A Matter of Fate

by Heather Lyons

  I’d marveled at this and pressed for more information. My father denied me, thinking he’d perhaps already said too much. As a consolation, he reminded me that someday, when I was eighteen, I’d learn everything.

  That’s the age when we fully Ascend into our powers, the time in which all Magicals remove themselves from their current planes of existence in order to hone their crafts. Many return after years of training to their home worlds, to be sent off on missions dictated to them from a faraway Council.

  Everything about being a Magical is preordained, set in stone. From the moment of birth, a Magical learns of their craft from a Seer and whether or not they’ll join the governing Council. There’s no room to maneuver, no room to change course. Everything is dictated by the nebulous yet all-important Fate.

  I hate this. The idea that I’m not able to choose my own college, pick a major, try to find my own job, or live my life on my own terms chafes against my sensibilities.

  Meg’s giggling brings my attention back to the table. She’s super effervescent, always finding the happiness present in every situation and reveling in it. She’s a Joy, the epitome of friendliness, school spirit and peppiness. She’s destined to help foster and maintain hope within society. People can’t help but adore being around her.

  Meg, though, adores being around Alex, although he never seems to notice. He’s an Intellectual, and that means any matters worth his attention are normally scholastic in nature. This doesn’t mean he isn’t fun, because he can be, but he’s typically more analytical and self-absorbed than the others. I’m not sure what Alex’s specialty will be; he won’t find out until Ascension. I envy this last bit of freedom he has, that the majority of the Cousins have. They can still dream about the possibilities ahead.

  Not me. I’d been told early on about the road I’m to walk on. I’ll never be assigned a specific group of people to influence, nor will I ever be tasked with maintaining certain cultural sectors. I’m a Creator, and that means someday, when I Ascend and learn how to master my craft, I’ll have the power to build up and destroy civilizations at will. Or, at the very least, at the recommendation of the Council.

  I’m labeled a Creator, but in reality I’m more like a two-headed monster from ancient legends, both a Creator and a Destroyer. I’m also slated to join the Magicals’ governing Council. Refusal is absolutely forbidden. No one is ever asked to join the Council. You’re told you’re going to be a member, and when the time comes, you simply sit down in a seat that’s been waiting for you.

  This is my future. There’s an office waiting for me and a group of people expecting my input and abilities. There is absolutely no way I can say no thank you. All my daydreaming about escaping to other parts of this world is just that: daydreams. None will ever come true. No matter where I run, I’ll be found. If necessary, I’d be dragged kicking and screaming back onto my path until I fall in line.

  I used to imagine creating my own world and escaping into it, but that sort of power won’t be available to me until it’s too late. A child’s powers are limited—while we can technically carry out a number of our duties, we don’t have the full extent of our range until we Ascend.

  So, up until now, I’ve tinkered with creating small objects, drawing energy and resources from the natural world. When I was little, back when I liked being a Creator, I’d create tiny little planets to circle round my ceiling fan, alongside a field of stars I could gaze upon long into the night. I’d even create my own constellations, making up stories to go with them. But mostly, I’d create things I’d want, like dolls or tea sets or even princess dresses.

  And this disappointed my mother to no end. “What would people think,” she’d mutter as she’d collect up my supposed contraband to throw away—as if I couldn’t just whip up more in the blink of an eye—”if they knew a Creator was wasting her gifts on dolls?”

  But the kicker was, I didn’t know then, and even still don’t know, what exactly it is I’m supposed to be making, and the adults in my life don’t seem to think I warrant an explanation, despite previous lines of questioning. I don’t know if this is because I’m supposed to inherently know what I’m meant for, or if they just think I’m not worth the effort it takes to explain to me. And it’s not like I get to go to a special high school for Magicals to get these answers. I really only have my parents and the other local Magicals to teach me, and that hasn’t gone the way I’d like over the years.

  So, I don’t ask many questions anymore.

  Lizzie’s sharp elbow jars me out of the pity party I’m throwing myself. She’s a Muse. Someday soon, she’ll manipulate the creative course arts will take in society. She’d been told she’ll be tasked with overseeing a new post-contemporary phase in painting. She’s the only one of the Cousins who’s as locked into her current destiny as I am. But where I resent what lies ahead—and it is unknown to me—Lizzie relishes it—and knows it.

  I know what she’s silently asking me, what a self-absorbed Alex has failed to address, and what a lovesick Meg is avoiding. Lizzie wants to know about the shifts.

  I don’t blame her. I mean, the ground shifted below me, and that’s something that none in the Magical world can take lightly. I never thought it’d happen to me, though. Shifts always seemed to be for important people, for important events. Not for seventeen year-olds, and definitely not in high school.

  Oh, stop, the little voice says. You know Creators are a big deal, seventeen or one hundred and seventeen.

  I dutifully trail after Lizzie when she heads over to the soda machine to get a bottle of water. Refusal of Lizzie is like refusal of the Council. You just don’t do it.

  Without bothering to ask permission, Lizzie surges into my mind. Knowing it’s pointless to withhold, I release the same information I did with Cora. She mulls the memories over before grabbing a drink. “Let’s go outside,” she orders, already heading toward the door. I throw a glance over to Cora, pleading for support. She’s busy arguing with Alex, so I take a deep breath and follow Lizzie out.

  We sit down on a bench near a shady tree, a quiet place no nons are near. Most everyone is lounging in the sun, reveling in the last few days of semi-warm weather before the chill of autumn hits Northern California.

  She pulls no punches. “Tell me about this guy.” But before I can answer, she says, staring across the courtyard, “He’s a twin! Why didn’t you show me that?”

  Um . . . WHAT?

  I follow Lizzie’s line of vision and find the boy I know as Jonah talking with someone who looks exactly like him. Things shift again, not so momentously this time, but enough that Lizzie reaches out to steady herself on the bench.

  I . . . I had no idea he was a twin . . . .

  “You two okay?”

  We look up to find Graham Parker watching us. Ever since he laid eyes on her in sixth grade, Graham’s been in love with Lizzie. It saddens me to know that there’s no hope for such a reciprocation of feelings. He’s a great guy—athletic, handsome, intelligent and warm-hearted, the sort of boy mothers dream their daughters will find. All mothers, that is, except Lizzie’s, who uttered one small sentence to her daughter a few years back effectively forbidding a match with a non.

  Poor Graham. He, of course, has no idea about this. I scoot over to make space for him between me and Lizzie. “We’re fine.”

  He sits down. “You two look a little shaken.”

  I resist the urge to laugh.

  He takes off his letterman jacket and folds it into a neat square. “You girls ready for tonight?” Graham’s captain of the football team and star quarterback of the region. Lizzie and I are both on the cheerleading squad—her voluntarily and me not-so-voluntarily.

  My mother had been a cheerleader in high school and insisted on me carrying on the tradition. Lizzie naturally gravitated to such a role, as did Meg, who happens to be the squad’s captain. Cora, smart girl, avoided joining the team. It’s not that I hate cheerleading—I really don’t. It’s just . . . it’s not me
. And it’s yet another thing I’m forced to do that I didn’t get to pick. I’d rather be on the tennis team or taking art classes, like Lizzie. Or working on the newspaper, since I like writing and taking pictures. But no—I’m a cheerleader.

  Lizzie answers for both of us. “Of course.” I don’t bother attempting to answer. Graham knows how I feel. “Think we’ll win?”

  Although he shrugs, his confidence is palpable. In my mind, Graham’s got the world ahead of him—a lock on an athletic scholarship to whatever school he likes, choices of whatever subject he wants to pursue, and the ability to move to any place he fancies.

  “You’re too modest,” Lizzie coos. “I’m sure you guys will do great.”

  Graham smiles shyly at her praise. I turn my head so they can’t see me rolling my eyes at the saccharine exchange. While they continue to discuss football/cheerleading drivel, I tune them out and find Jonah and his brother sitting at a picnic table across the courtyard, surrounded by a group of girls.

  Jonah is aware of my staring right away. Our eyes connect across the distance, and I am overcome by another rush that leaves me woozy. And then his brother notices the change of attention and turns to find me.

  I very nearly pass out.

  Graham elbows my arm, effectively breaking all eye contact. I blink and swing my focus back toward my friends.

  “Go, team, go!” I weakly pump a fist into the air, because I really have no idea what the two next to me are talking about.

  “Yes—go, history homework, go,” Graham teases.

  Busted. I shrug unapologetically and glance back at Jonah. He’s here, at my school, sitting across the courtyard, with a twin, no less.

  He’s still staring at me while saying something to his brother. The twin nods, and I shove my eyes towards the ground.

  How is this possible? More importantly, what should I do? Does he know who I am? Is it really him? Am I crazy?

  Lizzie excuses herself to go get something in her locker, leaving me and Graham to sit in silence. He breaks it first by asking tentatively, “There’s really no chance for me, is there?”

  Whoa. In all the years he’s loved Lizzie, he’s never talked about it. It’s been implied by his every move around her, every glance of longing, every gentle touch. But never in words—at least never to me.

  I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I, of all people, know how cruel false hope is. Even still, I take the coward’s way. “I don’t know.”

  He nods, as if this is the answer he expected. And then, “How’s math going?”

  I don’t fight him on the subject change. “Thanks to math, I’ll never get into a school as good as you will.”

  “Whatever.” He laughs. “You’ll get into whatever school you want, Miss Honor Roll.”

  I beam, thinking how awesome it’d be if I could go to a regular college rather than just claim I would. “Nah, I’ll probably end up around here so I can help out at my mom’s nursery.” He’ll know soon enough that I’ll be off, never to be heard from again.

  “You’re meant for far more important things than just potting flowers.”

  “Flowers are important, too,” I joke. “It takes a special touch.”

  “Yeah, I know. But, Chloe—you could be anything you want. I know you’re somebody important, something big.”

  I try not to show my surprise. Or my resentment.

  When the bell rings, I give one last look toward the picnic table across the quad, but no one is sitting on it any longer.

  Chapter 3

  Jonah’s twin is in my history class. As I stare at him, I realize that, other than a small, smooth mole on the side of his left cheek, it would be nearly impossible to tell the difference between him and his brother.

  But I can tell. Instantly. I knew it the moment I came into class. I’d even been able to tell the difference across the distance of the courtyard at lunch.

  He’s sitting next to Graham, legs sprawled out as he reads a book. When he momentarily closes it over a hand so he can reach into his messenger bag, I read the title. On the Road, by Jack Kerouac.

  Interesting, the little voice murmurs.

  Indeed.

  When Graham leans over to introduce himself, I eavesdrop, paying close attention when the twin tells my friend his name. It’s Kellan.

  Why didn’t I know that? Why didn’t I know Jonah had a twin? Something in me feels like it’s something I should’ve known.

  Jonah’s twin doodles absentmindedly instead of taking notes during the lecture. I’m mesmerized by just how much he can look like his brother and still seem so completely different at the same time. Kellan’s extraordinarily gorgeous, just like Jonah. But there’s something different about his demeanor. I can’t quite put my finger on just what it is, though. It’s like . . . night and day—like this one’s whole aura radiates differently, as if his is a dark purple, whereas Jonah’s is more of a cerulean blue.

  The curiosity over their existences is so overwhelming that I decide to surge with Kellan. I know I shouldn’t—it’s wrong and sort of creepy, especially with nons who don’t know they’re being surged upon. It’s an invasion of privacy, one they’re not able to control.

  The moment I enter his mind, though, he raises a hand and rubs his forehead.

  There is no way he can feel me. Nons never can.

  But then, curiosity turns into frustration. Kellan’s nearly impossible to read, his thoughts zealously guarded. It sounds crazy, but his mind is a room filled with locked file cabinets.

  I’ve never seen anything like it before. He absolutely fascinates me.

  When I ease out of his mind, Kellan’s pencil pauses above his notebook. His head swings around, narrowed eyes surveying the entire room suspiciously.

  I’m stunned. Could he feel me surging?

  Ridiculous. Absolutely impossible.

  But why, then, are his thoughts so closely guarded? Most nons have no such protections in place. The average person’s thoughts are scattered and freely available, unless it’s a deeply repressed memory. Sometimes it can be difficult to surge with nons because it takes a lot of sorting to find what’s being looked for.

  Magicals, on the other hand, tend to only release what’s necessary during a surge, and that’s usually only done with permission, as it’s considered rude to do so without it. Plus, only Magicals can feel another person surging. Not to be snobby or anything, but nons’ minds just aren’t as evolved as Magicals’ are. So, how is it that this non-Magical boy has such a mind?

  Why do you want two mysteries? Isn’t one enough? admonishes the little voice.

  But I can’t help myself. When the bell rings, I dart over to Graham. “What a great lecture, huh?”

  My tone’s completely forced. I can’t believe Graham doesn’t pick up on it right away. But, I’m not here for a history recap. I’ve got a different goal in mind, and he’s standing two feet away.

  I stick out my hand, blocking his path when he moves to leave. In my peppiest cheerleader voice, I practically shout, “Hi! I’m Chloe! You’re new to school, right!”

  Graham’s startled by my enthusiasm, as is Kellan. He shrinks back some before hesitantly sticking out his own hand. “Uh, Kellan. And yeah, it’s my first day here.”

  His voice is moderately soft and rich, reminding me of hot chocolate on a really cold night. An overwhelming rush of goose bumps race up and down my arms, and my insides nearly melt in excitement.

  And there’s my hand. It’s warm and tingly, like it’s fallen asleep in the most pleasant of ways. He stares down at our joined hands before removing his, brows furrowed. Out of nowhere, a whole herd of butterflies beat inside my chest.

  “So, you’re new here!” I enthuse again lamely, silently cursing myself for becoming verbally stunted at his mere touch.

  Kellan’s furrowed brows give way to a bemusement. “Apparently.”

  Graham pats me on the shoulder like I’m his kid sister or something. “Chloe’s one of our best cheerleaders.�
�

  “Is that so?” Kellan asks, raising one eyebrow ever so noticeably. The level of amusement in his eyes doubles. My cheeks burn.

  I feel more than a little ridiculous. “Weelll . . . .”

  Lizzie joins us and Graham adds, “Lizzie’s also on the cheerleading team.” She fixes her gaze on Kellan and smiles warily.

  When he greets her, I can tell, without a doubt, he’s not a victim of instant Muse-worship. He’s the first guy I’ve seen to not fall prey to Lizzie’s charms upon contact. My fascination with him grows.

  Then Kellan gives me a mysterious smile. I have no idea how to respond, so I merely stare back, my heart racing a million miles a minute. His smile evolves into a sly, knowing one as he turns to leave, reminding me of the one Jonah had right after the second shift.

  In the hallway, Lizzie says, “It’s interesting how he wasn’t affected by me.”

  “Maybe you’re losing your touch,” I joke. “Maybe when the Ascension rolls around, you won’t be a Muse. Maybe you’re actually an Intellectual.”

  She laughs. “Maybe you’re the Muse. I couldn’t believe how his feelings jolted around when your hands touched.”

  I stop in my tracks. “How do you know that?”

  She tugs me forward. “It’s a little known fact, but some Muses can attune themselves to a tiny bit of emotions from those around them, if they’re strong enough. It allows us to . . . .”—and here she has the decency to look embarrassed— “ . . . . eed off of those feelings to help create a . . . uh . . . bond.”

  “And what kind of bond would that be?”

  Lizzie sticks her tongue out. “I’d bet good money Kellan’s thinking about you right now. You know, you ought to probably talk it over with a Seer.”

  “Why in the worlds would I do that?” I snap. Sooner or later, I know I’ll have to, as all Magicals tend to go to see one at some point. But, the idea of once again being told by someone about my predetermined destiny pisses me off big time. My mother’s been bugging me for over a year now to see one, citing my continued “abhorrent stubbornness and spiraling, petulant behavior” as the reason. My vehement refusals had been taken to my father, and in his perpetual state of not giving a rat’s ass about anything other than his work, he’d failed to listen to any of my mom’s arguments.