Academy of Magic Collection

by Angelique S Anderson et al.

  I put a pillow on top of my head and closed my eyes, falling into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Three

  When I woke up, sunlight streamed in through the half-open curtains. I blinked against the light and yawned. It took a minute to make out my surroundings, and to realize I was no longer at home, in the mint-green attic bedroom I occupied at my Grandma’s home. No, Dorothy wasn’t in Kansas anymore—but instead of having traveled to the merry old land of Oz, I had traveled to the English countryside.

  Birds chirped in the distance, as if to stress my point.

  Only then, as I lazily glanced from the window to my alarm clock, did I realize two things.

  One, I had forgotten to set my alarm clock.

  Two, it was ten minutes before eight.

  Panicking, I half-stepped, half-fell out of bed, tangled up in the bedsheets, and stumbled—unable to walk because my legs were stuck—toward the desk where I had left the planner Mrs. Evergreen had given me yesterday. I skipped to the pages showing my weekly schedule and cursed under my breath.

  I had class at eight o’clock. Room 023, so downstairs. Only ten minutes to get ready and rush down the stairs.

  I quickly threw on some clothes, brushed my hair, and then raced downstairs, taking two steps at a time. The upper hallway and stairwell were both abandoned, which made me suspect no one else had been as stupid as me and overslept on the first day. The others were probably already in class or still at breakfast, which my grumbling stomach purposefully reminded me of.

  Once downstairs, the never-ending labyrinth expanded all around me. With the hallways deserted, I couldn’t exactly ask anyone for directions either, and the corridor I was in only led up to number 015.

  “023,” I mumbled under my breath, clutching to my planner for dear life,” 023…”

  Nervous butterflies swirled around in my stomach, making me slightly nauseous—what if I didn’t make it to class in time? What if I was late on my first day? It felt as if I was stuck in a nightmare, the kind of dream where you have to get somewhere on time but somehow you’re moving impossibly slow, each movement is taking an eternity and even though you’re running, your body isn’t moving an inch.

  That feeling, of being slow, too slow, rushed over me as I pushed open the double doors at the end of the hallway, hoping they would lead to the other classrooms, preferably 023.

  In my hurry to get to my classroom, I was apparently a lot faster than it felt like in this nightmarish sensation, because I nearly bumped into someone coming from the other end.

  “Hey there,” Nathan Hilliard said as he narrowly dodged me by moving to the left. “Are you always in the habit of bumping into people, or is it just me?”

  He smiled, laughter ringing in his voice, and the butterflies in my stomach multiplied. I felt a hot blush creep up my cheeks. Time slowed down, my stress over the impossible quest to find my classroom pushed back by something else entirely.

  “Uhm…hey,” I managed to squeeze out. “Sorry.”

  "Don’t worry about it. Why are you in such a hurry anyway?" Nathan asked, looking slightly amused. I hoped he wasn’t making fun at me for being such a klutz, but he seemed more amused than annoyed.

  "I need to get to class," I said, the panic over being late on my first day suddenly returned times one hundred. Oh God, what if I’m late on my first day? "023. I can't find it."

  "Oh, that's at the end of this hallway," Nathan said, pointing to the far end of the corridor. “Didn’t they show you that during the tour?”

  “Uhm…I was late for the tour yesterday.” I smiled at him and started to move past him. “Thanks for the help.”

  “Wait a second.” Nathan touched my arm, urging me to stop. His fingers on my skin were like electricity, like magic, and the spot where he touched me—lower arm, just below the elbow—felt as if it was on fire.

  “I…uh…” I stared at him, losing myself in his gaze, my knees turning wobbly.

  “You’re not wearing your school uniform,” Nathan said.

  His eyes were so mesmerizing, their pull so strong, that I didn’t even hear what he said at first. Slowly, each word sipping in at a time, the sentence began to make sense.

  You’re not wearing your school uniform.

  I blinked, as if waking up from a dream, and looked from his chest— don’t focus on his chest, Alanis! — and the grey blazer he was wearing, with the school logo embroidered on the right side, to his black trousers and matching shoes.

  My mouth fell open, and I probably looked as if I’d just seen a ghoul walking by.

  “School…uniform?” I managed, nearly choking on the words.

  “Yes…” He looked at me, obviously waiting for me to say something else.

  “I don't have a uniform.”

  “Mrs. Evergreen didn't show you where to get one yesterday?” Nathan frowned.

  I shrugged, feeling very self-conscious. So everyone had an uniform, except me. Way to make myself look like the odd one out, right from the get-go. I could already imagine the laughter; the teasing looks from my fellow students. Hah! There was probably no uniform that fitted Fatso over here! Or maybe They don't make uniforms in elephant-size.

  I had always been on the chubby side, and it had haunted me ever since middle grade, when kids began to notice the way you looked—especially if your looks didn’t really match with the “ideal” some people had in mind. I’d heard the insults before, in various shapes and forms, but it still hurt every time. It had been a relief to leave my last school, to get away from the pestering that bordered on bullying, and I hoped, prayed, wished that Allegro Academy wouldn’t become the same hell regular high school was.

  “Hey, no worries.” Nathan’s voice broke through my nightmarish memories of middle grade. “I'll bring you to the tailor, Mrs. Rivers. She's really nice.”

  “But I need to get to class,” I protested.

  Suddenly, a violent twinge in my side pushed me nearly on top of Nathan. I could put my hand on the wall just in time to avoid falling on him. Startled, I look behind me, straight at the pretty blonde girl who had stolen the spotlight in Nathan’s little group yesterday.

  “Oh sorry,” she said, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. “I didn’t see you there.” She looked past me then, her gaze resting on Nathan. “Do you have Musical History first period as well?”

  From up close, she looked even prettier than from afar. Long, blonde hair and perfect, olive-colored skin. Although she was wearing the school uniform, on her it looked like designer clothing, and she seemed so confident, so well-adjusted in her own skin that I couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy.

  “Yes, Elise,” Nathan replied. He seemed a bit taken aback, perhaps by her beauty, or maybe by her sudden, not-exactly-smooth appearance.

  Then, he pulled his gaze away from her, back to me. “What class do you have just before lunch period, Alanis?”

  The way he said my name made it sound like a melody, like a soft song being carried on the wind. My cheeks felt hot, and I guessed that by now, they matched the color of a tomato. “Uhm…” I opened up my planner and checked my schedule. “Violin,“ I said. “Classroom 155.”

  “Okay. I’ll come by your classroom, and then we can go to the tailor, together.”

  Together. A word had never sounded so heavenly, so extraordinary.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  “Nate, we should get going,” Elise interrupted while glaring daggers at me. “Don’t want to be late.”

  “Yes, right,” Nathan said. “You’ll find your classroom for the first period? Just down the hallway,” he explained again.

  He probably thinks I have the brain equivalent of a mouse.

  “Yes, sure.” I smiled at him. “Thanks for the help.” Then, without waiting if he’d say anything else, I hurried down the hallway. For the first few seconds, my mind was still lingering on what Nathan had said—together, in particular—until realization sank in that I would be late.

 
Late for my first class. Oh God.

  Halting in front of classroom 023, I took a deep breath and gathered all my courage. Late or not, you can’t back out now, Alanis. Let’s just face this. What’s the worst that can happen?

  The worst turned out to be fifteen pupils all turning their heads toward me curiously, gaping at me as if I was an animal in the zoo, all of them wearing matching uniforms. I stood out like a sore thumb.

  The teacher, a stern man in his fifties with graying hair and gigantic glasses dangling from his nose, gave me a look of utter contempt. “You’re late.” He snorted as he talked, which would probably be pretty funny if I wasn’t being scrutinized by all the other students.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, not sure what else to say. Could I go sit down? Should I keep on standing there until he said I could sit down? What was protocol in situations like this?

  “And you’re not wearing your uniform,” the teacher snorted again, his bushy, grey eyebrows pulled back into a frown.

  “I don’t have one yet,” I explained awkwardly. “I was too late for the tour yesterday.”

  “So, you’re in the habit of being late?” The teacher asked.

  I gasped. “Uhm… No… But…”

  The teacher waved dismissively. “What’s your name?”

  “Alanis DuChamp.”

  “Well, Miss DuChamp, I don't appreciate late comers in my class,” he continued, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “Since I assume this is your first day at our academy, I'm willing to let it slip. Just make sure you have a uniform by next class, and that you arrive on time. Now, please find a seat and sit down.”

  Grateful I could finally escape those glaring eyes of my fellow students, I stumbled to one of the empty seats in the back.

  “Anyway, where were we?” The teacher said as soon as I sat down. “Oh yes, I was about to introduce myself, right before Miss DuChamp so rudely interrupted us.”

  My cheeks blushed and I looked down at the desk in front of me. The girl at the desk next to me coughed softly.

  When I turned to her, she quickly passed me a note, and then focused back on the teacher—whose name was apparently, considering he had scribbled it down on the chalkboard, Mr. Leeroy.

  I opened up the note. Way to steal the spotlight, new girl.

  Confused, I looked at her, unsure of whether she meant it as an insult or was just teasing me.

  When she caught me staring, she gave me a wink, and then turned back toward the chalkboard.

  Five minutes into class, it became clear to me that Mr. Leeroy had zero talent and zero desire to have any talent. He taught us musical history in the most monotone voice one could imagine—a computer had more timbre in its voice.

  “Psst, Scaredy-cat,” someone whispered from next to me.

  I spun my head around and looked straight at the mysterious guy who had been “listening to his muse” in the hallway last night, in the pitch-black darkness.

  Oh, absolutely wonderful. Through a stroke of sheer misfortune, I’d managed to pick an empty seat that happened to be right next to his desk.

  In my hurry to sit down before the teacher could embarrass me even more, I hadn’t even bothered to look around, and now I was sitting next to the guy who nearly gave me a heart attack last night.

  “Hey,” I replied reluctantly. Even in broad daylight, an air of mystery surrounded this guy. Although I refused to look straight at him, I couldn’t help but glance in his general direction every now and then. He was certainly far from bad looking. Not super-model-gorgeous like Nathan, but he was tall and slim and the way this guy dressed and behaved—wearing the school uniform with his sleeves rolled up, the shirt hanging out of his pants rather than neatly tucked in—screamed rebellion, which somehow added to his attractiveness. His black hair fell over his forehead nonchalantly.

  “No nightmares?” he asked. “From being scared half to death, I mean.”

  “No,” I whispered. “But I would appreciate if you didn’t go around scaring the living daylight out of people anymore.”

  He chuckled. “You'll get used to it. Besides, a house like this one tends to get one’s imagination running. Makes you see things that aren’t there.”

  “Mr. Ravelli.” The teacher’s voice bellowed through the classroom. “How many times have I told you already, in the past few years, that you should NOT talk during class?”

  Mysterious-hallway-guy sat up straighter and shrugged, a grin plastered on his face. “I didn’t keep count, sir.”

  Mr. Leeroy’s face began to resemble a tomato – bright red, seemingly ready to burst. “If you’re so keen to chat, Mr. Ravelli, then perhaps you can enlighten us with your knowledge of Mozart’s repertoire.” The teacher glared at my neighbor, obviously expecting he wouldn’t be able to give a proper answer.

  “Of course, Mr. Leeroy,” he said as he leaned back in his seat. “Ludwig Amadeus Mozart. Born in 1756, died in 1791. His father was a composer and violinist. Mozart wrote five violin concertos in two years and seventeen symphonies, among which is the famous ‘small' Symphony in G. Minor, otherwise known as the 25th symphony, and of course, the ‘large' Symphony in G. Minor.”

  I stared at mystery-guy, my mouth nearly dropping to the floor. Sure, I knew the basics about Mozart, but I was surprised how quickly this guy had rattled off this information. So, he wasn’t just mysterious—he was clever, too.

  “Very well, Mr. Ravelli,” Mr. Leeroy said, his lips a thin line. Obviously, the teacher wasn’t as impressed with mystery-guy’s knowledge as I was. “You've proven you know the rudimentary basics of Mozart’s life. Bravo.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Now, please refrain from uttering any syllable until I ask you another question.”

  Mr. Leeroy focused back on the class, and I shrunk in my seat. If everyone here was as up to date with their knowledge as this Ravelli guy, then I definitely had some catching-up to do.

  Mysterious-hallway-guy lounged in his chair, as casual as if he were watching a movie in the theaters, not saying another word to me—good.

  Meanwhile, I nervously scribbled down everything Mr. Leeroy mentioned in his monotone, sleep-inducing tone. Even if I’d slept for seven days straight, the teacher’s dull and obnoxiously boring voice would’ve still managed to lull me to sleep.

  Class took forever. The fifty minutes stretched on into eternity, and by the time the bell rung to indicate the end of this period, I was pretty sure Musical History would never be among my favorite subjects—at least not as long as it was taught by Mr. Leeroy.

  I got up to grab my things when the Ravelli guy, first name still unknown, materialized in front of my desk.

  “So, Scaredy-cat, how was class?” he asked, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

  I couldn’t deny he had a certain magnetism. He was an enigma, a riddle I had to solve. And for some reason, although I wasn’t quite sure why, he was intent on talking to me… or at least, teasing me.

  “Why do you call me like that?” I frowned at him. “Scaredy-cat?”

  He grinned. “Because you were scared of me last night, and you’re probably the only person in my entire existence who has ever been scared of me. So, I think it’s funny. Your face when you turned the lights on in that hallway was hilarious. Hence, Scaredy-cat.”

  “All right, well, I’d appreciate if you could just call me by my name. Alanis.”

  “Ah, come on, real names are so boring.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the desk opposite mine. “Don't take it the wrong way, Scaredy-cat. It’s not meant to be insulting. You're new here, and I find that intriguing. I've known everyone here since forever. Plus, you're kind of rebellious. Not wearing a uniform, going home early from the welcoming event, being late for class…”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” I interrupted before he could continue. “But if I had a uniform, I'd wear it. If I’m being ‘rebellious’, then it’s by accident, not choice.”

  He whistled. “Oh, a rebel by accident, not choice. I like that. Good taglin
e. You should print it on a T-shirt or something.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at his joke. Despite the strange way we’d met earlier, something about this guy intrigued me. Guys usually either turned me into a babbling idiot or a numb mime who could only nod, not speak, but he was different. His presence put me at edge. He felt… familiar, even though that was impossible.

  “Anyway, what’s your next class?”

  I glanced down at my schedule. “Music Theory.”

  “Great. Same as me. I'll walk you.” It wasn’t a question, more like an already-established fact, from the way he said it. For a second, I debated whether I should tell him off, but then I decided why not. Why not try to make a friend for a chance. Besides Sam, who I had to leave behind before I made my great journey overseas, I didn’t really have any friends, and I could certainly use one.

  “All right.” I smiled at him. “Show me the way. Fair warning: I have zero idea where any of the classrooms are at, and I have zero map-reading skills.”

  He chuckled. “It’s not that completed. As long as you stay away from the east wing, you should be fine.”

  He didn’t say anything else, just started walking, and I trailed after him, wondering what the east wing was, why he’d mentioned it, and why all should be fine as long as I stayed away from it.

  Outside the classroom, the girl who had winked at me earlier, and given me the cryptic note, was leaning against the wall. She smiled when she saw us.

  “Hey there,” she said as she came toward us. Red curls danced around her face, bouncing up and down whenever she moved her head. She had at least a dozen freckles, and friendly, blue eyes.

  “Hey,” I replied.

  “Is he teasing you about the east wing?” A hint of mischief glistered in her eyes. “He’s always going on and on about the mysterious east wing.”

  “Were you eavesdropping, Cora?” Mystery guy asked. “Again, putting your nose where it doesn’t belong?” There was no malice in his voice, though, just amusement, and I guessed, from the way they interacted, that they were friends.