When I cross the drawbridge into the city, the temperature is neither hot nor cold. The courtyard, vibrant with life again, smells of smoldering wood. Students mill about, making me realize how lonely I was all summer.
I stroll past the Tower Building with the clock on its facade and into a dark archway that winds away beneath it. After several hundred paces, the vintage lantern at the entrance of the Defense Arts training rooms sputters to life.
The wooden door with iron findings slides open to a room as big as a gymnasium. Wood pillar posts support the high-reaching ceiling. Rusted chandeliers hang from long chains in three spots above, casting reflections onto the glossy wood floor. The decor style resembles a mix of old castle and high school basketball court. When school starts again on Monday, students will train here in the art of fighting.
The rooms I prefer to use flank both sides of the gym. They’re smaller, with foam-padded floors and mirrored walls. But most importantly, they’re private. I use the room farthest away. Turner has equipped that one with the defense hologram machines. It’s also the room students use the least, where I’m less likely to be found.
My sneakers squeak as I walk across the waxed floor. The door to my private room detects a presence as I near and slides open. I walk through and it glides shut. The industrial lights buzz and flicker to life.
I step into the middle of the room to stretch. After a few lunges and toe touches, my gaze locks onto the mirror. I practice intimidating expressions that I might give an attacker. When I’ve sufficiently riled myself up, like some kind of football player before a big game, my excitement surges at the thought of fighting a new hologram. I’ll have to thank Turner later, secretly.
“Seraphina Parrish. Hologram on,” I say to activate the four machines mounted around the room. Their green lights blink, ready for the next command.
“Defense hologram number thirty-seven,” I say the words slowly and clearly. Thirty-seven will be the newest routine. I hope Turner programmed something monstrous.
The machine speaks back, confirming the routine. “Hologram number—thirty-seven. This routine requires—no weapons. Safe words are—‘you win,’” the machine intones in a robotic voice. The safe words will end the routine, turning the machine off.
One minute later, a countdown begins. At the end, a hologram appears out of a vibrating haze of electrified dust. The vision, facing away, solidifies into a humanlike mass, then turns.
The boy stands six feet tall, a foot taller than myself. This in itself isn’t a big deal; I’ve fought taller. When he looks at me with eyes that look almost blue today, I don’t know if I can truly fight him, because the hologram looks exactly like Turner.
I evaluate him. My face flushes with embarrassment at his shirtless physique. His workout pants hang low, barely grazing his hipbones. My gaze wanders up his chiseled torso as he confidently strolls forward. That’s when I see something that makes me want to scream. My black rosary swings from his neck, brushing his sculpted pecs.
Hologram Turner stops. “See anything you like?” he asks amusingly and looks down at himself. I roll my eyes at his pathetic cockiness. He reaches for the rosary, holds it up, examining it.
“I’ll make you a deal.” The hologram paces, sputtering electricity. “If you can beat me in a match, I’ll give you your necklace back. But not until then.” He grins. “Until then, it’ll stay right here.” He pats his chest. “Right next to my heart.”
A rage builds inside. At the chance of winning the necklace, I don’t even give him an opportunity to finish his thoughts. I charge clear across the room, blazing with fury.
Turner doesn’t expect me to fight him. I know because there’s a flash of surprise behind his eyes when I collide with his body, knocking him to the floor. I reach to rip the rosary off his neck, but he grabs my wrist first, halting it in midair. He’s stronger for sure, so it won’t be easy to win.
He uses the momentum of the struggle to roll me over until we’ve switched positions. He straddles my waist, my hips locked between his thighs. Both my wrists are above my head, secured against the floor. My struggling only makes him smile.
He leans in close to my face so that we’re sharing the same air. I want to turn my face to the side to avoid eye contact, but it would only be a sign of weakness, and I have to at least appear stronger than him.
“Not going to be as easy as you thought, is it?” he says with a crooked smirk.
“Sure it is.” I smile, and then head butt him.
Hologram Turner falls away, instantly releasing me to grab his forehead. I scramble to my feet, and he quickly recovers and does the same.
“That was a cheap shot!” he shouts.
“It’s not going to be as easy as you thought, is it?” I jab playfully.
This time he doesn’t respond, but I can see he enjoys the banter as much as I do. He crouches defensively, but after we circle each other a few times, I can see that he won’t attack first. That would not be the gentlemanly thing to do.
I twist sideways with my weight on one leg, then lash out to kick his stomach. He grabs my foot before it makes contact and throws it aside. Without missing a beat, I kick him again. Punch. Punch. Jab. Push. Kick. He only responds to block me, like some kind of lame punching bag.
I bounce away from him, out of striking range. “Well, you’re not being any fun! Fight back!”
He crosses his arms.
“I knew it, you’re scared! Ha!” I tease.
“Hardly!” He laughs. “You’re five feet tall and eighty pounds.”
“One hundred and seven and all muscle,” I correct and throw a few punches in the air.
He waves me forward with his fingertips.
I smile, strangely excited, and advance with another blow. This time he responds, taking a swipe. I duck and punch him back.
Our hand-to-hand fight is fierce, slightly hot, and completely unrelenting. An hour passes and I’ve finally, which much difficulty, coerced him into a submissive headlock. I’m about to finish the fight, to win the necklace, when the room’s door suddenly slides open.
“You win!” I scream and release him to quickly turn off the hologram machine.
Hologram Turner turns and whips my body to the floor and stands above me. His smile gleams with triumph, right before his body dissipates, rolling away into the air in blue electrical flakes.
Completely annoyed, I roll over to see who has entered. If they hadn’t, I’d have won the necklace by now.
Volta Swift, my Defense Arts instructor, stands at the door. Everything about the woman is striking, from her dark skin that contrasts sharply with her short and spiky white hair, to her muscular body, and her eyes…especially her eyes. She’s the only person I’ve ever met whose blue eyes edge into the realm of violet, like mine.
“The professor said you might be here.” She walks across the floor and helps me up. “Did you win?”
“No, unfortunately.”
“That’s too bad. The professor mentioned that you’ve been working very diligently this summer with his new invention.” I hope he hasn’t mentioned it to anyone else. Although I know that the teachers don’t consort with students, so the ones who are privy to my intensified defense lessons—like Terease, the professor, and Ms. Swift—wouldn’t say anything to Bishop. They’d have to go out of their way to do so. The real problem is Turner.
“I came to see one of the machines in action for myself. Do you mind if I have a go at it?”
“Go ahead.” I gesture to the floor.
I stand against the wall as she walks into the middle of the room. She activates the machines by her name.
“Volta Swift,” she says clearly. The machine scrolls noisily, looking for advanced holograms that have been programmed especially for her. “I’d like to use the holograms for training this year,” she speaks over her shoulder.
“Holograms found,” the robotic voice announces. “Hologram number—one— requires—a sword. Safe words are—‘you win.
’ You have—one minute to retrieve your weapon. Countdown starts in—one minute.”
Ms. Swift walks calmly across the room and chooses a sword from the overflowing weapons rack. She inspects the blade, flipping it from one side to the other.
“Starting in—thirty seconds,” the machine intones.
Ms. Swift walks to the center of the room, swiping the sword through the air several times.
“Starting in—ten seconds.”
I slide my back down the wall and stretch my legs out before me, anxious to see her in action. Until now, the professor, Turner, and I have been the only ones to use the holograms.
“Hologram number—one—starting now.” The machine beeps five times. Through a cloud of haziness, a ten-foot-tall, two-headed, dragon beast-man appears in front of her. I jolt slightly. The beast is more hideous than anything I’ve ever fought. Ms. Swift crouches. The smile on her face reflects in the surrounding mirrors. In some sick way, she probably finds this fun, much like I do.
The beast man whips its long necks around the ceiling. Clutching his sword with his puke-colored scaly claw, his lizard eyes zero in on Ms. Swift, and he squares his body. Hulking forward, his sword swipes at the air in unison with his two bobbing heads. The beast spits a raging fire across the room and Ms. Swift stops and expertly dives out of its searing path.
The fight is a dance. Ms. Swift’s athletic grace carries her as she methodically carves chunks of scaly flesh from the beast’s body. With each slice, yellow blood the consistency of mustard spews from its wounds, eventually covering the entire floor. With a final blow, her silver sword rams into its heart. The beast hisses the sound of a million lizards and topples to the floor with a thud. The broken body swirls away into electrified dust particles, sucking up every drop of yellow blood with their exit.
She turns and faces me with the same smile on her face as when she began. A gleam of sweat glistens on her skin.
“Why didn’t you chop off its heads?” I ask.
“The beast was a species of the Hydra family. If you sever their heads, they’d grow back, twofold.”
I stand and adjust my clothes. “You act like the beast is a real thing.” I chuckle, grab a towel hanging on the wall, and toss it to her.
“It is,” she says seriously and pats the towel across her forehead. “Don’t you have Mythical Studies this year?”
“Yes, but the word mythical implies, um, that it’s a myth.” I watch her walk to the door. It slides open.
She turns and says, “Yes, mythical.” A wry smile touches her face as she adds, “To the Normals.”
::13::
Dinner with Ray
Why do I find it difficult believing in mythical animals? I believe in Animates and time travel. Those two are anomalies in themselves. Our histories claim we descend from angels, genies, or a million other options, depending on whom you ask. I can believe in mythical creatures too—right?
I try not to overanalyze the theory. If they’re real, I’ll have to let my brain accept it and move on. That’s how I deal with my sci-fantasy life these days.
I rush to my room after watching Ms. Swift fight the two-headed dragon beast. Not because I’m excited, in fact, I’m very underwhelmed by what will be taking place this evening—dinner with my dad, Ray.
He’s been in Chicago all day on business. He left a message with the office saying that he’d pick me up at six this evening with Aunt Mona. He also requested that I bring my roommates. The fact that he thought of this himself makes me nervous. I wonder if he suspects that Bishop and I are dating.
Even if he’s savvy enough to notice that, I decide I won’t give him any evidence to latch on to. When Bishop returns to the apartment, I give him strict instructions not to come near me the entire evening. I tell him to pretend I’m his sister, which shouldn’t be too difficult since he has one. He doesn’t like the idea of hiding our relationship, but I eventually talk him into it—with some persuasive pleading and kissing.
•
From the moment the elevator of the John Hancock Tower begins its rumble back and forth through the shaft, eventually passing the eightieth floor, I’m convinced that my fear of heights and my life are actually people, and the two are conspiring against me. Together, they play evil tricks daily, figuring out how they can constantly push me into situations where I have to deal with my fear of heights. This is one of those times.
I want to reach for Bishop’s hand, to curl up next to him the way I did on the London Eye. Being near him gives me the courage to do what normally seems terrifying. Within fifteen minutes of Ray picking us up, I already want to break my own “no-touching rule” and accept the consequences.
Bishop stands on the opposite side of the compartment in a conversation with Ray, discussing the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe. I knew Bishop would appeal to Ray’s intellectual side. They have the love of the written word in common.
My body crams against the wall behind Aunt Mona. I clutch the railing for dear life, breathing in the stagnant air. My ears pop twice, and I almost lose it. I’m okay with a short elevator trip, but one that seems to take ten minutes is out of the question. I’m starting to wonder if I have claustrophobia, too.
The door opens to the ninety-fifth floor, and a whirl of fresh air rushes in. I inhale, pushing past everyone on my way out. Sam starts to make a snide remark, probably about how I’m not a proper lady. Instead, she turns up her nose and glances over at Ray, apparently deciding to hold her tongue.
A man in a suit greets us. He leads us to a reserved dinner table, right next to the window. Bishop pulls out the chair farthest away from the glass, and I quickly sit. This puts me at the head of the table and two seats away from Bishop. He secretly winks at me as everyone settles into his or her seats.
The place is fancy, with lots of glass, too much glass for my taste. The whole city of Chicago opens up before us at the edge of our dinner table, making my stomach queasy.
As the waiter takes our order, I keep pushing on the ground with my foot to make sure that the floor isn’t going anywhere. I can’t fight the thought that the whole building might tip over, and we’ll slide over the edge and into Lake Michigan. I grab a dinner roll from the basket and shove it in my mouth, feeding my anxiety with carbs.
When I’m finally over my fit, I realize that sitting here with everyone just doesn’t feel right. Ray isn’t a part of my Wandering world, so I don’t know what to talk about with him anymore. Right now, he’s busy being awed with Sam’s long repertoire of extracurricular activities. If Ray requested it, I’m sure she’d jump up to give a rendition of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Gag.
Bishop offers me a smile, probably knowing exactly what I’m thinking. I sink into my seat, trying not to smile back.
“So, Sera, excited about the new semester?” Ray asks, and pushes his wire-rimmed glasses farther up his nose.
“Sure, of course, who wouldn’t be,” I say facetiously and place the napkin in my lap. The waiter walks around, filling our water glasses.
“I just want to tell you how proud I am of you.” Ray leans over and slaps me on the back. “The fact that I haven’t gotten a call from the principal’s office in several months just tells me that it was the right decision to send you to the Academy.”
Wow, a compliment. Sort of. I roll my eyes.
“Were you a troublemaker, Sera?” Bishop teases.
“No,” I sass. Then I add, “Just misunderstood,” under my breath. And ignored, and undervalued. I look over at Ray. He’s probably thrilled to have me out of his receding dirty-blond hair. Now he can be at his girlfriend’s beck and call at all hours of the day.
“I know it’s early to ask, but where are you all thinking about going to college?” Ray glances around the table. He’s doing his fatherly duty by asking the universally used questions for teenagers.
Sam speaks first, probably because she wants to show off. “I’d like to find myself in New York, splitting my time between Columbia University and the Joffrey
School of Ballet.” She sits straight in her chair with her shoulders back, gently buttering her bread and sets her utensils down with perfect etiquette.
I snort. Ray flicks his eyes to me and then back to the table at large.
“How about you, Bishop?”
“I’m undecided, sir,” he says respectfully. But I know that isn’t the case. We’ve all already discussed going to a wandering university together.
“Sera, where are you thinking of attending?” Sam asks, aiming to put me in the hot seat.
“Um…” I stall as the waiter moves around, placing salad plates on the table. “Well, I was thinking of taking a semester off before college, so I could travel for a few months,” I say seriously. That would be my goal if I were a Normal.
Ray drops his fork from his mouth. It lands, rattling his salad plate. He drags his napkin across his face, wiping the smile away. He places both elbows on the table; his lips pinch like a fish.
“What?” I ask.
“Seriously, Sera. Why can’t you be more focused like Sam, here? She’s younger and already knows what she wants.”
I flash a look to Sam. She’s tilting her head and giving me the you suck eyes.
“Well, I think a few months of travel would be a wonderful idea, Sera,” Mona chimes in. “It would be an education in itself, Raymond.” She attempts to soothe him by rubbing his shoulder.
“Well, we’ll see. We’ll talk about that later, young lady.” He picks up his fork, stabs a piece of lettuce, and tosses it in his mouth, chewing angrily.
The evening is awkward and annoying, especially with Sam aspiring to win the affections of my father. Which isn’t very hard to do, considering he would love to have a child just like her. The two are a perfect fit in pretend familyland.
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