Chapter Four. When the Girl You Like Hates You
CHAPTER FOUR
WHEN THE GIRL YOU LIKE HATES YOU
JAMES
I just made the most difficult promise of my life. For the next three months I’m going to have to live with Farren Walsh and act like I’m not obsessed with her.
This was my idea in the first place, facilitated by my mom, and yet it all seems foolish now.
What was I thinking? Of course I knew nothing could happen.
I’ve known that from the beginning. Silver-crafters should be with silver-crafters.
What you’re born into is where you belong.
It’s the rhetoric of our entire society, shoved down my throat since I first manipulated iron at four.
Yet the weight of my father’s words sealed how screwed I am.
I almost laughed as I lied about that not being a problem.
Though I think I hid it well enough behind a scoff.
But maybe I should laugh because it’s comical how bad my luck is.
Finally. Finally, I’ve gained the courage to approach her.
This summer I’d even have an excuse to talk to her about Hort.
Now everything is on the line and I can’t mess up.
Fortunately—and I’ve never been happy about this fact until now—Farren Walsh hates my guts.
Around her I always seem to say the wrong thing.
Then I became her main competition for the Revers all-around scholarship, which pushed her from avoidance into hatred.
Coming here just made it worse given the way she’s glaring at me.
I’m reminded of a lost fifteen minutes. It’s pretty depressing that the only time I’ve been and will ever be mouth-to-mouth with her I was unconscious and on the brink of death.
But I had to come here if I want any of my dreams to be reality. If I truly want to be a dragon veterinarian, I have to learn the skills, and that starts with an internship under Dr. Walsh and then earning a medical degree at Revers.
My parents peel out of the gravel drive without even a wave. I imagine my father’s hard tone still questioning if this is really necessary. I adjust my sling. This broken arm of mine is the only reason I’ve escaped summer training with him.
“Farren will be happy to show you around,” Dr. Walsh says. In answer, Farren turns and trudges back to Hort in an exit that exudes unhappiness.
Mrs. Walsh opens her mouth, most likely to admonish her daughter.
“It’s fine,” I interrupt, grabbing the worn handle of my trunk. “Thank you both for having me. I truly appreciate it.”
“Ah, well, you’re welcome,” Mrs. Walsh says. She wears surprise like she doesn’t experience it often.
I follow Farren before she walks out of sight. Each step spells out how miserable she is. This all came quick. Needed to. However, it seems the Walshes haven’t pieced together her animosity for me. At least that means she must not bad-mouth me at home. That’s good, right?
Stop, I command myself. It doesn’t matter anymore. No psyching myself up to simply say hello. No wondering how to get on her good side. Because there’s no us and never will be. There can’t be.
Hort flaps his wings, spotting my approach.
“Calm, Hort,” I order, followed by a soft whistle so he knows I mean it.
His tail keeps swaying, which is pretty cute.
He’s such a good dragon. The first I’ve trained since birth.
The first to bring me home a championship.
Guilt pierces me noting the outer ridge of his wing tied up in gauze.
These last weeks are the longest we’ve been apart.
Though as Hort tramples the pasture around him, it’s nice to see him on actual grass and dirt, surrounded by clean air. A place he can stretch those wings.
It’s beautiful here, sun-drenched and green.
I’ve never been to the Walsh Sanctuary before, and I’m more than impressed.
My father says these wide sweeps of coastal land need his guidance and money.
That it’s only a matter of time before the Walshes concede and sell.
But to house a dozen or so dragons, to maintain all this land? The Walshes aren’t struggling.
A glint of metal in the grass draws my attention and I bend to pick up one of Hort’s scales.
Flipping it I find a small bit of silver, just a moment of his instinctual fear.
A waste, my dad would think, since the silver doesn’t cover the entire scale.
But here’s the thing. I haven’t seen Hort naturally shed a metaled scale in ages.
A part of me forgot dragons naturally do that.
“Oh, I guess we have to collect those…”
I jerk, astonished by Farren’s contemplative tone. “You don’t collect them?”
“I mean sometimes, but…” She shrugs. “You know.” My frown must indicate my ignorance because she keeps talking. “Most scales won’t have crafting metal anyway.”
The implication strikes deep into my heart. Because the dragons here are happy. They have no reason to protect themselves with their metal, shifting into armor constantly like my family’s dragons do.
Suddenly, Hort’s scale feels like a hot coal in my hands, like I’m one of the scalers plucking it off him as he roars in pain. “Here.” I thrust the scale out to Farren. “Keep it.”
“There’s silver in there.”
An idea sparks. “You could practice with it.” I basically grunt the reply though. God, what is wrong with me? Why can I never be normal around her?
Farren eyes the scale, looking half-confused, half-curious. “And that would be okay with you?”
I want to say of course. I know Farren could become a silver-crafter.
We’re born with a genetic disposition to crafting based on one’s parents, mainly our mothers, but like any talent, that trait never dictates a person’s entire capability.
Farren just needs to bond with silver dragons and then practice crafting their metal.
I’d be willing to teach her even, but my father’s outrage blazes in my mind.
By handing over this scale I’m essentially allowing her to steal what he considers his property.
And even though these rules keep people stuck in an unfair system, he’d argue it’s their own fault.
Like not being wealthy and well connected is simply a personal problem.
“It’s okay with me.” I try to appear nonchalant, like it’s no big deal. Like I wouldn’t get hit for even suggesting this.
Farren pushes my outstretched hand against my cast. “You don’t need to look so nervous, Murphy. I know my place.”
“I—”
She changes the subject. “I’ve got to wipe Hort down. Then wash Daphine.”
I pocket Hort’s scale, hating a part of me is relieved she turned me down. “I can wash him.”
Her eyebrow arches. Damn, I love when she does that. They’re dark, unlike her blonde hair, and she can move them in such expressive ways. Without her glasses on they stand out even more.
“With one arm?” she asks.
“I’ll manage.”
Farren huffs out further skepticism as she unties Hort. Then unexpectedly, my dragon doesn’t barrel toward me. Instead, he nuzzles Farren’s neck.
I go stock-still. “He likes you?” I don’t mean to sound shocked—Hort is the sweetest dragon I’ve ridden, but picky with his affection.
To be frank he doesn’t like anyone who isn’t a silver-crafter, and even then, it’s a fine line.
When Hort bucked her off this morning, I’d thought Farren had been having a difficult time with him.
That I would be needed to help facilitate his recovery.
One more reason I begged to be here for the summer.
But it seems the opposite. I’m unwelcome and unnecessary.
Farren looks up. “Why do you seem so surprised? Because he threw me earlier?”
I don’t say anything. I don’t exactly know what to say.
“This morning was because of you,” she continues. “You shouldn’t sneak up on someone like that.”
“I didn’t sneak up on you.” I just didn’t go shouting her name. A mistake around dragons. They like calm and quiet as much as I do.
Farren takes Hort’s lead and starts toward the barn. “How did you convince my dad to take you?” Farren mutters under her breath.
I jog a step to keep up and pet Hort’s chin when he swings my way. “I’m likeable. To everyone except you it seems.”
She startles like I was not meant to hear her. “You know?”
“Know you hate me?” I try not to look dejected. Luckily, I’m good at that. Not letting an inch of what I’m thinking betray me. Living with my father taught me that well. “Yeah. I know.”
“So why come here then? Why couldn’t you have found some other veterinarian to train under?”
“Well, I know you don’t hate me enough to kill me, Savior.” As soon as I say it, no matter how much my tone is jocular, it points more to the truth than I ever planned sharing. Farren knows something is up too because she stops. Which makes Hort halt as well.
I adjust my slinged arm, a nervous habit that’s formed over the last few weeks.
I’ve always been quiet. Called shy as a child like it was endearing, and cold as a teen like it’s a problem.
I could only open up to a few people. And I never thought in my wildest dreams I could overcome my introverted nature enough to talk to Farren properly, especially like this—in quips and barbs.
Like my real self. In school I fumbled multiple times to create conversation, but now some of that fear has melted away.
Almost dying in front of your crush might be the pinnacle of embarrassments.
In fact, for the last two weeks, I’ve been contemplating what’s worse and drawing a blank.
Finally, she answers. “If we’re going to live together, you need to stop calling me Savior.”
“I can do that,” I reply. Seems I’m bad at nicknames, even complimentary ones. Figures.
As Farren directs her annoyance at me though, I realize something.
This whole day it’s been the old Farren, the one who spoke her mind.
The one whose hand would shoot into the air to answer any question about dragons and then volunteer information about them unprompted.
I knew the last year she had been putting up a facade of indifference, that no one that outspoken could change into the wallflower she now pretends to be at school.
I’d watch her to catch a glimpse of the true Farren.
It seems all I needed to do was come to the sanctuary.
“But I’m noticing you seem mad at yourself.” I smile at her, wanting to keep this going, to tease her further. “Mad you couldn’t let me die when you had the chance, huh?”
Her eyebrows jump again before she reins herself in.
She smooths down Hort’s scales. “I was mainly saving Hort. You just got lucky.” She turns to the barn and strides forward again, short blonde hair swishing over her shoulder.
I can’t help laughing at her lie because if there is one thing I know about Farren Walsh, she’s caring—for dragons and people alike.
Here, I’ll be safer than I’ve ever been. My heart though? That’s yet to be seen.