Anthony Francis - Blood Rock

“And this must be Cinnamon,” I supplied, as she kept pumping my hand.

“What? Oh! Yes. I’m sorry,” Fremont said, letting go of my hand awkwardly as she did a similar double-take at Cinnamon. She pulled a pair of half-rimmed glasses out of her hair and peered at Cinnamon, as if never taught it’s not polite to stare. “And this must be Cinnamon.”

And then her mouth quirked in a skeptical grin, and she raised the glasses to look at me. “Is her name really ‘Cinnamon Frost’?”

“ Yes,” Cinnamon hissed, but I squeezed her shoulder.

“And no,” I said. “Her birth name is-unfortunate. We don’t use it anymore.”

“And so why did you pick Cinnamon?” Fremont said, frowning. “You wanted your daughter to be the butt of jokes?”

“Believe it or not,” I said, “it was a complete accident. I didn’t know I was adopting her when I suggested her name. Actually, I didn’t even know I was suggesting her name-I just called attention to her perfume and it… stuck.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Fremont said. “Well… shall we get started?”

She gestured, then followed her own gesture back into the lobby, clearly expecting us to follow. Cinnamon and I stared at each other a moment, weighing the unspoken question: should we bail? But neither of us made that first move away, so we followed.

Catherine Fremont was tiny, no taller than Cinnamon, but she carried herself well, the navy dress flaring out widely as she turned the corner. I could now see her outfit was brand new, with retro classic touches; still, there was something familiar about it… and eventually I got it.

“Laura Ashley?” I asked, with a smirk.

“Bramble Brooch,” she replied, with a toss of her long, straight hair. I caught a bit of a smile in her cheek as she leaned her head back at me. “Basically Laura Ashley, remixed.”

Her high-heeled Victorian boots clicked against the slate tile, drawing my attention. Nice. Just then Fremont pulled out a keyfob and clicked it, and what I thought was a glass wall slid aside to open on her office. Fremont’s office had a huge plate window overlooking the courtyard and classrooms. It looked like it could slide open the same way the hallway glass had. Fremont sat behind a dark wood desk and mouse-woke an old-school, blueberry iMac.

“Speaking of dress,” Fremont said, lowering her glasses again, “I appreciate Cinnamon’s efforts to conform to our dress code, but it also extends to makeup and accessories. The henna will have to go-as will the cat ears, I’m afraid.”

Cinnamon flattened her ears, mortified, and I frowned. “Cinnamon’s ears and tail are not ‘accessories,’” I said coldly, sitting and motioning for Cinnamon to do so as well. “They’re a part of her. I thought I was clear that she was an extraordinary needs child.”

Fremont looked up sharply, then seemed to jump. “Oh my goodness,” she said, staring at Cinnamon’s head so hard I thought her gaze would knock it off. Then she sat up a little to get a glimpse of her tail. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize she was a… a compulsory were-cat-”

“Were tiger,” I said, even more coldly, as Cinnamon squirmed, “and I thought you said Clairmont Academy was equipped to deal with extraordinary needs children.”

“I-I’m so sorry,” Fremont said, embarrassed, putting her hand over her mouth. “I-I mean, yes, we are, but I personally have never seen a werekin, that is, one who couldn’t change back.”

“How large is your extraordinary needs program if a lifer weretiger is a surprise?”

“We don’t use the term lifer, and as it turns out, we don’t have a compulsory,” Fremont said. “We do have, though, a variety of extraordinary individuals. For privacy reasons I can’t go into specifics, but we have, um… werewolves, and, and… a dhampyr, I mean, dhampyrs-”

“Meaning one of each,” I said. “For a total extraordinary enrollment of, what, two?”

I considered getting up and walking out, but Fremont seemed to gather herself. “I may be new here, Miss Frost, but I assure you that this is not new to the Academy,” she said quietly. “We have a dozen individuals on staff who have experience with extraordinary needs children, of whom we have several. I’m sorry that I was insensitive towards Cinnamon’s condition. It was a misunderstanding. My comment about the henna tiger stripes still stands, however.”

“They’re not henna, they’re tattoos,” I said, and Fremont raised her eyebrows. “And before you ask, I didn’t do them. Tattooing minors is illegal.”

“Don’t lets the tats fool ya,” Cinnamon said. “She’s more square than you are.”

“The proper way to say that would be, ‘Do not let her tattoos fool you,’” Fremont corrected, mouth pursed up. “You will need to learn to express yourself properly.”

“If Clairmont Academy can correct her grammar,” I said, laughing, “that alone will have been worth the price of admission.”

“We’ll do our very best,” Fremont said with a grin, starting the paperwork. But when done with name-address-and-phone-of-parent, she bit her lip. “And her real name? I do need it for the record.” Cinnamon lowered her head and mumbled something, and Fremont canted her head, making her glasses into reflective half-moons. “What was that, dear?”

“Stray,” Cinnamon said, quiet as a mouse. “Stray Foundling.”

Fremont’s head stayed frozen. “Is that another joke?”

“I’m afraid not,” I said, squeezing Cinnamon’s hand again. “Her former guardians aren’t bad folk, but they basically warehoused her. The only reason she has a name on record at all was a trip to the hospital when she was six. We’re petitioning to get it changed-”

Fremont kept staring at us, eyes hidden behind those half-moons, then she shook her head and began typing. “Is Cinnamon spelled like the spice?”

“Yes,” Cinnamon said eagerly.

“I hope you get it changed soon,” she said, smiling. “People really called you Stray?”

“Until Dakota,” Cinnamon replied, with a big toothy grin at me.

“Good for you,” Fremont said. But she didn’t look happy as she took the rest of the information we could give her. Finally she muttered, “no transcript… no transcript.”

“Is that really going to be a problem?” I asked. “Because I haven’t found one in my back pocket while you’ve been typing. I hope we haven’t all been wasting our time.”

“No, it’s just… this is a middle school. There are certain skills she’ll need coming in,” Fremont said, focusing on Cinnamon. “What books have you read recently, dear?”

“I hates reading,” Cinnamon shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “I likes audiobooks.”

“You read audiobooks?” Fremont raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“I dunno,” Cinnamon said sullenly. “Fuck, I didn’t knows it would be a test-”

“Cinnamon!” I said.

“We do not tolerate such language at the Clairmont Academy,” Fremont said. “And we have standards here, which you will have to meet to become a student.”

“What’s ‘standards’ means?” Cinnamon said, sharp and suddenly scared. “You don’t means cuss words. What’s ‘standards’ means?”

“Since you have no academic record, you will have to take an entrance exam.”

Entrance Exam

“But… but the letters, they swims!” Cinnamon said, eyes going wide. “How can you ask me to take a test before you teaches me to keep them still?”

Fremont’s brow furrowed when Cinnamon said the letters swam. “ Can you read?”

“Would you ask that if I was blind?” Cinnamon said. “That’s why there’s audiobooks.”

“You’re quite right, Cinnamon,” Fremont said, glancing at me. “So consider this the start of an aural test. What have you been reading? ”