Fear University

by Meg Collett

  A few other students glanced back at me, but I ignored them and pulled out my Fear Theory textbook, which made my desk creak when I set it down. I seriously hoped I didn’t have to learn all this in one semester. I’m smart, but I never graduated high school, and all that I’ve learned, I’ve learned on the streets, surviving day to day.

  From the front of the room the professor turned around. “Miss Andrews, I’m Mr. Abbot, and hopefully you are aware that this is Fear Theory.” The class snickered at his remark, which made him grin an oily little smile. “We will review today for you, but only today. From now on, you will be expected to be prepared and ready for lectures and all tests.” He raised pencil-thin eyebrows and sniffed at me, like I smelled of day-old trash. “You will receive no special treatment in my classroom. Got it?”

  Some of the students bowed their heads and coughed into their hands, masking the word “civvie” in the cough. I gritted my teeth, flexing my wounded thigh to remind myself that I felt no pain. I nodded toward Mr. Abbot with a single, violent twitch of my chin.

  “Let’s get started then.” Mr. Abbot turned back to his chalkboard and began scrawling illegible words across the surface, the chalk clicking and scratching. Students scrambled for their pens and notebooks. “Fear is nothing but a reaction in our bodies, a release of chemicals, an autonomic response.” He drew a rough sketch of the brain on the board and labeled parts and pieces that processed fear. I rolled my eyes. Did these people really think they could control fear by understanding how it happened in the brain?

  “The stimuli initiate a release of chemicals that causes our bodies to react. Our hearts beating faster. Our palms sweating. Eyes dilating. Adrenaline. One frozen moment where we can do nothing but feel everything. Feel afraid. Human evolution is linked to those who feared the right things. But what’s worse than fear itself?” Mr. Abbot asked the class, calling the question over his shoulder.

  One girl up front said, “Anticipation.”

  “Correct. The fear of fear itself. For example, the fear of pain is worse than the pain itself. By allowing ourselves to feel fear, we are giving our power away. So, for the sake of Miss Andrews’ ignorance, how do we best kill ’swangs, class?”

  In robotic unison, the class said, “We teach ourselves to not be afraid.”

  * * *

  Period Two. Aswang Psychology.

  I was better this time. No stomach dropping. No hesitation. A kid like me didn’t need long to learn appearing weak was way worse than actually being weak. The bottom of the food chain sucked. Trust me. If I was relegated to being the outsider here then I would be fierce.

  Expecting the next professor to be as big an asshole as Mr. Abbot, I threw back my shoulders and frowned, waiting for the civvie mockery. But the professor looked up from her desk where she graded papers while the students settled in and smiled. Her straight, dark hair and tan skin with wide, round hazel eyes was exotic in a similar way to Sunny, but while Sunny was half Filipino, this professor was clearly descended from one of Alaska’s native tribes. She was, quite simply, the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

  She leveraged herself up from her desk and said, “You must be Ollie. Good to have you. I’m Peggy Coldcrow, but all my students call me Peg.” She stuck out her lower left leg with a crooked grin, and sure enough, it was nothing but metal and a swiveling rubber foot. Only then did I notice the swelling bulge in her very pregnant belly.

  “Morning,” I said, feeling a tiny flicker of hope at her warm greeting.

  “Take a seat wherever. We’re going to continue with our scheduled lesson today, but you seem to be a smart girl. I’m sure you can get the gist.”

  From her, I took it as a compliment. She didn’t study me or act like I was an alien. She treated me like anyone else, like I’d been in her class all semester. The rest of the class took her example and didn’t mock me as I made my way to the back and took a seat. There were no snickering or darting glances, which made me wonder if Peg had warned the class or possibly threatened them, before I came in. After my first period with Mr. Abbot, I appreciated it.

  “Let’s pick back up with our discussion yesterday. Will someone remind me where we left off?”

  “Immortality.” A young guy spoke without raising his hand. Peg settled onto the edge of her desk with a sigh.

  “That’s right. Thank you, Liam. Pregnancy brain, you know.” The class laughed warmly, and I relaxed farther into my seat. “Who wants to add to that?”

  “We were discussing what we know about a ’swang’s lifespan, and if their magic makes them immortal.”

  “Or if not magic,” another student freely argued, “then they might have evolved to live out both the lives of their dog form and human form.”

  The magic versus evolution debate again. I raised my brows, listening as the class continued a rigorous debate for both sides. Peg moderated and took occasional notes on the board, but I realized this class was primarily dedicated to letting the students form their own opinions, which I appreciated, even though it sounded like a ’swang’s lifespan was another gray area no one knew much about.

  As the conversation continued, I thumbed through the pages of my textbook that I’d pulled out of my bag. My eye caught on one particular drawing of two tall aswangs on a cave’s wall. From their mouths dripped red blood and black saliva. Their hands were human, but from the tips of their fingers grew long, slashing claws. They rose up on the back legs of a dog, but their chests were that of a man’s. They were frozen in mid-lunge, snapping their jaws at each other’s throats, their faces locked in vicious snarls.

  I took a deep breath and forced my attention away from the image and to the board, where Peg wrote out more notes on ’swang mortality. I’d missed a lot of school when I was younger jumping from one foster home to another. The curriculum each school taught was always different and eventually I got so far behind that it didn’t matter anymore. After all those years, finding myself in a classroom again terrified me. What if I was too stupid to keep up? My pen shook in my fingers as I began taking notes in my lopsided, illegible scrawl.

  By the end of class, I’d filled so many pages of my notebook with words I didn’t understand that my hand cramped continuously, and I had to jerk my fingers back into position. When the bell rang, I was the last one to leave.

  “Ollie?” I looked up from gathering my books. Peg squeezed herself into the desk in front of me and stretched out her legs with a sigh. Her remaining ankle was the size of a cantaloupe. I grimaced; never, ever would I be pregnant. No way in hell would I have a kid, and possibly screw them up as badly as my mom had done me. “Standing up there the whole period makes my leg swell up like crazy.”

  “Were you a hunter?” I nodded toward her missing leg.

  “I was. Had it bitten clean off.” She tapped her metal kneecap and grinned at me.

  “You killed it though?”

  “Knife straight through the eye while he munched on his little snack.”

  A strange thing happened: I laughed. Like really laughed for the first time in a long time. Peg watched me with her grin still in place. I liked that her injury didn’t bother her, that she could joke about it. I liked it a lot. If I stayed and became a hunter, I wanted to be like that, like my battle wounds were a mark of honor.

  “So, Ollie.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s interesting, you being here. We’ve never had a civilian come to the university before.”

  “Trust me.” I clenched my fists. “I’ve heard all about it.”

  “Let me guess . . . Luke?” I nodded, feeling my blood pressure rise, but Peg laughed. “The Aultstrivers are one of the Originals, and Luke believes in the purpose of the old families.” She grew serious as she continued. “Maybe his ideas of honor and tradition would work if we had more children coming to the university, but we don’t. We need fresh blood that hasn’t been burdened by this war for centuries. If that means bringing in civvies then I think we should.”

 
Her opinion put me further at ease. She was on my side. “Why are there fewer children? Are they dying?”

  “Some of them, but that’s going to happen. This is a dangerous world. We know there’s going to be deaths. Mostly, families aren’t having as many kids, or the kids they do have don’t want to fight. You can hardly blame them.” She frowned down at her belly, her hand working across the mound in soothing circles that almost put me to sleep just watching. My mom—before she left—used to rub my back like that. I told myself I hated the memory and shoved it down before it fully formed in my mind. “I can’t imagine sending my child into a war where I knew he would most certainly die. Our lifespans are short, Ollie. Forty is old in this world if you’re a hunter.”

  “Maybe he could teach, like you do.”

  The stress eased out of her face as she looked back at me. “Maybe. The point is, don’t let all these old-school, old-family types scare you off. And if any of these spoiled little brats give you hell, you come to me, okay? Not Dean.”

  She caught my attention; my eyes narrowed. “Why not him?”

  She studied my face, her pause stretching out. Finally she said, “He might not understand. Let’s leave it at that.” Peg stood, pressing the heel of her palm into her back and stretched. “You better hurry. You’ll be late for your next class.”

  * * *

  My third period class was more like a study hall in the library with tutors available to help first-years with the more normal “college” classes, like chemistry, history, economics. We were expected to pass basic competency exams in a range of topics, which worried me. Using my wits and fists didn’t bother me; I could pass anything that included fighting if I was willing to sacrifice my body. But trying to understand opportunity costs or the paradox of value in economics scared the shit out of me. By the time I made it to the cafeteria after third period, the skin under my eye twitched like a meth-head five days out from a fix.

  When I managed a thought that wasn’t jumbled from the overload of information I’d received today, I returned to my conversation with Peg. She didn’t want me telling Dean if I had any trouble with another student because she said he wouldn’t understand, which told me she didn’t completely trust him. Seeing her and Luke’s reaction to Dean reminded me that I needed to keep my guard up around everyone. I couldn’t let these people make me feel too comfortable. Just because Dean said the things I’d waited my entire life to hear didn’t mean I should trust him completely.

  Sunny met me outside the cafeteria with a startlingly wide smile and a high-five, which I half-heartedly participated in. “What’s cookin’, goodlookin’?”

  “Are you always this happy?”

  Sunny laughed. “I take it you’re having a good first day?”

  “Everyone has been very welcoming.”

  Sunny grimaced, but I knew she understood. “That bad, huh?”

  “Definitely not that good.”

  With a shake of her head, Sunny opened the cafeteria door and we went inside. Walking into lunch was the culmination of walking into every first class on every first day all at once, and after the start to my day, feeling stupid and stressed out from all I’d have to learn, I wanted to sink into the floor, but I forced my chin up a fraction and told myself to get over it. The round tables teemed with students, all of whom abruptly stopped their chatter and stared at me. From a table in the middle, Jolene leaned into Allison and whispered something that caused the entire table to laugh.

  “What is her problem anyway?” I jammed the heel of my hand into my eye socket and rubbed.

  Sunny followed my dagger-like line of vision and said, “Oh. Jolene. She’s like a bad STD you can’t get rid of. Itchy in all the wrong places, if you know what I mean.” Sunny’s face contorted funny, like she was only just realizing what she’d said. I let out of snort of laughter at her discomfort. “I mean, not like I would know, and I’m totally not saying you know anything about STDs. Oh my gosh. Forget I said that. Whatever.”

  We made our way to the front of the room, where fresh, hot food steamed up the glass on numerous buffets. All-you-can-eat style. My stomach growled as we picked up little square plastic trays and slid them down the rails alongside a practical cornucopia of food. I’d never seen this much food in one place. Between it and Sunny, my day was infinitely better already.

  “So she’s always been like that?” I asked, nodding toward Jolene. I didn’t care if she knew we were talking about her.

  “I call it the ‘only child syndrome.’ The world’s her oyster and all that jazz.”

  I reached for the fried chicken, piling a couple pieces onto my plate before I moved on to the mashed potatoes and macaroni. I added some steamed vegetables and salad to my plate, earning me an astonished look from Sunny, which I ignored. A girl’s got to eat, and with my wicked metabolism, I kept my lanky, boyish figure with ease. Though if I wouldn’t mind sacrificing my metabolism to have more of the soft, sweet curves that Sunny had.

  “Do you have any siblings?” I asked once we found an empty table. I kicked a chair back from the table and set down, ready to dig into my food. I was starving.

  “Two older brothers.”

  “Both hunters?” I asked around a mouthful of potatoes.

  “They were.” Sunny took a long drink of water. “Seth, my oldest brother, died last year. Killed by a ’swang.”

  I froze. “Christ, Sunny. I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t look up from her lunch. “It happens, but Henry stopped hunting after that and became a doctor.”

  “And you still came here.”

  “My parents gave me the option,” she said, which surprised me. “They’re pretty progressive like that. But I wanted to come. It seemed like the best way to honor Seth. That was before I realized I was a coward.”

  “You’re not a coward.”

  “I set the fudging fear sim death record, Ollie.”

  I stabbed some salad with my fork. “It’s a stupid record.”

  “People call me the Cowardly Lyon.”

  Knowing exactly who called her that, I cut my eyes toward Jolene’s table, where she held court like a queen. Her table was crowded and spilling over with zealous students, anxious to bask in Jolene’s popular glow. “If an STD could have only child syndrome, she would be it.”

  Sunny snorted broccoli through her nose.

  * * *

  After lunch, my fourth period class was Weapons Theory. I had no clue there could be so many ways to kill a person, but by the size of my textbook, there were plenty. Looking around at all the swords, guns, and one drool-worthy stingray whip that practically sang my name as I walked by it, I grinned from the back of the classroom. I would like this class. I wanted to know how to use every single one.

  After Weapons Theory, I wove my way across the prison, around the dome, and into the west wing for my fifth period class: Combat Theory. The classroom was a large amphitheater with all the students in first-year besides the advanced ones like Sunny. At the front of the room hung a large screen with notes and pictures projected.

  Like in Weapons Theory, my Combat Theory professor didn’t acknowledge me. He went on with his lesson while taking a few pointed jabs at civilians. Meanwhile, the students treated me with general disinterest and subtle disdain, but even they did little to dampen my enthusiasm for these classes. For the first time today, I didn’t feel stupid because violence was a language I understood. Now, if they would let me hit someone, I would be the happiest girl in the world.

  * * *

  I didn’t get to hit anyone.

  Sixth period was the first-year’s version of gym class, an introduction to fighting, which meant for once, I actually got a class with Sunny. But being with Sunny meant I was also in the same room as Jolene and all her cronies.

  With the entire class in the glass gym, there were about eighty of us. I understood now why everyone acted so concerned about the war. From my seat in the bleachers—observing—I did the math. If each year of students con
sisted of this many people, from first-year to fifth, taking into account the fact some students wouldn’t specialize or graduate to become hunters, the amount of actual fighting graduates would likely be dead in a single year. These were the people who would be protecting the world in a few years, and as I watched their clumsy, uncoordinated attacks, I understood the general concern.

  No wonder they needed me.

  I cringed as one gangly redheaded guy took a misplaced kick to the jaw. He spat out a bloody confetti of teeth and was quickly escorted to the ward.

  They really needed me.

  * * *

  After sixth period, I headed to the girls’ locker room crowded with blue lockers and communal showers. I changed into my workout clothes after I’d consulted my schedule for my locker number and combination. When I walked back, standing next to a large punching bag suspended from a beam in the vaulted ceiling, Luke waited with his back to me.

  I seriously considered sneaking up on him and stabbing him in the ear. Considered it enough that I looked around for an impaling device.

  “You won’t find one.”

  I jumped at the sound of his deep, booming voice that filled the airy gym like he had a megaphone. He turned toward me with an impassive look on his face, arms crossed, toe of his sneaker tapping an impatient beat. Clearly, he couldn’t read my mind, but I guess I wore my aggression on my sleeve. Shocker.

  “Maybe I’ll slam your head into the floor until your brains spill out like old, congealed ketchup.”

  If my graphic description alarmed him or amused him, he didn’t show it. He uncrossed his arms and stretched out his neck. “Fine. I’ll give you five minutes.”

  “For what?”

  “Clearly, you have unresolved issues—”

  “You stabbed me!”

  “—with me. So I’ll give you five minutes to work out your frustration. And then we start real training.”