by Lisa McMann
Sean smiled, pointing to the drawing. “Good work so far, Alex. As for fighting with art, you’ll find out soon enough. It’ll be great! You’ll learn all sorts of amazing things. I’ll let your instructors tell you more, though. Hey,” he said abruptly, looking more closely at Alex’s scribbling. “Seriously, that’s not bad. Here, let me show you how to do shading. Lighten up with your grip a little.” He tapped Alex’s pencil, and a second pencil fell out of the first, so they each had one.
“I can’t wait for Magical Warrior Training,” Meghan said, more to herself than anyone else. Her eyes shone with excitement.
As Alex and Sean worked, Alex’s tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, Meghan slipped away from the table and went up to the blackboard. “Hello, Earl,” she said.
“Hello again.”
“I’m wondering if you could, you know, gently—I mean, nice and gently if you would—summon Lani to come down here? She was supposed to be here by now.”
“Lani. Hmm. The human girl, right?”
“Um, yes …” Aren’t all girls human here? Meghan wondered.
“Yes, I’ll send her down for you.”
“Thank you, Earl.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Hey, Earl?”
“Yes, Ms. Ranger.” He sounded bored.
“Is there anything I can get for you?”
The eyes on the blackboard blinked in silence, and the lips parted slightly. Earl’s voice softened. “No, thank you.”
A moment later Lani emerged wide-eyed from the tube and laughed when she saw Meghan. “That didn’t feel like anything at all,” she said.
“Come on—we’re getting the scoop on all sorts of things from my brother.” Meghan linked her arm in Lani’s, and they ran over to the table, where Alex and Sean were conversing in serious tones. The sketch pad was closed, and the pencil rested on top of it.
When the girls approached, Sean looked up. “Another friend? I’m Sean Ranger,” he said, rather importantly. “Who might you be?”
“Lani. Lani Haluki.” Lani and Meghan sat down.
Sean’s eyes narrowed yet again. “Haluki?”
“Yes.” Lani looked Sean in the eye.
“The senior governor’s daughter?” Sean asked incredulously.
Lani’s glance didn’t waver, and when she finally answered, her voice was quiet and firm. “Not anymore.”
The four sat in grim silence.
“You look young to be eliminated,” Sean said after a while.
“I’m twelve.”
“And why …?”
“Because I was influencing other children. Telling the stories in my head. Making my father look bad, I suppose. He couldn’t wait to be rid of me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?” Lani said. “I’m here, aren’t I?” Her blue eyes flashed. A million thoughts raced through her head, like how her relation ship with her father had once seemed special, and why she had been so abruptly Purged before her thirteenth year. But she didn’t voice her thoughts. They hurt too much.
Sean smiled kindly. “I see. I’m guessing Artimé will be quite lucky to have your talent.”
Lani softened a little and blocked out the stinging thoughts. “I’m sure it will,” she said.
Alex laughed. “You’ve certainly landed on both feet already.” His voice was filled with admiration. “Have you learned the way things work yet?”
“No, I took a nap. Can somebody tell me how that tube thing works? Where are we, exactly? There aren’t any doors.”
Alex and Meghan looked up and scanned the room, surprised. “Weird,” Alex said. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Neither had I,” said Meghan.
“Good observation,” Sean said. “The lounge isn’t attached to the mansion. It’s not actually a physical building. What I mean is, you can’t see it from the outside. It doesn’t take up any space. Most of Artimé is like that. Remember the small, desolate plot of land when you first came through the gate? All of Artimé is contained in that tiny area of cement and weeds and the gray, broken-down building. Yet Artimé stretches on for miles. Many years ago Marcus had just a small world hidden here behind the gates of Quill, but as more and more Unwanteds came through, he expanded as necessary and created a few artistic instructors to help him teach the children. Now it’s almost as if the world runs on its own. Though certainly,” he added, “it would disappear without a mage like him in control of it.”
“What’s a mage?” Lani asked.
“A magician. Someone who performs magic. Anyway, to answer your question, the mansion remains relatively the same size and shape now in order to keep people from getting lost, and instead of adding on and adding on like a labyrinth, Marcus created the tube so you could get to the places that aren’t in constant use. This is the most frequently used room, as far as I know. I haven’t kept up with some of the new places that get added to the tube board. You’ll have to tube it to some of the classrooms and to the theater. But don’t worry. The blackboards know everything and are there to help you if you need it.” Sean chuckled. “Some of them have strong personalities, though, so be on your guard.”
Meghan nodded. “You mean like Earl?”
“Well, yes. But he’s all right. A bit grumpy at times.”
Lani and Alex exchanged curious glances across the table as Meghan and Sean discussed Earl and the personalities of blackboards. Alex shrugged and made a face. Lani stifled a laugh.
When the brother and sister began discussing Quill and the more delicate topic of their mother and father, Lani pointed stealthily to the bar-stool area. Alex nodded, and the two slipped away to grab a snack before turning in for the night. They noticed and discussed all sorts of odd things, like creatures and students doing magic tricks with folded up bits of paper, pencils, and other things that Alex and Lani had never seen before.
What the two didn’t see at first was Samheed standing with an unfamiliar, older, sneery-faced boy near the tubes. Eventually, though, Lani noticed Samheed watching Alex through narrowed eyelids, a spiteful sort of look on his face. Startled, she poked Alex. “What’s his problem?” she whispered, pointing.
But by the time Alex turned to look, Samheed and his friend had disappeared inside the tubes.
School
Several weeks of school and life in Artimé flew by. There was so much to learn, like what acting was, and how to tell if music sounded happy or sad, and how to write—not a story, yet, but actually how to write numbers and letters. Alex and the others could read, of course. But they had not been permitted to write. They’d never seen pencils before. Only the governors could authorize a teacher to write out lessons in private, and even then they were very careful to monitor the sorts of things a teacher would teach. Mostly it was math formulas and equations. After all, to be successful in the Quillitary, one needed only to know certain things, and writing wasn’t one of them. The High Priest Justine warned that writing led to creativity, and creativity led to revolt, which was very bad.
But now, with this exciting world awaiting them, the Unwanteds dove into their studies. It didn’t feel like school at all. And while each child took classes in all the arts, each also had one particular art to focus on. For Alex it was drawing and painting. For Meghan it was music. For Lani it was writing and storytelling, but Lani excelled in almost everything she put her mind to. And Samheed was practically born to act on the stage.
While Samheed’s sharp edges had grown a little bit softer by the end of a month, his general sourpuss, angry disposition still reared up regularly. Luckily, these emotions came in handy on the theater stage when a role required it, and that seemed to diffuse much of the anger directed at others. But Samheed continued to hold some unexplained contempt for Alex, and for Artimé.
Occasionally, Samheed would be seen in the company of the same older, sneering boy. The friends found out soon enough that the boy’s name was Will Blair, and that like Samheed he was a theater focus.
Will’s face wore a permanent scowl. Nobody seemed to like him very much. He would shove people in crowded hallways and say rude things, as if his work were more important than anyone else’s.
“I think Samheed likes hanging around with Will because Will is more of an outcast, and it makes Samheed more likeable by comparison,” Meghan said, crunching on an apple at lunch one day when it was just she and Alex at the table.
“Whatever,” Alex said. “I think Samheed is just mean. He was mean back in Quill, and he’s still mean. I have no idea what his problem is, and I don’t care.” Even so, Alex got an uncomfortable, prickly feeling whenever he saw the two boys hunching over in private conversation at a corner table in the lounge and stealing glances around them or studying Alex as they whispered. It was rather unsettling.
But mainly Alex absorbed himself in his art under the instruction of Artimé’s finest painting teacher, Ms. Octavia, an octogator, and he had very little time to think about Samheed and Will Blair.
“Don’t be afraid of me, Alex,” the octogator had said when Alex first met her, face-to-face with her alligator mouth full of teeth, and half her octopus tentacles floating about, almost as if she were walking on air.
“O-okay,” Alex said, noting the location of the door in case he would need to escape.
“I’m Ms. Octavia. Mr. Today created me many years ago to cover an area of instruction in which he was not particularly gifted—the fine art of drawing and painting. Wasn’t it thoughtful of him to give me so many ways to excel in my craft?” She carried with her an eraser, a paintbrush, a pencil, charcoal sticks, a palette, and a cup of coffee, and could work on various tasks simultaneously.
Alex nodded. He glanced at her sharp teeth, gleaming in the brightly lit room. “I bet all your students listen to you too,” he said.
“Quite right.” Ms. Octavia grinned toothily.
Alex learned quickly over his first few weeks to use a pencil, charcoals, ink, and paints, experimenting with colors and depth, precision lines and vast strokes with his paintbrushes. He began by drawing and painting simple objects like a shoe, a pineapple, and a cactus, and moving on to structures and landscapes.
“You’ve got a special way with that brush, Alex, and a keen eye for color,” Ms. Octavia said, her appendages floating about her, busy with tasks. “Your paintings are your forte. I think you’re one of the most promising students I’ve ever had.” She gave an approving nod despite her stern bulbous eyes peering through the wire half-glasses that perched on her alligator snout.
With eight appendages Ms. Octavia could create vast paintings and charcoal drawings in no time at all, and she expected perfection from her students. But she had a soft spot for Alex and praised him liberally.
With all this praise, Alex was certain he would soon be allowed to begin further training. “I can’t wait to advance to Magical Warrior Training,” Alex said one day. “Do you think it’ll be soon?”
The odd look on Ms. Octavia’s face stopped him. “All in good time,” she said finally.
“Oh.” Alex looked away and shoved his hands into his pockets, embarrassed, determined not to ask the question again.
Meghan adored her instructor too: Ms. Claire Morning. Ms. Morning was a tall, striking woman of forty or so, with long, honey-colored hair and a warm complexion. She was the same person who had popped in for a chat on Meghan’s blackboard on that first day to teach Meghan the lesson with the oboe. Claire Morning was full of praise, and Meghan excelled and grew increasingly confident with her music as time passed. Meghan not only enjoyed playing the oboe and piccolo, but she loved to dance and sing as well, and her voice had such a mesmerizing lilt to it that people and creatures alike often felt compelled to stop in the hallway outside the practice room just to listen to Meghan sing.
“With a voice like yours,” Ms. Morning told Meghan after three months had passed, “I do believe you are quite ready to train magically with your art as a warrior now, Meghan. I will talk with Mr. Today about it this afternoon.”
Meghan’s face lit up. She’d been dying to start her magical training ever since she saw her brother perform magic on the day she reunited with him. “Yes!” she said. “I’ve been so impatient. So I’ll be the first of my class to start, right?” She grinned. “Alex will be so jealous.”
Ms. Morning smiled. “Your gifts are very strong, like your brother’s. He was the first of his class to begin magical training as well.” Her voice turned contemplative. “But you may want to ask him about how best to deal with your successes in front of your friends. I know he had quite a difficult time being the first.”
“Did he?” Meghan asked. “He didn’t mention it.”
Ms. Morning sat down at the desk next to Meghan’s. “It is because you are all so unused to expressing your emotions, and now that you’re allowed to do so, sometimes they can grow wildly out of control. All of you have felt the sting of not being a Wanted or a Necessary. It’s not a pain that goes away quickly, and it resurfaces sometimes without warning.”
Meghan grew somber. “You’re right,” she said softly. “But that’s why being the first feels so nice. Like I am actually … you know.” She blushed and scraped the toe of her sandal on the marble floor. “Like I’m valuable or something.” Her face burned.
Ms. Morning patted Meghan’s shoulder and tipped the girl’s chin up. “You are valuable, indeed,” she said quietly.
“Then, why …?”
“Because this will feel like another failure to your friends.”
Meghan thought about that for a long moment. She sighed, and though she didn’t want to say it, she did. “Maybe I should wait for them to catch up.”
Ms. Morning smiled warmly. “That is a very generous thing to say, Meghan. You are a mature young woman. But we shan’t wait for them. Our warriors need you, and they need you now. You must learn everything you can, as quickly as you can. The others will join you eventually—perhaps your success will drive them to succeed as well.” Her smile remained warm, but her eyes became shadowed with a hint of … something. Was it fear?
Meghan didn’t dare to ask, and after a moment the shadow passed and Ms. Morning continued on in her cheerful manner so convincingly that Meghan thought she must have imagined it.
After her private lesson Meghan left the practice room bubbling with excitement, but also a bit anxious to know how Mr. Today would respond to Ms. Morning’s suggestion. She decided she would keep her news quiet until she was certain, and only discuss it privately with Sean. Hopefully, she thought, he’d have some good advice for her. She joined the others in the last class of the day, Actors’ Studio, which they all shared.
In the midst of it she was so deep into her thoughts that Alex had to poke her in the arm when it was her turn to perform, and she was so befuddled that she flubbed her lines quite horribly, which made Samheed frustrated enough that he threw his script at her.
It hit her squarely in the forehead, and as it was Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, it was thick enough to hurt.
“Hey!” she shouted. And without thinking, she flung her script at Samheed, hitting the back of his head as he stomped off the stage.
“Why, you little …,” Samheed charged toward Meghan, his boots thumping and echoing in the auditorium.
Lani and Alex jumped up before anyone else even noticed what was happening. Alex grabbed and yanked Samheed’s arm, while Lani stood in between the spitting Meghan and the growling Samheed.
At the assault from Alex, Samheed wrenched his arm from Alex’s grasp and promptly slugged him in the eye, knocking Alex flat and causing quite an outrage with the other students, until the stage was crawling with thirteen-year-olds taking swipes and cuffing one another. The voices joined in crescendo, and the volume grew to such riotous proportions that the poor little instructor, Mr. Appleblossom, had to resort to standing on a chair and reciting a magical soliloquy so deathly boring that it not only sucked all the energy from the room, causing the students to fall limply on
the stage, but it also put some of the smaller ones like Lani into a deep sleep.
“Oh dear, oh dear, please summon Marcus now!” Mr. Appleblossom called out to the blackboard in his typical rhyming, iambic-pentameter fashion. He wrung his hands and muttered, “And quickly, please. I swear, I don’t know how …”
“I have done so already. He’s coming through tube.” The theater blackboard preferred free verse.
Immediately Mr. Today appeared and surveyed the scene, twenty students flattened, arms and legs hanging motionless off the edge of the stage or swinging lightly with what little momentum remained. “Good heavens,” Mr. Today said. “Have we had a bit of a brawl, Sigfried?”
Mr. Appleblossom, pacing and muttering still, held out his hands dramatically and cried, “Oh why, oh why, this ruthless waste on me? Am I but sand, and they the stormy sea?”
Mr. Today coughed loudly into his hand, although it might have sounded more like a laugh to anyone who was listening closely. When he could speak again, he smiled politely. “Dear, dear Sigfried, your troubles are great indeed. And yes, it’s true this sort of thing rarely happens elsewhere, but surely you understand the nature of the theater and its desperate want for dramatics … don’t you?” Mr. Today had to sort of squinch his lips together to keep from an all-out grin, which would of course lead to chuckling, which wouldn’t be good at all at this moment, he knew.
“Aye,” sighed Mr. Appleblossom, “’tis true, the action’s in the stage. However, wishes me they’d tone the rage. For what, but spells, is there for me to do to stop the madness—’fore they slug me too?” He dropped his arms heavily at his sides and gazed imploringly at Mr. Today.
“You did the right thing, Siggy.” He turned toward the stage. “Did you hear that, students? I want you all to think about your actions, because next time Mr. Appleblossom won’t be quite so kind in stopping you. If you don’t work out your differences in a proper manner, next time he’ll use a stinging soliloquy rather than the boring one, and you’ll all be really very sorry that it came to that. Is that clear?” Mr. Today didn’t wait for an answer, since the children were rather unable to speak. He turned back to Mr. Appleblossom. “Let’s hope that’s the last of it for this group,” he said quietly.