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When I wake up, Doctor Prince has already posted my results on the student portal. A hundred and thirty-five percent. Even with the penalty, I still have an A plus. When Dean Gravka lodges an objection, she sends my exam out to an independent review committee. I didn’t even know there was such a thing.
They send it back upgraded to a hundred and forty percent.
Charlie, looking over my shoulder as I read the email from the review committee, whistles.
“I know she scares you a little, bean, but you made a good friend in Doctor Prince. She has your fucking back.”
I nod as I read the email. It’s from the committee chairman, Professor Tate, who starts off by assuring me he’s no relation to the Tate-Wilsons—and how much do Ilovethat everyone in the world knows my damn business?—before confirming my result. He then says that my essay comparing harmonic frequencies of crystal skulls in the rituals of pre-Columbian shamans to the wavelengths of modern enchanted gems is the best he’s ever read from a college freshman.
“He wants us to apply for a summer exchange program in California,” I tell Charlie.
“What?” Charlie kisses the side of my head before he pushes his chin over my shoulder to read the whole email. He whistles again. “Good fucking friend.”
She is. Not only has she ensured Dean Gravka can’t challenge my grade, but she’s gotten my exam under the nose of the head of the History of Magic department at Madavar University, Bevington’s West Coast counterpart. After confirming my test result, Professor Tate invites me and “my guest(s)” to apply to Madavar’s summer exchange program.
A quick Google shows the program is by invitation only. And that the campus is right off a beach in San Di-fucking-ego.
“Too right,” Charlie says. “I get a job as a lifeguard, and we spend the whole summer surfing.”
I snort at him. Like either of us knows how to surf.
“They’re not fucking around about you not going home,” Charlie continues.
I sigh. No, they’re not. They’re not fucking around about anything. I’ve flown under the radar for so long. Kept out of sight and out of mind of my family, my business rivals, the authorities. I’ve been quiet and careful. The only thing flash about me is my power, and that’s finally brought the hammer down.
Time to suck it up and take advantage of whatever perks there are to being under house arrest.
After I download the application for Madavar’s summer program, I shut down my laptop. I’ve stared at it enough for the last few days. I’m ready for a break.
Of course, I don’t get one. As soon as the clamshell snaps closed, my phone pings.
My whole body tightens.
The building shimmies. A little plaster dust drifts down from the ceiling in the corner where Hog’s tank used to sit.
Charlie squeezes me. “If it’s pissing you off that much, tell him to fucking stop.”
I flex my hands until the black streaks shooting up to my elbows sink back into my skin. I pick up my phone and check the screen. Then I turn it back over and leave it face down on the table.
“When has telling Darwin to stop anything actually made him stop?”
Charlie grunts.
Darwin’s texted me every hour, on the hour, since he walked out of the interview room. He starts at eight in the morning and stops at eleven at night. I responded to his first text to say that I wasn’t ready to talk and to give me some space so I could focus on my exam. I thought that was much more fucking polite than he deserved. He ignored my request, so I’ve ignored him ever since.
Gabe texts every day, too, but all he says is good morning and goodnight. His, I’ve responded to. When he got his grades, he sent me a screenshot. Nailed that B. I got the lacrosse team to sing “We are the Champions,” recorded it, and sent it back to him. Unlike Darwin, Gabe doesn’t make any demands that I talk to him, blame him, forgive him, love him back.
“He got anything new to say?” Charlie asks.
“Nope. Same shite, different day.”
Same demands. Same lack of explanation. He’s managed an apology or two, although they were wrapped in a demand for me to forgive Gabe. I thought I wanted to hear them but having been bombarded after I asked for a little quiet, I’ve discovered I don’t.
Charlie squeezes my shoulders. “Let’s do sommat today. Get outta here for a while.”
He’s read my mind.
“Even though you’re out of regionals, you still got practice, right? At four?”
