The past 48 hours had taken its toll on Rose. She was exhausted, uncomfortable, and battered. She had been so eager to get into a magic class, only to find that History of Magic was really just another history class all about memorizing dates. Even though her grandmother Betty had taught history, Rose had no appreciation for the subject herself. Maybe because Grandma Betty had called her a freak and tossed her aside when the magic started blooming. Or maybe it was just incredibly boring. Either way, she found herself somewhat disheartened at the start of that class. In fact, all of her classes were pretty lame so far.

Rose finished the first assignment--matching major historical figures to their correct civilization--in five minutes. While her classmates struggled over material she had learned in elementary school, she looked over her schedule, tucked into the brochure she had received at yesterday's dinner. She had this same teacher two more times today. Ugh. Triple boring.

And she was enrolled in two classes that terrified her just from the names: AP biology and algebra 2. Rose had never taken a first algebra, so she certainly didn't feel ready for a second. And AP, she knew, meant college-level. They clearly had not seen her transcripts. Rose doubted whether she would survive at Whitman.

The room had gone suddenly quiet. Rose looked up, alarmed. Mr. Bennett was staring at her like he was waiting for an answer. He was going to have to wait an awfully long time; Rose still had not been able to produce a word. Just like when her mom went crazy--the sheriff couldn't get a word out of Rose, and she spent almost a year in her grandparents house before she started talking again. It was like her throat was blocked by some unseen force.

"H-hm."

Rose tipped her head to the side to show she didn't know what the teacher wanted.

"Please come match Hippocrates to his correct civilization, Rose," Mr. Bennett said, clearly repeating himself.

A pit of nervousness settled in Rose's stomach. She stood tentatively and walked on shaky legs toward the front. Mr. Bennett handed her a slick blue whiteboard marker that smelled vaguely like gasoline. Rose stepped to the board and wrote out the simple answer, Greece. The other students began whispering and giggling, and Rose felt herself going red. She checked the question, her answer. It was correct. What had she done wrong?

Seeing her discomfort, Mr. Bennet reassured her, "You're correct, Rose. Here at Whitman, we use magic to write the answers on the board."

With two deep breaths, Rose wiped the board clean with one of the spells she learned from Marie, then made the marker rewrite the answer. The class fell silent. Now what? As she trudged back to her desk, head down, Rose heard a chorus of comments.

"She didn't speak."

So?

"How did she do that?"

"She didn't speak to do magic!"

"Freak."

Rose wished she could be invisible. She made a note to look for a way to do that tonight at the library. Mr. Bennett redirected the students to question six, and Rose glanced up gratefully, catching her teacher's smile and nod.

I'm one of those kids, she thought as she walked to her next class, who thinks that lunch is her favorite subject in school. Lord help me.

««•»»

Alastair stayed twenty paces ahead of the rest of his class--even Maggie, who wandered away with her phone in hand--on the way to Advanced Potions and Poultices, his fifth period class and first magic practicum of the day. He had spent three of the last four classes watching Sarah snuggle up to Mason, imagining just how close they may have gotten in private if they were this gropey in public. The thought of it sickened him, but he couldn't force his mind to go anywhere else. It was a rather inauspicious start to his school year. In fact, he couldn't really recall a single thing from a single class. But P-n-P was a subject he needed to do well in. He refocused his mind as he entered the class, setting his books in the front so he wouldn't have to see Sarah's rejection, just feel it.

As a student officer, Alastair had extra pressures on him. He needed to achieve good grades in all his classes, he needed to set a good example for other students, and he needed to assist teachers whenever possible. So, he stepped up to Mr. Jackson and offered his help.

"Welcome back, Alastair. Did you have a good break?"

"It was all right. I took some classes at NYU again."

"Right! I remember that. How did it go?" Jackson pointed Alastair toward plastic tubs of supplies to distribute, which he did easily with OM, boxes floating to tables.

"The classes were difficult, but I liked the challenge."

"That's good," Jackson said emphatically. "What did you take?"

"Chemistry and Literary Analysis."

"Impressive. That chemistry will come in handy this year. How many college credits do you have now?"

"Well, with the 12 from AP classes, 36, I guess."

"No way! That's more than two semesters already done. Incredible, great job, Silver." Alastair reddened with pleasure at Jackson's praise.

Students began filing into the room for class to begin. Alastair finished setting up, then turned his attention to the lesson. Jackson had an easy, calming approach to teaching. Rather than raising his voice or punishing students who stepped out of line, he could bring them back to focus with humor and reason. Most students at Whitman Academy loved his classes and worked harder to do well in them as a result. Today, Jackson's lesson centered on the overview for restorative potions and poultices, which was the topic for the entire quarter.

"All right, guys. We spent last year learning some of the basics of mixing solutions. This year it gets really good. We're going to get into some serious potions, stuff that could really turn someone inside out."

"Literally?" asked Mason, looking up from his phone at his peers, like this idea should appeal to all of them.

"No, you psycho. Haven't you heard of figurative language?" Jackson shook his head. "Phone."

Mason turned red, but laughed right along with the rest of the class as he slid the phone into his pocket. Alastair loved seeing Jackson put Mason in his place. Okay, karma. I'm in, he thought.

"Since some of the work we'll do later in the year will be dangerous, though, seriously, we're going to spend this first quarter covering medicinal solutions. That way you know how to fix it when you break something. Notice I said 'when' not 'if'." The class let out another laugh, this time with a hint of nervousness.

They reviewed the types of solutions they would be creating this term, which included Sanguine Solution for blood loss, Argentum Nitricum for anxiety, Calendula Cream for open wounds and pain, and many others. Alastair smiled to himself, having already made and applied Calendula Cream successfully just last night. Then he remembered why he had needed to, and his smile faded.

When he tuned back into what Jackson was saying, though, his grin returned.

"So the Giants batter is holding the bat in front of his crotch like a wiener," Jackson mimicked the motion with his hands and imaginary bat. "And the Mets catcher crouched down, ya know, and he's signaling to the pitcher," he crouched down like a catcher making signals like they do in baseball, "but from where we were sitting, the angle we had, it looked like the catcher was..." Jackson laughed, winked, and raised his eyebrows.

The class roared with laughter.

Then Mason shouted, "Jerking off!"

Alastair rolled his eyes. This moron always has to ruin the innuendo, he thought.

The only downside to having a hilarious teacher like Jackson was that he often wasted a lot of time talking about unrelated things, which was good if you didn't want to learn the material. But Alastair did, and he was disappointed when class ended without any opportunity to begin mixing the potions. So much for the practice part of "practicum."

««•»»

As Rose exited another history of magic class with Bennett, he said goodbye to her warmly.

"Twice in one day," he smiled.

She nodded, trying not to be annoyed that he had pointed this out.

Looking around at the crowd, Rose noticed that she had been with this same group all day. Except when she had Bennett this morning. The second class was the same as the first, but it revolved around modern times rather than ancient. She shook her head. Clearly these kids had all already taken the morning class, and she was behind.

On the plus side, Rose had managed to survive her other three classes without incident, without being noticed, and still, without a word. She had collected a ginormous stack of books and homework, though.

Now she had intermediate incantations with Mr. Cain. Rather than magical history or theory, this class was a practicum, and they spent the entire period attempting different spells. The "intermediate" in the title suggested that today was a review of whatever they must have learned in prior years. She was worried she would be lost, but watching her classmates, she realized she could watch someone perform an incantation then duplicate it pretty accurately, just as she had when she watched Marie. Even without speaking. But she was aware of the stares of her classmates as she went through the activities in silence, while they all had to utter the incantations aloud. She wanted to escape and was grateful when lunch rolled around, and she could hide in the crowd.

The second floor lunch room was a buzz of kids. Little kids were everywhere, clearing their tables using magic and heading out towards the classrooms. It was like a rainbow had exploded inside the dining hall. Uninterrupted, uncontrolled blooms of magic swirled from the children's hands. Rose enjoyed watching them bloom; she had never seen anyone else go through it, and it was totally beautiful.

Rose had been living with her father's parents in San Luis Obispo at the time of her blooming. The Regitanos had no magic in them, and it had really freaked them out to see objects move without anyone touching them. They never considered that it might have freaked Rose out too. And it did. A lot. At seven years old, she didn't understand what she was doing or how she was doing it, but she knew that it was definitely her doing.

And it's not normal to have lavender goo flow from your fingers. Many times she became convinced that insanity had won the battle for her mind, like her mom, especially since non-magical people can't see the blooming mist. She kept insisting to her father's parents that glitter dripped from her fingers. After years of unsuccessful visits to a barrage of psychiatrists, the Regitanos cast her out, beginning her scattered and sometimes traumatic trek through the foster system.

Rose watched the kids scamper away, then grabbed her food and sat at the same table she had at breakfast. She read while she ate, oblivious to the rest of the room, tackling the novel given out in English. Lord of the Flies. She was skeptical, but it was a better option than thinking, and five pages in, she was hooked. And thirty pages later, the chimes to end lunch startled her from her plot-induced stupor.

She had Myths of Magic, the third class with Bennett, but the dean had asked her to come by during this class today, so instead of following the masses back towards the classroom wing, she headed towards the administration side with a much smaller group. As she climbed the stairs, she spotted the tall boy who had helped her last night. She didn't know much about him, but the sight of him here, in the lunch room, in the halls gave her comfort, like maybe she would be okay.

"Did you see Sarah's new haircut?" Maggie grinned as they headed upstairs for leadership class.

"Of course." He was going to miss the way Sarah used to flip her long hair off her shoulder. But now, she did this new cute thing--she would tuck her short hair behind her ear, and it would immediately fall back in her face.

"Gawd, you're such a stalker," Maggie laughed, shoving him lightly.

Alastair saw everything there was to see about Sarah, even the things she tried to hide. Like the fact that she still cared about him in spite of everything that had happened. In spite of what Mason Warner wanted. Mason and Alastair were polar opposites, and if Mason had his way, Sarah would never speak to Alastair again.

But unlike Mason and his crew of imbeciles, Maggie was drawn to Alastair. And she was magnetic to all others. Everyone loved Maggie, and Maggie adored Alastair. So, he had become accepted over time by most of the students. Only Mason and Tommy, and their two knuckle-headed tenth grade followers, the Davids, still treated him like an outcast. No one else participated in the shit they pulled, but no one stopped it either because Mason was the big man on campus. Big ego on campus for sure, just because he had a dominating presence on the basketball court. Now even Sarah had become vicious when they were around, sharing in their cruel jokes.

And this was really the crux of the matter. Sarah had chosen them over him, even after she saw how they tortured him; she had betrayed him for his tormentors. It was partly his own fault, he knew. That was really why it pained him so. He had brought her hatred on himself.

"Hello, Alastair, Maggie. We have an awful lot ahead of us this year." Dean Whitley's greeting brought Alastair back to the present.

"Yes, Dean. We can handle it," Alastair replied, his thoughts still drifting to the past.

"Yes, we can. Listen, we have a whole stack of mailers to go home to the parents. Can you two get started?" Her attention was pulled to the other student officers coming along, whom she directed to other tasks around the large room.

Maggie sifted through the stacks of papers, looking for the correct order. Then Alastair began an assembly line of floating, folding papers that slid themselves into envelopes. He glanced up to see the girl he had helped last night coming through the door.

She was tall and thin, too thin, as if she were undernourished or neglected. She had long dark hair that fell straight around her shoulders and a wary, untrusting expression on her round, young looking face. He couldn't tell whether she was all right. But she smiled at him, the sort of unconvincing smile his mother often wore. As he watched her, his folding papers started colliding mid-air, and he had to refocus on his Object Manipulation.

"Rose, hello. I'm Dean Whitley." Rose nodded, recognizing her as the official somebody from the day before who had given her the schedule, showed her to the dorms, and introduced her to the school at the opening dinner. "Well, of course, you remember. All right, come this way." Whitley led her to a small round table near the window overlooking 7th Avenue. Rose let her eyes follow a taxi until it was out of sight.

"In order to catch you up with everything, I need to know about your blooming." Rose continued to stare out at the street below. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Alastair counting stacks of envelopes off to her left. "I heard from some of your teachers that you haven't spoken a word all day. I know this school can be an adjustment, and I know that you've had some recent... uh... difficulties with your aunt passing away?"

This lady doesn't know the half of it, thought Rose, her discomfort coming to the surface in a frown.

"Would you be able to express yourself better on paper?" Seeing Rose's slight nod, the dean went on, "Ok. Let me grab you some."

Rose conjured paper out of the stuffy air, as Marie taught her. The dean pursed her lips in an expression Rose couldn't quite read and slid a pen across the table. "Please describe your blooming in as much detail as possible. Include your thoughts, feelings, experiences, reactions of others. Everything you can think of."

Class ended before Rose was finished. "That's okay. Let me have what you've got so far. You can finish later and give it to me tomorrow." Dean Whitley smiled, and Rose found herself returning a tight-lipped smile as she handed over the pages. There was something about the dean that made her feel reassured, like she actually cared. Nevertheless, Rose had no intention of telling her anything about what occurred two days ago, two months ago, seven years ago. She would never tell, not anyone.

Alastair fell into step next to Rose as she left the Leadership room. "The dean is all right," he said quietly.

Rose had to tilt her head back to look in Alastair's blue eyes, to nod so that he could see she agreed. This was Rose's first chance to see him clearly. He was so tall, over six feet for sure. He was so tall, it looked like his body was made of nothing but arms and legs. Long and thin, like a spider. But not as scary. Not at all scary.

His skin was pale like a fresh snowfall. He had dark hair that was short in back but hung in his face, and when he flicked his hair out of the way, Rose could see blue eyes so bright they seemed to be glowing, like the display of her parents' old alarm clock. She inhaled quickly, the brightness of his eyes quickening her pulse. He was cute, but not in a traditional Hollywood kind of way. In a bookish kind of way. Really cute.

Rose smiled lopsidedly and shrugged. Still unable to speak, she turned away, her face burning with too much blood.

Then it occurred to her that he might tell the dean about her wounds, and she panicked, turning back.

"What?" But, Alastair realized what as soon as he asked. "No, I didn't mean that you should tell her what happened, or that I am. I just mean... she's nice." It sounded so lame after he'd said it. But he wanted to reassure her. Alastair had grown up in a home of secrets, abuses covered up with make-up and lies. It was no longer a question, concealing Rose's injuries from the authority.

Rose relaxed her face and looked back down at her feet as they walked. She continued alongside Alastair in silence as he made his way toward Arts. There was a heaviness sitting on his chest as he stopped in front of the door. If he wasn't going to tell anyone about her injuries, he would have to keep an eye on her himself and make sure she was all right.

"Hey," he implored her to look up. "Are you okay, are you in pain?"

She shook her head no.

"Okay, good," he took her answer as if it were to the last question only. "Well, this is my class."

Alastair stepped into the familiar arts room, loosening his tie and removing his jacket as he went. It was always a cacophony of colors and sounds. When Whitman Academy says "arts," they really mean all the arts. The ballroom-sized space was filled with musical instruments, drawing tables, pottery wheels, easels, carving tools, swatches of fabric, everything someone would need to be creative. There were students from fifth grade up, all levels of ability, all with their uniforms rumpled or partially discarded. The navy blue Whitman uniform was simple, stuffy, and constricting, exactly the opposite of this room. In here, Alastair felt unrestrained, like nothing he did could be wrong, even if it wasn't really right.

Alastair immediately moved to one of twenty drawing tables and sat down to sketch, shaking hands with older teens along the way, former students who had returned to make use of the studio space and to help out with the class.

Rose stood in the doorway Alastair had just entered, unsure where to go or what to do, overwhelmed by how much was going on in the room, when a tiny elderly woman with a short, boyish haircut approached her. She wore black from head to toe, but the clothes were covered with clay handprints and paint splatters. She was obviously the Arts teacher.

"Come in, Rosie, dear. Come in." She wrapped her little arm around Rose's shoulder to usher her into the room. It had been eight years since anyone--anyone--had called her Rosie. "I knew your great-aunt Marie very well. We go back further than my brain can at this point!" She chuckled affectionately and squeezed Rose's shoulder, which she had to stretch to reach. Rose smiled down at her wrinkled face. She had smiled a lot today, but she didn't feel the joy that action theoretically represented. It was starting to wear her out, and considering she hadn't slept in a couple of days, Rose was suddenly amazed at how long she had lasted. She gave in to the comfort of this little old lady's touch and allowed herself to be steered to the music section of the room.

Mrs. Cowdrey sat Rose at one of a half dozen grand pianos, then walked away, fluttering like an aged butterfly from one student to the next, patting shoulders, whispering encouragement, touching pages. Rose wasn't sure what she was supposed to do; she had never played the piano. She had never played any instrument. She just watched the rest of the room with tired interest. Alastair had his head down, hair in face, scribbling on a large paper. He wrinkled his forehead as he worked, and he had charcoal on his cheek from his blackened fingers.

The room was deafening from the mass of kids and only grew louder when that jerk Tommy from the dining hall began playing drums. The rhythm was somehow soothing, though, hypnotic even. Rose worried she wasn't supposed to touch the instrument before her, but after a while, logic argued with her. Everyone else is. She sat you here for a reason.

Rose reached her fingers out toward the piano. She heard music unfolding in her mind before her hands connected with the white and black keys. As she pressed them, a symphony of sorrowful music echoed in the room, far more instruments engaged in the song than just the piano, playing with no players. Rose recoiled in surprise, sure she was experiencing insanity again. Mrs. Cowdrey circled back toward Rose, hummingbird hands clapping crisply.

Alastair looked up from his drawing to see where the burst of melancholy music had come from, and who had made Cowdrey chitter like a squirrel.

"Yes. Yes, dear. Again. Again. Yes, yes," she chirped.

He watched as Rose raised her eyes to Mrs. Cowdrey's excited face. Cowdrey was about as tall standing as Rose sitting, which looked sort of ridiculous, he thought.
"You have the music in you. Let it out. It will free you."

The mournfulness of the song that emanated from her fingers as she began to play again was no surprise to him. It sounded like blackness. It tasted like fear. She played what he sketched. It had weight. It was heavy. It was back-breaking. Melancholy. Morose. He understood.

Rose had never heard anything so sad in her life. It reminded her of her mother's face and the smell of her pillow; it felt like the blankness of her mother's stare before she was carted away. It was loss brought back to life just to die again as the song faded to an end.

Chimes signaled the end of class. She could no longer hold back the tears, and she hid her face as they fell, not wanting anyone to see. Students streamed out, their school day over.

"No. Don't hide." Mrs. Cowdrey placed a cold hand under Rose's chin, and drew her face up. It was such a gentle gesture, in contrast to the way Avery had pulled her face up when they first met. Rose smelled the perfume on her wrist and looked into the tiny teacher's face-tears streaked down wrinkled cheeks. "You need to feel whatever you're feeling. No hiding in here."

Rose stared into those wise crying eyes, nodded, and began to weep--for her parents, for her brother RJ, for Marie, for herself--deep, shaking sobs. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder that became a hug. She turned towards the embrace and buried her face in folds of white shirt.

Alastair held Rose as she wept, wishing there was magic to heal this kind of pain.