and Willow throws her napkin at him. The three of us continue to eat as the room buzzes with conversation and so many internal voices that my mental shield is getting super taxed.
PANCAKE = pan, cap, cake, pack, peak, ace, pace, peace….
Peace? Yes please. Thank the Gods this stupid game manages to soothe my chaotic reality.
“Can you believe Naomi Watson stopped to help us?” Willow nudges me, getting my attention again. “She’s like the coolest girl ever. I saw her play Fateball last year and she kicked ass.” Willow has hearts in her eyes.
Duncan ignores the girl-talk and pulls a laptop from his backpack, instantly getting sucked into some video game.
At the same time, Willow grabs her tablet to show me Naomi Watson’s school profile.
Leaving her to gaze at the photos of Naomi in tight gray gym clothes, I extract my new tablet and log in.
It takes a minute to figure out the system.
“Ooh, show me your timetable,” Willow says, taking a gulp of coffee and shutting down her cyber-stalking.
“I bet we have all the same classes.” She pulls my tablet towards her as the schedule loads, but then a frown creases her brow.
“Wait, this can’t be right. You’re in advanced Restricted Studies and advanced Combat Skills, Theo.
Those are only for Elites.” She twists the tablet back, “Look.”
Good grief, she’s right. Why am I enrolled in those?
“You’d better go see your counselor,” Willow mutters, “who do you have?”
I shrug, and Duncan pauses whatever he’s doing and turns my tablet towards him. “Here, it says you have Professor Feniks.” his eyes widen. “Uh-oh. That’s the professor who picked you up, right? You said he was a douche, eh?”
Professor Feniks. Excellent. “Yep. That’s going to be fun. He already loves me.” Not.
“May I?” Duncan asks, his hand still on my tablet.
“Sure, whatever.”
The next thing I know, he’s bringing up some windows of code. “It looks like someone changed your class schedule a couple of days ago. You’d originally been in all remedial classes with us. It must be a mistake.”
Sigh. I take back the tablet and reluctantly look for the location of Professor Feniks’ office.