“Seriously, stop,” Ben warns. “Don’t even joke about it. You’ll confuse Rebecca.”
I feel the burn in my cheeks at the attention. I don’t like being on the spot, and I especially don’t like being told how I should feel. “He’s the universal bad apple. I get it.”
“No. You don’t,” Laura snaps.
I study her again, surprised once more by the open hostility. She responds with a piercing gray gaze, and I wonder if Laura despises me as much as she does this Daniel. It hurts, of course, but it also makes me curious about her ability. Ben’s comment in my room comes flooding back. What’s her gift if she’s able to resist his? And what’s with Lucy’s strange comment about Daniel and her? Crap, please don’t let me be stuck in the middle of a Birchwood Suite love triangle.
A line of academy staff files toward the head table, ending our debate. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved when Director Clausen leans over a podium. “Good evening, students and faculty. Welcome. Please report your absent. Table one?”
“All present.”
The director nods and marks something in a device. “Table two?”
“All present.”
I instinctively glance at the empty chair beside me.
“Table three?”
“Colleen’s still sick, Director.”
“That’s too bad. Send our regards. Table four?”
Ben clears his throat and stands. “Just Daniel Mueller, Director.”
I watch the Director’s face for a reaction, but he only moves on to table five. After we complete roll call, Director Clausen claps his hands, and we all stand in unison. I’m beginning to feel like I’m in Girl Scouts again. Well, if I’d done Girl Scouts.
“We are grateful for another day, grateful for the fellowship of friends, and grateful for our abundant meal.”
Everyone mumbles “enjoy,” and scraping chairs echo through the room as we take our seats. Then, all previous drama fades away as the magic begins.
Uniformed servers pour into the hall with steaming platters that send me right back to my princess fantasy. So what if my face is a hilarious show for my tablemates. They also probably don’t know there are eight ways to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
“Now, there’s a girl raised on toast and a microwave.”
The guy (Christopher, I think?) is not wrong, and I make no attempt to hide it. “Do you eat like this all the time?”
“Unfortunately,” Ben mutters.
“You don’t like it?”
“Ben was raised on four-star restaurants and personal chefs. He thinks anything less than a culinary magazine cover is beneath him,” Thomas explains.
“I’m not that bad.”
“Remember the vegetable lasagna?”
I ignore their banter in favor of melting at the explosion of flavors in my mouth. Salty, sweet, sour, spicy. I didn’t even know you could cram so many adjectives into a single bite. My mother did her best, but two part-time jobs barely paid the bills, let alone brought home meals with adjectives. Is cheese powder an adjective?
I can diagram sentences later. For now, I’m grateful for peace as the conversation dwindles. Constant newness and heightened emotions aren’t a good combination for my already overactive brain. I try to laugh with my companions and pretend to be more fun than I am, but I’m teetering on the verge of collapse by the end of dinner.
Yep, I’ve spent my entire life longing for an invitation like the one I decline when they ask me to join them in the recreation center for the evening activity.
I’ve always liked solitude. Needed it, really. That’s what happens when involuntary realties become preferred choices. By the time dinner ends, I’m practically rushing back to the suite to recalibrate and give my exhausted brain a rest. No nasty looks or pounding attraction from confusing roommates, just calm and whatever magic my imagination invents.
Energized by the silence, I decide to explore the suite without distraction when I arrive. I trace my fingers on the rich leathers, velvets, and woods of the furniture in the common area, mesmerized by the paintings covering the walls. I’ve seen posters of paintings like this. You put them in a decent frame and pretend you care about things like art. They look really good above couches. Now, staring at walls of real ones, I learn I actually do like art. They’re beautiful and creepy, giant rich people glaring down at me as if they recognize I’m a poor nobody who didn’t know real paintings were lumpy. And now they’re mine. I will rule them as Birchwood’s newest princess, reigning in—
I spin around at the crash of a door and nearly collide with another student who bursts into the room. He jumpsback in surprise, his worn leather jacket brushing my arm and shattering my calm state. My skin tingles from the contact as his intense gaze settles on me with suspicion. His eyes, dark and seductive, sear into me—I can’t look away. Can’t even move or breathe or…
