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.
“So, Sera, have any boys caught your eye?” Ray nudges my arm with his. But while I’m choking on my cheesecake, Bishop responds for me.
“Oh, don’t be shy, Sera. Don’t you fancy that boy, the British chap—the one with the dreamy voice? Isn’t that what you called it?” His smile goads.
“Yeah, he’s cute, but I don’t know,” I say, playing along.
“You mean Turner?” Sam asks seriously, looking between us. Bishop and I freeze, shocked that she would dare mention Turner’s name.
“Turner? I thought you were dating Bishop?” Mona questions, looking confused.
Ray looks at me and then turns his scorching eyes to Bishop.
Oh, man. This is horrible, like my nightmare come true.
I didn’t tell Mona to keep our relationship secret. She’s so liberal and hippie that living with your boyfriend in high school probably seems perfectly acceptable to her.
I hide behind my hand, deflating fast.
“No. Actually, Mona, Ray,” Bishop says, clearing his throat. “Sera is, in fact, interested in Turner as Sam mentioned.” Bishop’s lips twist over the words. But he spits them out, for my sake, for his, for whatever will get us out of Ray’s crosshairs.
“I know I started this topic,” says Ray, “but now it’s making me uncomfortable. The thought of you being in a dorm with
boys
—at this age!” Ray shakes his head. “Do we need to have the talk again, Sera?”
That’s when my balloon pops, and I die of absolute embarrassment.
My father, asking me if I needed to have “the talk” in front of my friends. My boyfriend! Someone please, shoot me now.
Sam holds her napkin over her lips, stifling a giggle. Bishop raises his eyebrows and looks out the window, pretending he didn’t hear. And Mona, well, she leans toward me over the table, asking if I want her to give me a refresher lecture.
Absolutely humiliated, I push myself away from the table, throw my napkin at Ray, and stalk away from one of my worst evenings ever.
•
Even though I spent most of the weekend avoiding everybody, I’ll have to find the strength to make it through the first day of classes. The memory of two nights ago will not leave my mind. I fixate on the expression on Ray’s face when he found out I’m dating Bishop. And then the look on Bishop’s face when Sam said I
liked
Turner. Mona tried to make me feel better on the ride home by telling me she had a book I could read if I was too shy for
the talk
.
Mortified, I huddle into my blankets and underneath my pillows. I just want to die.
At least I’m done with Ray’s visits for the foreseeable future. At this pace, we’ll only reunite every few months. The next torture session won’t come until my birthday in November or winter break if I’m lucky.
Something slides under the door. I reluctantly peek out from my pillow cave. A shiny gold envelope sits on the floor.
I groan, toss off the comforter, and roll out of bed. I grab the envelope and run, jumping back onto the mattress, pulling the warmth and protection of the blankets around me.
I rip open the envelope and pull out an invitation. Decorative swirls roll around the border. Pristine calligraphy requests students’ presence in the main arcade after lunch today. Obviously Gabe sent this invitation. He’s in charge of the school’s functions.
I take a quick shower, apply makeup, and then peruse my closet, inspecting my new clothes. New uniforms hang neatly at the front of the closet. They’re similar to the year before: a crisp white shirt with little puffy shoulders and a plaid pleated skirt. A hooded cardigan and dark vest hang behind those, allowing two alternating looks. I walk deeper into the closet, eyeing the additions. I run my finger along the edges of the fabric and garment bags then stop on one outfit in particular. The one the
other
me wore the day I saw her in London, crying.
Whatever makes me cry in London is going to happen this year, in this outfit. I pull the hanger out and walk into my room. On tippy toes, I hang the clear garment bag from the closet door. I roll up the plastic bag to take a good look.
Nothing out of the ordinary pops out, a hint to why I’ll be crying. I’m not sure why I thought seeing the clothes up close might give a clue. I lift the skirt, inspecting the leggings beneath them and then open the pockets, checking the suede jacket.
Empty.
I leave the outfit on the door, hanging. I wonder how many times I’ll have to wear it before that day in London will come.
I dry my hair, slide on a pair of tights, my new uniform, and a pair of laced ankle boots. When I walk out of my bedroom, Bishop’s eyes meet mine. He places a cup of tea and a poetry book on the counter and comes to me, instantly wrapping his long arms around my back. He leans down and brushes his lips to my forehead. I melt into our hug.
“Good morning,” he says. “I wasn’t sure you would ever leave that room again.”
“Thought about it. I just want to forget the other night, if that’s okay?”
“What? Are you saying you didn’t have a lovely visit with your father?” Sam chimes in, walking into the living room. She grabs the remote and turns on the TV.