June felt like she had a heart attack coming on. She’d finally found a school that she liked, and now she was going to be expelled. What was she going to tell Ernest? Would he be able to graduate without a partner? Had she just royally screwed him over? God, the worst part was that she’d have to tell him that he’d been right, and she shouldn’t have antagonized Ida Mae.
Her mouth had gone so dry, she could barely swallow.
“Would you like to know why you were selected to attend the Academy? Certainly, a sharp girl like yourself must have wondered how it is that you rose to the top of the list.”
“I really want to say that I’m not that cynical, but you’ve got me. All of the research and anecdotal evidence said that only Alphas get the accelerated inside track— Alphas, and the more pernicious teenage Betas that find themselves in hot water. I’m neither. Between my powers and my grades, I shouldn’t be here. Unless my transfer records threw up a red flag.”
“Ah, yes. Your record. Your mother took great pains to walk me through it during the home interview.”
June groaned, hiding her face in her hands.
“Please tell me that you’re kidding.”
“I should think that you know me better than that, my dear,” she said with a calm smile.
June groaned again, louder, and sank face-first into the table. The cool wood didn’t even begin to leech all of the heat from her tingling cheeks. She limply pushed her cup toward Amira, a drinker beseeching one more round from the bartender.
“You have a complicated relationship with your mother, I take it?” The Queen laughed, pouring her a second cup of tea.
June sighed deeply.
“Our relationship is built on mild resentment, mutual disappointment, and the unfortunate fact that once upon a time, I fell out of Marcy’s vagina.”
“So yes, complicated would be a fair assessment, then. What made the meeting strange was how obsessed your mother was with presenting you in the worst possible light. Marcy wanted me to know all the intimate details of your personality flaws, so that I would know exactly what I was ‘in for’. She told me about the events that got you expelled from Amherst Prep. The series of incidents at Menlow Heights. Why the headmistress of Beecher Creek Academy had to wear a wig for six months.”
A boa constrictor of shame wrapped around June’s chest squeezed a pitiful squeak out of her.
“I can explain?”
“No need.” She curled her long, graceful fingers around her cup, sipping her tea. “You were unbearably bored, I imagine.”
It was a strange thing, talking to someone who genuinely got it. Usually, people just assumed that she was mean for the sake of meanness. June saw it as surviving in environments where being smart and fat and female made her a target.
“I’m just too bright and crafty for my own good, sometimes. And is that such a crime, really?” After a beat, she added, “Okay, so yeah, it usually is at least borderline criminal in nature, but if we’re going to line up all of the possible crimes that I could commit, being a sly vixen hovers toward the Monopoly Jail end of the Crime Spectrum. I’m not claiming to be an angel here, but I’m not sure I get how my academic record was grounds for the fast-track.”
“You’re here because of your mother, June. Marcy took my hand and said, ‘Look, my Junie has been hell on wheels since day one, but she’s not a bad kid. She’s my kid, and it kind of kills me to see her like this. I don’t know how to make her happy. I’ve tried. Maybe she’s too smart to be happy. I don’t know. But if your school would make her feel normal, take her. Please. Maybe she wouldn’t be so angry if she felt normal.’ I could not deny her.”
June bit down on the knuckles of her first two fingers, trying to cut the urge to cry with her teeth. She blinked hard, staving off tears by reminding herself that her mascara wasn’t waterproof.
“Marcy really said that?”
“Her exact words.” Amira said, very gently. “Are you happier here? Do you feel comparatively ‘normal?’”
June could only nod, swallowing thickly.
“The big blond putz kind of...” Oh god, her voice was squeaking. It did that when she got worked up, and June hated it. “...he kind of— he has that effect on people.”
“It is a hereditary trait.” She paused, savoring a sip of tea. She was either really serious about her tea, or she was giving June enough time to staple her composure back together. “I’m interested in your assessment of Ernest’s abilities.”
“I’m not exactly a leading expert on super strength,” June said, not positive she liked where the Queen was going with her questions.
“But you’re more than qualified to speak on his leadership potential,” Amira said, cucumber-cool. “Surely, you noticed the change of handwriting on your graded strategy papers.”
June had noticed the change, but she hadn’t known what to make of it. Mr. W was just as much of a teddy bear as Ernest, so she couldn’t help but mess with the Commander a little. To her, it’d been obvious that he was reading off someone else’s lesson plans in strat. It’d amused her how much he’d reminded her of a high school coach struggling with his own subject, so naturally, June had started testing him on her pop quizzes. She went above and beyond, just to see if he could keep up with her.
He hadn’t. He’d passed the baton to someone who could keep up with her.
June stared. She should have put that one together on her own.
“That was you?”
“Yes. People follow John out of love and respect. He can rally the masses and command their attention in ways I cannot, but for all his charisma and drive, he lacks all but the most basic understanding of military strategy. People expect it of him, so when the public looks to him, he looks to me. Poor, sweet John was at his wit’s end with you. You are a strategic genius, June. I say this as fact, not flattery.” She smiled, fondly and absently. “So. Your assessment?”
“Just between you and me? Ernest couldn’t lead a kitten out of a paper bag. He’d try. He’d try really, really hard, but he’d end up needing a rescue party.” June looked down at her teacup. She thought about the look on his face when he’d carried Maks out of the woods. She thought about how he’d stood up at their study group, putting together an inspirational call to action without even realizing that he was speechifying. “But he’s still going to be a hero for the history books. Tights, mask, catch-phrases, the whole shebang. Like, I see it sometimes. I see little flashes of it in him. He’s going to inspire people. And I mean seriously inspire them.”
“The Wright men are good to their core. I don’t think that I need to tell you that Ernest Wright has what many would call an august future ahead of him. It’s up to you whether or not you will walk down this path as his partner.”
“This is a big deal, isn’t it? Because it feels like a big deal. I don’t know if— if I’m the person for this. For him. He’s a big deal.”
“He certainly thinks that you are the person for him,” the Queen said, her dark eyes bright with something June couldn’t quite put her finger on. “He chose you, in fact.”
June sloshed her tea over the side of the cup.
“He did what?” She demanded, mopping up her spilled tea with a napkin.
“When the new third block students came in, he asked to be your partner. The duos had already been determined, so switching his original partner with you went against the board’s recommendations for him.”
June tried to say something to that, but her words were getting clogged up. Ernest telling anyone no was rare. And he’d told the board no. Because of her. If it hadn’t come from the Queen herself, June wouldn’t have believed it.
Amira set down her teacup. When she caught June’s eye, she didn’t let her look away.
“You say that you see flashes of something inspirational in him. Is it so difficult to imagine that he sees something in you that inspires him as well?”
What could Ernest have seen, though? If he really had pulled the strings neces
sary to get her as his partner, he had to have done it before the forum meeting. That meant that he’d made his decision after only having talked to her once.
Hadn’t she yelled at him? June was almost positive that she had yelled at him.
“Well, when you put it like that, it’s hard to argue with you,” June said, carefully wiping her eyes before they could brim over. Her eye makeup had turned out awesome that morning, and she didn’t want to mess that up before lunchtime. “But you know that, I’m sure.”
“If you are willing, I’d like to begin tutoring you. I can supplement your education with material that has been especially useful to me— everything that you will need to know in order to do for Ernest what I have done for his father. I will challenge you to push what you believe yourself capable of, June. You will be asked to make sacrifices.”
“Such as?”
“Next year, you will need to drop both your elective as well as your study hall.”
“My fifth period?” Realizing what she meant by that, she looked up at Amira, blinking. “Wait, you want to see me for three hours every day?”
“Yes. For tea, and...advice, for lack of a better term. When I said that I will challenge you to push what you are capable of, I meant it.”
June took a deep breath. She let it go— and with it, the last of Old June. She grinned, then.
“Bring it on.”
“Wonderful,” Amira said, standing. “Let’s begin by discussing the reading I would like you to do over the break.”
“I could go for some light reading,” June said, finally feeling okay enough to try eating one of the scones. It tasted like something that Ernest had made.
The Queen wandered over to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. She began pulling out books at random. Thick books. Heavy books. Books that, when stacked and dropped on the table in front of her, thumped heavily. All of the dishes rattled. June choked on her mouthful of lemon poppy seed crumbs.
“Yes,” Amira said, patting the top cover. “Just a bit of light reading.”
°
“Think of it as a learning experience,” Mal said, rooting around his dresser to find his misplaced cufflinks. He only had to wear them once a year, if that, so they tended to wander. For the first time since he’d retired the moniker, Mal was a little wistful for his Little Bird uniform. He was much more comfortable in kevlar than in any other kind of suit.
Sprawled out on Mal’s bed like an especially dejected starfish, Zipporah sighed.
“I just don’t see how me gettin’ all gussied up has a thing to do with training,” she groused. “Sometimes, I think you say things like this just to rope me into doing boring stuff.”
“Acting is one of our core classes for a reason. The yearly bash is a practical application of acting.” Ever annoying and underfoot, the terrible beast crawled into one of the drawers that he had left open, making himself comfortable among Mal’s socks with a smug purr. “Down, Qitt.”
Qitt growled at him. The cat disappeared beneath his bed, but not before taking one of his running shoes hostage. He dragged it under the bed by its laces, and Mal just watched it go. His mother was unshakably convinced that Qitt was a good cat, so he’d given up on trying to expose the monster’s true nature. It was surprisingly difficult to win arguments with cats, and Mal had learned that trying to do so was a waste of his time.
Zipporah sat up, dangling her legs over the side of the mattress and kicking restlessly.
“People won’t think-that-we’re-together-as-in-dating-as-in-couple-as-in—”
“I doubt it,” Mal interrupted, stopping her before she gathered steam. “It’s expected of us, really. The upper-ranked Alphas are supposed to bring their new partners to the event. They say that it is an honor to be invited, but really, all we do is function as advertising for the Academy.”
The Pre-Holiday Posthuman Bash in New York was billed as the social event of the year, for baseliners and posters alike. It was packaged as a party, though Mal personally thought of it as a meat market. Notable Alphas were the only ones given free passes to the Bash. Posters had four career path options upon becoming fully licensed public heroes: law enforcement, the BPHA, freelancing, or sponsorship. Most went into law enforcement, as it was steady work with set hours; there was always a need for postercops. Freelancing through headhunting agencies was more lucrative, but riskier. The BPHA came to qualified posters with jobs, not the other way around. For a fraction of a percent of posthumans, sponsorship was an option that was open to them. If their skill sets were marketable enough, they could gain funding through companies or private sponsors.
The Bash was where interested wealthy parties scoped out the current crop of Alphas, as well as the up-and-comers that would be available for hire post-graduation. The peacock pageantry had never set well with Mal. He’d despised going to the Bash even before he’d heard his father’s take on the sponsorship system, so he was absolutely dreading it this year.
“I dunno if I have anything fancy enough to wear.”
“Don’t worry. Mother will take care of it for the both of us. I don’t even pretend to know how to dress myself.”
Clothes were a waste of his time. He was perfectly happy wearing his hooded sweatshirts and long pants, but the Queen wouldn’t hear it. She refused to let him wear his training clothes to the Bash, so without a formal uniform to wear as the Kinglet, he was doomed to a suit and tie for the evening.
Zipporah laughed, loudly enough to startle Qitt out from under the bed. He puffed up, alarmed, and then growled at Mal. The awful animal blamed him for everything.
“Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve seen you wear anything but training duds— not once this whole year.” Zip said, rolling over onto her stomach. “Dang, can you even believe it’s been that long?”
It felt as though the year had gone by in a blur, yet he also felt like he had been partnered with Zipporah for much longer. She had become such a fixture in his life, he had trouble imagining going into the next year without her. What had started as his battle had turned into a shared goal. He never could have anticipated how much his view of her would change.
She was an average partner, really. Middling in combat, fair in scholastic work. But she was an exceptionally good friend, and that was a skill that Mal was trying very hard to learn.
“We began the third block at a disadvantage. I would say, in fact, that our standing hasn’t seen a significant improvement in the year we’ve been partners.” Finding his cufflinks, finally, he rolled them in his palm. He wanted to say this correctly, so he took his time. “All that being said, we have improved. I’m asking you to come with me to the Bash because I want the public to know that you are my partner. Next year— this year— will be ours.”
Zipporah nearly knocked the wind out of him with the speed and ferocity of her sudden hug. He dropped the cufflinks in surprise as she seemingly endeavored to squeeze the life out of him through his pores.
“You’d better believe it, boss.”
The metallic sparkle of his cufflinks caught Qitt’s eye. The cat pounced, batting at one of them until it rolled beneath his bed. Mal sighed, watching it go.
°
“Hey, Marcy? I paid for the cab with the incidentals card. Hope you don’t mind,” June called, huffing her hair out of her eyes. The elevator was out, so she’d had no choice but to carry all of her baggage up six flights of stairs. Once upon a time, that would have been an impossible feat. Now, it was just an unfortunately sweaty one.
“Welcome home, Junie! You look like you’ve lost weight!”
Marcy was in the other room, which meant that she hadn’t even looked at her yet. The weight exchange was an automatic part of their ritualistic greeting. It was like every time she came home on break, Marcy hoped that she’d walk through the door looking like she’d stepped out of an extreme makeover montage. Every time, she was disappointed.
June wasn’t the slender nymph that Marcy had hoped to craft in her own image, bu
t she’d gained tone in the year since she’d left for Oregon. June felt healthier— stronger— and it was kind of nice. Not good enough for Marcy, but still nice.
Marcy was a size four, but June swore that her sole source of nutrition came from the grapefruit juice that she injected into her eyeballs twice a day, as per the orders of her crackpot diet guru of the week. Ridiculous fad diets were Marcy’s favorite hobby.
Her mother was in the kitchen, the biggest smile on her acid-peel-shiny face. She was in a short silk robe, her bottle blonde hair pinned up so that it would fall in seemingly effortless waves. If Marcy was primping, she had plans for the evening.
“’Dear June,’” her mother said. June was so annoyed, it took her a moment to realize that she was reading a letter aloud— a letter that had been addressed to her. “’If the postal service has done their job, this letter ought to beat you to New York. So welcome home, Junebug! I’ll bet the Big Apple has missed you. I— ‘”
June’s stomach dropped into the peep toes of her kitten heels. Only one person called her Junebug and got away with it. She jumped for the letter, trying to snatch it out of her mother’s hands.
“Opening someone else’s mail is illegal!” June said, miming eager gimme fingers at her. “Snooping is not a maternal right!”
“Who is this precious young gentleman?” Marcy asked, holding the letter pressed flat to her chest. “Does my Junie have a super admirer?”
“No. I have a partner with separation anxiety.” June grabbed the letter, crumpling it in the process. She stuffed it into her purse. “Don’t open my mail. Okay? I’m not twelve anymore.”
“I know you’re not. My little girl is growing up into a big, beautiful woman,” Marcy said, an unnecessary emphasis rounding out big. “That’s why I re-did your room. You’re going to love it. It’s high drama.”
June’s bedroom had stopped reflecting her personal growth and childhood achievements when she’d been around nine or ten. Once she’d started spending the lion’s share of her year in boarding schools, her room had turned into a time capsule. It’d preserved the pastel pink-loving, chubby little princess that she’d been as a girl.
The Posterchildren: Origins Page 34