Page 6 of The Originals


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“Anything I need to know?” she asks.

I shrug again. “Other than the trig debacle… no,” I say. “Oh, wait, that guy David from student government tried to wave me over at lunch.” Ella doesn’t have a class with David, but she nods anyway.

“What’d he want?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I just waved back and kept going. I didn’t want to make you late.”

“Thanks,” she says with another small smile.

“No problem. Good luck.”

Ella laughs. “I’ve got the easy part,” she says wistfully, like she misses the challenge, even though she has cheer practice, which she loves. “I think I can handle Spanish and dance.”

“Don’t forget creative writing,” I say, the wistful one now.

“Oh, right,” she says as she reaches out to unclasp the necklace from my neck. She puts it on, then hugs me goodbye and goes to the car. I walk across the cobblestones and, from the front porch, turn back to watch Ella go. It’s like I’m having an out-of-body experience—like I’m watching myself. Except that Ella drives straight up the middle of the driveway, fearless.

And I love her for it.

The rest of the day is like clockwork. I spend three hours at homeschool with Betsey and my all-business mother (who through pursed lips refuses to acknowledge what happened in trig whatsoever during “school time”). We trudge through the same subjects that Ella’s studying at Woodbury, just like Ella and Betsey did with my morning schedule. When Mom leaves for work at 3:30, I crank the music in our home gym for the same treadmill session that Bet and Ella did earlier, while Bet catches up on chemistry. Ella returns after cheer practice, and shortly after that, Bet leaves for night class. Ella and I eat dinner and do homework, comparing notes and chatting casually until Bet comes home again.

Then I get nervous.

“She’ll be here anytime now,” I whisper, seconds before the door opens downstairs.

“You’re totally psychic,” Betsey says with a laugh, but I’m not in the mood. Instead, I try to judge my mother’s level of pissed-ness by the way she kicks off her shoes and rushes up the stairs.

“Oh, good, you’re all here,” she says when she rounds the corner to the rec room. Her hair is pulled back at her neck and she’s wearing ill-fitting but remarkably clean scrubs with a cardigan over them.

“Hi, Mom,” I say as she hurries into the room and sits down on the couch next to Ella. She pats Ella’s knee, smiles at Betsey, then frowns when her eyes meet mine.

“Hi, Lizzie,” she says before sighing like I’m the absolute worst there is for not knowing about stupid freaking triangles. “I don’t have a lot of time, so let’s get right to it.”

“You should have just told us whatever you wanted to say when you saw us earlier,” Ella says. “Don’t you have patients?”

“I wanted to talk to all three of you at once,” Mom says, making me feel sick. That doesn’t sound good at all. “And besides, earlier I was still figuring out what to do.” She pauses for breath, glancing at the clock on the wall.

“What do you mean, ‘figuring out what to do’?” Ella asks, looking suddenly concerned.

Mom faces her. “I’ve decided we’re going to make a change in light of Lizzie’s… challenge,” she says. I can feel Ella glance at me, but I keep my eyes on Mom. No one else speaks, so she continues.

“First, I want to say that we’re lucky that it’s taken this long for noticeable differences to crop up,” she says. “I was fearful every day through puberty, and yet thankfully, that wasn’t an issue.” I don’t have to look at the others to know they’re blushing, too. Nobody wants to hear their mother say the word puberty.

Mom goes on.

“But now, it’s grown obvious to me that Lizzie is developing more right-brain tendencies,” she says, looking into my eyes. “I’m sorry, Lizzie, I thought that by allowing you to be the one in those classes at school, you’d grasp them more easily. I thought maybe I was doing a poor job of teaching them. But it seems that math and science just aren’t your forte.” Mom gives me a sympathetic smile that’s completely annoying.

“But if today is any indication, our current setup isn’t working,” she continues. “We’re not even three weeks in and already it’s clear that to remain on this path could draw attention to us, and therefore threaten everything. Because of this,” Mom says, shifting like she’s bracing for a triple teen outburst, “I am switching junior year assignments.”

I feel myself stiffen; Ella sucks in her breath.

“Are you serious?” Betsey asks. Mom nods.

“Ella will take first half,” she says authoritatively, but not meeting Ella’s eyes, probably because she knows how disappointed Ella’s going to be to miss out on cheer practice. “Lizzie will take second half. Betsey, you’ll stay with evenings.” Betsey visibly relaxes in her chair.

“But we have the schedule down,” Ella says in protest. “This isn’t fair.”

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