Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
Iknew I was going to struggle.
It doesn’t matter how many textbooks I scour, or how many of Mom’s notebooks I read. I’m in a world where I don’t belong, trying to keep my head above water. I don’t have the benefit of years of magical education, of immersion in magical culture, let alone a good grasp of magical history or law.
After an entire year in the corporate world, it’s weird being back in college again. I went from firing off emails, answering phones, and running meeting to living in dorms, eating in dining halls, and panicking about my grades. Talk about a total one-eighty.
My first class is Intermediate Myth, Magic, and History. I panic at the word Intermediate, but Jane grabs my hand and promises everything will be fine. “You read the study guide, right?”
I nod. I wish I had my flask. We’re seated at breakfast, but I can barely eat. I take tiny sips of coffee and tell myself that there’s no reason to be nervous. I’m probably not about to die.
“Intermediate is the closest to entry level Halea offers,” she reminds me. “You’ll be fine.”
“I just… I really think they meant ‘remedial.’ I need remedial classes.” But I know I’m out of luck.
Orea already went over my schedule with me, promising I’m in exactly the right classes.
When I refused to be reassured, she walked me over to the tutoring center and introduced me to the receptionist, which was kind of insulting, but also made me feel a little better.
Fine. In a worst-case scenario, the cheerful receptionist can help me find a tutor.
“They don’t offer those.”
“I don’t think you understand how dumb I am,” I tell her.
And it’s true. I’m a terrible test-taker.
I don’t really know how to study. The one thing I’m great at is taking copious, overly detailed notes, just like Mom.
Maybe that’s not a flex, but I like the sensation of smooth paper beneath my fingertips, the grooves from where I’ve dug in my pen, then later flipping through the pages and seeing all the neat lines, diagrams, bullet points.
Always a mediocre student, I won’t remember anything when I actually need it. With Jane next to me, I’ve never been more aware of of my shortcomings. I’m as out of place as a bird underwater, trying to flap my wings when instead I need to learn to swim, and quickly.
“You’re not dumb,” she huffs.
“I’m definitely a dumb jock,” I lament, face in my hands.
“You’re a gym rat. There’s a difference.”
I moan. I’ve already lifted weights and gone for a jog.
It turns out that waking up at four a.m. on a regular basis and having a roommate don’t exactly go well together.
I was quick to evacuate the room before Aleo woke.
So far, we get along well, but I’ve had enough roommates to know that living in close quarters can create all kinds of tension and drama, and I don’t want to start the semester with an argument.
“There kind of isn’t,” I say, and she rolls her eyes.
“Look, it’s gonna be OK. We can study together.”
I imagine towering stacks of flashcards and groan internally. But I need all the help I can get, so I grit out, “Thanks.”
Before I can say anything else, I spot someone wearing a t-shirt.
Yesterday, I wouldn’t have batted an eye, but this is the first day of class and Halea has a strict dress code.
It turns out that almost nothing I own is class-appropriate, but Jane and Aleo have both assured me that slacks and a polo shirt should be fine, so that’s what I’m wearing.
But that isn’t what piques my interest. It’s the way everyone is staring, whispering, pointing at him.
Chest puffed out like he’s looking for a confrontation, he scoops scrambled eggs onto his plate.
When he turns toward me, I can finally make out the words stenciled across his torso: Free the Shifters.
With a wince, I return to poking sadly at my yogurt parfait. Caught in the lens of right-wing media propaganda, shifters are always in trouble nowadays. I think of the bear shifters in Montana, and wonder if the radio host finally got his wish.
When I glance back at Jane, she’s glaring at the guy in the shirt. “That’s so fucking wrong,” she grumbles.
“Isn’t that a dress code violation?” I ask, gesturing down at myself.
She stares at me, incredulous. “What?”
“I thought t-shirts weren’t allowed.”
“He’s protesting,” she says, looking at me like she’s reconsidering everything she just said about my intelligence.
I wince. “Oh. For what?”
“What do you mean?” she asks, brow furrowed.
“I… don’t know what he’s protesting, exactly?”
“They banned the shifters from attending Halea this year,” she says.
Shit. “Oh. I, um, didn’t know shifters were fae.”
“Some of them are.” Her eyebrows are still too high. I’m definitely missing something here.
“Wait, so did they go here before?”
She sighs. “Dominic, are you trying to tell me you don’t know anything about shifters?”
I cross my arms. “I do. Sort of. Besides, isn’t this a safe space?”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Barely.”
Yikes. “So the shifters used to go here and now they’re banned?”
“In a nutshell,” she says. She’s still looking at me in disapproval. I wish I had a newspaper or something to hide behind. “Look, there’s been a smear campaign lately. I know you’re not familiar with the magical world, but have you ever heard of Wyndham Tavershim?”
I shake my head.
“OK, well, you should remember that name. He’s like, the fae president. And he hates shifters.”
“That seems… bad.”
“You really did grow up in a bubble, didn’t you?”
“I really, truly had no idea we were fae. Absolutely zero,” I say. “Cross my heart.”
“And you never did any research.”
“Hey, fae are cagey, OK? I tried, but a lot of this shit is behind a paywall.”
Her eyes roll. “You can get around a paywall, you know.”
“No, I don’t,” I huff. I’m no good with technology. I can submit a paper and do some basic computing, but I’m no hacker.
“Sometimes, I wonder how you’re still alive,” she scoffs. “Your mom had scars on her ears, and it never occurred to you?”
“She said it was an accident,” I shrug. “She never told me anything. It was like interrogating a brick wall.”
“And you never suspected?”
I shake my head. “I just thought she was crazy.”
“Alarming that you’d say that about your own mother,” she says, but I can see the laughter in her eyes.
In Intermediate Myth, Magic, and History, we sit together. I tap my pen against my notebook, trying to quell my nerves. Students filter in. My heart rate rises with each new arrival.
They’re almost all better dressed than Jane and I, and noticeably more fae, with pointed ears and pretty faces. Their jewel-bright eyes sweep over us—topaz, aquamarine, peridot, amber. No one sits nearby until the other desks are taken.
A fae guy with ash blond hair and gray eyes sees us, stops dead in his tracks, and makes a beeline for the back of the room.
Later, I’ll find out his name is Duncan Stirling. For now, my face reddens.
“Ignore him,” Jane hisses. “Seriously. No one’s judging you.”
I try to look nonchalant. I lean back in my seat, stretch my arms over my head, cross my ankles.
We’re near the front of the room, which is a little ambitious for my tastes, but I don’t have any other friends except for Aleo.
Since he’s in a different class, I’m sticking close to Jane, who I can already tell is an exceptional student.
And fine, I barely made it through college because I was more worried about my personal life than academics.
Probably, it was a good thing I’d made a smart friend. Maybe I’d retain some information.
When Dr Ward finally strolls into class, wearing pink kitten heels and a teal power suit, I’m almost relaxed. None of my peers have addressed me, and I’m trying to convince myself maybe that’s a good thing.
“Good morning,” says Dr Ward, smiling wide, clicking her way to the chalkboard (an actual chalkboard, not a whiteboard or projector—I hadn’t seen anything like it in years). Her face is perfectly fae, with a pointed chin, high cheekbones, and a long, slender neck.
Her gaze catches on me, then Jane. Something in her expression changes.
Fuck. She must’ve heard about me.
It makes sense. I have no idea what I’m doing. I probably shouldn’t be here. But it hurts to realize that I’ve already been singled out, that my professors were warned that I was probably going to need extra help.
And they were right.
Dr Ward misses not a single second. “For those of you who may be wondering, this is my twenty-seventh year teaching, and my eighth year at Halea. Prior to this, I taught at Smithson University, then the Batch Institute.”
There must be something to this, because a few of my classmates straighten up in their seats, suddenly attentive. I scribble down the name and make a note to look it up later, if I can. Maybe Jane can show me how to get around a pay wall, since she’s so good at it.
Clapping her hands together, Dr Ward says, “Well, let’s get started!”
There are no introductions. No attendance is taken. She launches into the first lesson with ferocity, and I spend the rest of class scrawling down names and events I don’t recognize, making desperate note of any texts she happens to mention offhand.
I can’t fail. I won’t fail. But her eyes keep landing on me, and I can’t fight the urge to hunch further forward even though it means she might spot my rounded ears through my hair.
I should grow my hair out, I think. But there’s no hiding that my face isn’t quite fae, either. It doesn’t matter. I’ll blend in better.
By the end of the day, my face is red from humiliation, and I’ve accepted that I’m going to flunk out. I’m missing too much information. Nothing in Dr Ward’s class made sense and that was after I read three books in preparation.