I reach down into my backpack and pull out my textbook, notebook, and pencil. Inside the folder of my notebook, I pull out my homework-- a typed short essay on the ethics in research, and place everything in a neat stack on my desk.
Briefly considering all the possibilities of what Callie is going through, I’m determined to do whatever I can to get Callie to trust me enough to open up. If it’s not supernatural-related, maybe I can convince her to seek professional help. Since she’s taking this class, she must be open to the idea. And if itissupernatural-related… well, I’ll find a way to help her with that, too.
I consider my parents as alternative options. Both act as pastors for the local non-denominational church as their cover in human society, and their duties often include counseling those in their congregation. Could they help with Callie?
Rubbing at my eyes, I sigh. To get my parents to help would mean figuring out a way to explain Callie and talking them into getting involved in “witch business.” Something tells me that Callie not knowing about the supernatural world means it might not be such a good idea to bring her to the attention of the local coven. Mysteries on top of mysteries seem to be wrapped around this girl. Hopefully, she’ll accept our help to solve them.
“Class,” Mrs. Mills announces after the bell rings, pulling me out of my inner musings, “we have a bright new student joining us. Callie moved here all the way from Arizona, and I can only imagine Twin Cedar Pass is quite a bit different than what she’s used to. Do I have any volunteers to share their book today and help Callie get up to speed where we are in class?”
I raise my hand alongside an unsurprising amount of other male classmates. Even buried under a baggy sweater, there’s no question that Callie is a beautiful girl. Her heart shaped face is framed with long, thick wavy hair the colors of a wheat field in deep summer. Her skin is a flawless gold that requires no help from cosmetics. Her eyes, despite the obvious troubles that swim within their depths, are a beautiful crystalline web of grey and pale blue that reminds me of a stream half frozen by winter’s touch. I know she isn’t nephilim, but it’s an easy mistake to make.
A knowing smirk teases at Mrs. Mills’ lips. Apparently, she’s also not surprised in the interest Callie is garnering. I like Mrs. Mills. She’s a small, bird-like woman in her late 50s with mousy brown hair that’s usually pulled back in some type of messy twist at the back of her head, dressed in professional if not slightly mussed clothing, and has bright expressive brown eyes magnified by her thick glasses. Unlike many teachers, she rarely stands still, instead she actively moves about the front of the classroom, hands gesturing wildly as she does her best to keep the subject interesting and relatable.
Mrs. Mills makes a show of choosing who will help Callie before pointing at me. “Ah, Kaleb, thank you so much for volunteering,” she says with an upbeat chirp then turns to Callie. “Mr. Ward is one of my star students and takes excellent notes. I’m sure he’ll have you up to speed in no time.”
The other volunteers groan, and there are audible slaps as raised hands drop down to their desks. Some muttering, “Of course, she would choose him. He’s perfect,” makes its way through the small collection of students.
I plaster my warm, non-threatening smile on my face and adjust my desk so it’s closer to the empty one beside me. When the school year started, we were seated in alphabetical order, so I’m more towards the back of the class. Mrs. Mills said it was so she could get a chance to memorize our names, but it was really an interesting bit of psychology she wished to share. After the first week of class, she allowed us to sit wherever we wanted, but most returned to their earlier assigned seat, including myself. It turns out that people are quick to take ownership of a space, and without conscious thought, will continue to return to a space they see as theirs.
I do my best not to show the frustration I feel over my classmates’ opinion of me. I’m not perfect, not even close, but I have to pretend to be. The guys are always encouraging me to relax and let loose-- to act like a normal teenager, but they don’t get it. They can’t get it.
I may be nephilim, but I still have to live and be a part of human society, which means dealing with humans’ prejudices and shortcomings. Fact is, I’m a black kid in an extremely white community. I have to be better in every way to survive.
What I present to the world isn’t a lie. Iamsmart, Idoenjoy helping people, and overall, I reallyamslow to anger. But there’s a difference in these things being true, and these aspects of my personality having to be true. Often times, my face aches by the end of the day from my perma stuck smile, lest someone think I’m angry because I dared to relax my face.
Rolling my shoulders, I try to alleviate some of the stress building between my shoulder blades. Maybe if I was slighter-- smaller-- it would make a difference, but angel blood doesn’t produce physically weak people. My size also landed me stuck with playing two sports I have no interest in. My increased strength, agility, and speed left me performing a little too well in Freshman P.E., and the coaches for both football and baseball hounded me until I agreed to join the teams the following year. To be fair, Donovan and Connor were also heavily sought after, along with being pestered by a desperate basketball coach. Donovan told them to ‘F’ off, and Connor stared down at them until they grew so uncomfortable that they finally walked away. Being ‘Perfect Kaleb’ left me unable to copy either technique.
My smile feels more natural looking up at Callie as she picks her way down the aisle of desks. Despite my feelings about my own failings this morning, I’m still happy and relieved to see she’s doing better.
She returns my smile, sits down in the empty seat, and pulls out a notebook and pencil from her backpack. Once settled, she leans over, still facing towards the front of the class and whispers, “Thanks for volunteering. As you may have noticed this morning, I’m not all that great with new people.” She does a chuckling sigh. “Not really good with people, period.”
“Happy to help,” I murmur back, hoping she understands how genuinely I mean it, and not only for AP Psychology notes. I have to bite back asking her if she’s okay about what happened this morning.Not the time.
Mrs. Mills asks us to pass up our homework, and I hand mine to the girl in front of me, while I study Callie’s profile. There appears to be almost a glow to Callie. Not like a ghost, but as if good health radiates from her despite the overhead fluorescent lighting that tends to make everyone look slightly green. I wonder if this has anything to do with the leaking magic Connor mentioned.
As if she senses my thoughts, she looks up at me from under honey blonde lashes. She chews on her full bottom lip for a moment then whispers, “Sorry about how I acted earlier. I know you were trying to help, and I blew you off.” She hesitates, pulling her sleeves back down and rubbing at the fabric of the sweater’s cuffs between her fingers. A tic I noticed earlier. Hints of her troubled past twist at her features, puckering her fine, arched brows. “I’ve been-- somewhat of a loner for quite a while, so I’m used to dealing with stuff on my own.”
There’s a whole lot not being said with that last sentence. Things I hope to uncover.
“Nothing to apologize for,” I answer quietly, staring intently into her eyes. There’s a lot to be found in holding someone’s gaze while speaking to them. “If anything, I should apologize. Everything this morning should’ve been handled differently, starting with complete strangers telling you and showing you unbelievable things right before starting your first day at school.”
Running this morning on the impression she was nephilim, it didn’t occur to me she might not believe us at all. To a human, everything we said exists only in works of fiction and overactive imaginations.Donovan sure cleared that up for her.
A wry smirk passes across her lips. “Felix is literally haunting my house. Obviously, there’s a lot more to this world than meets the eye-- so, what’s a dude with wings?” Her gaze skitters back down to the notebook on her desk, and she jokes, “Besides, what else explains the lot of you with your good looks and ridiculous height.”
I chuckle softly, but inside my heart squeezes painfully in my chest. Before she looked away, the more I was looking for was hiding in her eyes. She appears to be taking this all extremely well, but I get the feeling that all isn’t as it seems. Instinct tells me whatever happened in her past and finding out she’s a witch are, indeed, connected. That’s going to make finding her professional help harder. Perhaps there’s a way to doctor her story enough to deal with whatever trauma she’s suffered? I’m getting ahead of myself. I need to find out her story first.
I resist the urge to touch her shoulder or squeeze her hand, recalling how stiff she looked under Nolan’s arm. Instead, I murmur close to her ear, “I know we’ve just met, but I hope that you’ll give me a chance to earn your trust. All you’ve learned must be overwhelming, and I’d like to help you. I’m pretty sure the rest of the guys do, too.”
“As long as I leak magic downwind of Connor?” she mutters, amused.
My chuckle is more genuine this time, though I do my best to stay as quiet as possible. The lecture has long since started, and both Callie and I have missed the first ten minutes. I quickly open my textbook to the correct page and settle the book to be easily viewed by both of us. I’m not too worried about what we’ve missed thus far. I finished all of the reading for this class during the summer, leaving me to only have to take the tests and do the homework. Really cuts down on time. I doubt I’ll have trouble helping Callie catch up.
As if on cue, I tune back in just in time to catch Mrs. Mills’ request to read one of the passages from the book out loud. This happens to me, a lot.
Callie and I huddle over the book as I read. She smells of pomegranate and orchids. Not a cloying scent like many of the girls around school who drown themselves with their perfume. It’s subtle, inviting, and only really detectable when leaned in close to her-- or you’re Connor. Maybe it’s her shampoo or a lotion? Whatever it is, it’s pleasant and makes me glad that I’ve already read the book. My fascination with her leaves me only half paying attention to what I’m doing.
We’re discussing states of consciousness, specifically sleep and dreaming. I don’t bother to look at the book as I read, knowing the passage by heart, and instead focus on Callie. A nervous energy seems to buzz through her, as she starts to again chew on her lip and fidget in her chair. Her notes are neat but heavily slanted with the speed at which she records them. It’s far more information than what will be needed for the test or homework. When I reach the part about dreams and their reflection into the psyche, her knee begins to bounce.
