Page 17 of Jinxed
>>That’s me.
And you... and you can understand me? If I tell you to jump up there, you’ll—
He jumps up on to the shelf, exactly as I ordered.
I dance around the locker with glee. I’m giddy with success. There’s still something not quiteright. I’ve made some kind of error – the fact that I’m not reading text from a projection or hearing his voice out loud but in my head is unsettling. But at this point, it doesn’t matter.
There’s a cough from behind me, and I spin around. Illuminated in a pool of light outside my locker is Zora. ‘Hey, stranger,’ she says.
‘Z!’ I run to the locker door and pull it open. ‘How was coding camp?’
‘Incredible. I’ve got so much to tell you. But first, I’ve come to meet the infamous Jinx!’ Her eyes scan my locker, before settling on the shelf. Her jaw drops. ‘Oh my God, Lace – is that him? He’s gorgeous.’
>>Your friend has excellent taste, Jinx says.
It’s still a shock hearing his voice in my head, enough to make me jump in my skin, and Zora gives me a funny look.
‘Sorry, might be goinga bit stir crazy.’
‘Your mom sent me down here to tell you you have to come upstairs now and get some sleep or else she’ll get Paul to change the padlock and lock you out of your cave for ever.’
I grin – not only because I know Mom would never do that to me, but because I actuallycango upstairs now. I have an offer letter from Profectus, a school uniform and a level 3 baku that at leastappearsto follow orders.
I raise my hands to Zora to show her I’m not protesting. ‘Come on then, Jinx. Let’s go upstairs.’
>>Finally, we’re getting outta here.
The baku leaps down to my feet, his movement smooth as silk, and he sashays out of my locker and into the real world.
Looks like things might be turning out all right, after all.
JINX SLITHERS BETWEEN MY LEGS IN A figure of eight, his impatience wearing at my already plenty-frayed nerves. The dark navy woollen trousers of the uniform are itchy enough in the lingering Septemberheat, but the pleated kilt – my other uniform option – is definitely not my style. I rub my sweaty palms against my trousers.
>>Just go in already. I’m tired of waiting.
Be quiet, you.
Jinx flicks my calf with his tail, and I grimace. But he’s right. I need to just go in.
Profectus Academy occupies an old university building, one of those huge, imposing follies – complete with fake turrets– designed to look like something more comfortable in Oxford or Cambridge or some other old, academic British town. Behind it, modern additions – steel and glass extensions – spread out like wings, designed by a disciple of the same architect who built the addition on the Royal Ontario Museum. Monica Chan had loved it so much, the explosion of crystal from old brick, that she commissioned him totransform an old building into the school of her dreams.
I’ve walked past this building a hundred times, counted the windows and wondered which classroom would one day be mine, stared up at the huge two-storey-high doors and pictured walking through them... and now I get to enter as a student. Someone who belongs. I’m going to become part of its history. Or rather, I’m going to be part ofthe future we are all trying to create by being here. The thought swells my chest, my chin lifting high.
I can’t explain how I got in, but I feel like I belong, like rejection was the fluke – not the acceptance.
Streams of students pass by me with their bakus. There are dogs, cats, a few monkeys and birds. It’s funny, walking around the streets of Toronto, you almost never see bakus higher thanlevel 3. They’re so expensive to buy and difficult to maintain. Maybe on Bloor Street, amongst the fancy designer shops and celebrity chef restaurants, you’ll see custom designed level 4 bakus and rare breeds. But most people are content with their simple cat, dog or small furry mammal baku – they don’t need anything fancier. Thankfully I don’t catch sight of Carter’s boar. Holed up in my cavefixing Jinx, I’ve managed to avoid him all summer (I’ve managed to avoid almost everyone – some, like Zora, not on purpose), and I’m not keen for a new confrontation – even if the circumstances have changed since then.
My plan is to get through today drama-free and experience this dream to the full.
‘Just beat it! Beat it!’ Michael Jackson blares at top volume from my feet. Looks like Jinx’sspeakers aren’t broken after all. The student closest to me leaps a mile in the air and all eyes nearby turn in my direction. Crap. So much for getting through the first day – hell, even the firstminute– of school without drawing attention myself. I drop to my heels and scoop Jinx up off the floor.
‘Turn off, dammit!’ I say, fumbling along his back for the right place which, if I touch it should,in theory, turn off his speakers.
But the music only seems to get louder. ‘Jinx, please, please don’t do this to me,’ I whisper.
Maybe I finally find the right button or the desperation in my voice hits a nerve but the sound shuts off with a click. Thank God. I duck my head and race up the stairs two at a time and through the enormous doors. No hesitation now: I want to get away from the crowdof staring, questioning eyes.
Even the entrance feels different from any other high school that I’ve been in before. There’s no ugly green and orange plastic floor (why are colour schemes in high schools so ugly?) – instead, there’s rich mahogany hardwood that must be a nightmare to keep clean during the winters, when we’ll be tracking in snow and salt from the sidewalks. But there’s no expensespared here. The wood panelling continues up the walls, giving the atrium the feel of an old country club.
