She licks her thumb and forefinger and sorts through the stack of papers she’s holding until she pulls one out. I don’t want to take itthe red marks on it make me positively ill. My sweaty fingers pinch the pages. The grade is written at the top, circled, highlighting my shame. D minus.
“I studied . . . ” my words come out in a stammer. I want her to know I’m not a total loser.
“Smarter, not harder,” she says in a clipped voice, then glances at her watch. I feel as though I’m an inconvenient road bump, keeping her from getting to the things that really matter. “You held such promise in the beginning, but you have shown a lack of focus.”
Oh, I’m focused. I’m so focused my eyes are near bleeding and my brain wants to explode almost hourly. But all the hours I’m putting in just aren’t helping.
“Perhaps if you spend a little less time at the Poison Apple, and a little more time studying, you’ll stand a chance at passing my class.”
I can’t speak for the lump in my throat, but I mutely nod. How did she know I work at that bar? Even though I love working there, I suddenly feel like dirt in the dragon’s presence.
My fingers curl into my palm to keep from nervously playing with my septum ring. I may be tatted and pierced up, but my makeshift armor isn’t cutting it right now.
“I urge you not to waste the long weekend and put some actual effort into your studies. Or if that is too much for you, perhaps you need to consider another major more suitable to your lifestyle. Or maybe even another school.”
My tongue is sandpaper. Before I can work up the nerve to say anything, she turns on her heel and marches away, gunshot heel clicks echoing through the quad.
The paper wrinkles in my hand. Does she know I flunked out of my last school?
Realizing I’m wrecking valuable feedback I desperately need, I try to smooth the paper along my thigh, then stash it in my backpack.
I readjust the hood to make sure it covers most of my hair again. I feel too exposed, too noticeable. I thought I’d gotten over this habit of retreating into my shell months ago, but the stress is getting to me. Between my shitty grades and those guys hassling me in the library, my jaw clenches so hard my ears hurt.
For a split second, I was worried those boys recognized me as the actual granddaughter of Grandma from ‘Grandma’s House,’ the highest rated streaming show and lifestyle brand.
To me, she’s just Gigi.
Eloise Rose Rogers became a worldwide celebrity when she launched Magic Morsels. The baked goods allow humans and non-magics to have a taste of magic, literally. Most every kid and professor on campus is packing Magic Morsels in their bag when they need a pick me up. Or if they want to have a little fun.
I’m the heiress to the biggest magical legacy this world has ever seen. But I want nothing to do with magic, and I don’t want anyone to know where I come from. I simply want to live the little human life of obscurity I carved out for myself.
I overhear two girls chatting as they walk by. “I bet they don’t have to deal with this boring-ass shit in magic school. I wish we were levitating teacups instead of learning about another epically boring-ass war.”
I resist the urge to chime in that magic students levitate teacupswhilereciting facts about boring-ass wars.
Over the summer, I transferred from the Fairy Fine Arts Academy to Boston University, a human college. And by the grace of the fae lords, I have yet to be recognized. I’d always kept a low profile and my grandma protected me from the media as best she could. But I still get a phantom icy drip down the back of my neck at the mere thought of my cover being blown.
Not even my best friends know the truth.
Before I could find a secluded corner to set up again, my phone vibrates.
When are you arriving?
Not,are you still coming?Not,do you need to stay at school to study for finals?
My Gigi knows I will use any excuse I can to avoid going home for the long weekend and phrased it so I can’t worm my way out of it.
She was understanding enough when I wanted to leave the magic world and live life as a regular human. But she doesn’t knowallthe reasons why I left.
I type a quick response, and then veer off course, heading toward my apartment.
Hot shame and sharp pain slices my heart as I think of one of the biggest reasons I left. My need to get something hard between my legs is only going to worsen over the next several days.
I can only pray to the sweet lords of fae that when I go home,hewon’t be there. Or I’m scared I won’t be able to control myself.
Chapter3
Over the River and Through the Woods
