Aine Crabtree - The Thief

“And your friends? What do you do with them?”

I swallowed, feeling my cheeks warm. “Well I...I never really...” had any . My father had never let me go out for sports or clubs or anything. And let’s face it, I’d never had the most sparkling personality. People didn’t just walk up and befriend me. If they did, I’m pretty sure my stuttering would drive them away immediately.

“I see,” Ms. Umino said, apparently astute at reading between the lines. She made a little note on her tablet, saying, “Perhaps we’ll revisit the subject later, when you’re more settled.”

Done with me, she focused on Camille, even chillier now. “Ms. Teague. I understand that despite your lack of formal education, you’ve received some training in the martial arts.”

“Kendo,” she replied. Her accent immediately struck me as odd.

Ms. Umino smiled, but I wasn’t sure it was friendly. “Unusual for a girl such as yourself to have learned the art of Japanese swordplay, but at least in one thing Mr. Katsura has prepared you. We have an elective class that should suit you perfectly. You may continue your training with Mr. Ikeda in kendo and karate.”

Wait, she knew how to swordfight? I looked at the other girl in awe.

“As for the rest of your evaluation...” she glanced upward, briefly, as the bell rang. “I’m afraid we’re out of time. Teague, expect to return to my office at the end of the day to finish your placement. I should also mention,” she said, making another note on her tablet, “that while you will see the same classmates throughout your regular classes, your electives are comprised of students from all grade levels. As such, you may find yourself in situations with very... advanced students.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what she seemed to be hinting at, but Camille seemed to. Her face remained impassive as she made a stiff bow of the head to Ms. Umino.

“You may take your packets and go.” The principal waved her hands in a brief shooing motion.

I picked mine up, feeling a little dizzy. Had that been intended to be informative? I felt more confused than ever. I followed Camille out the door and into the now-empty hall. She looked around dully, sharing none of my nerves. Her stoicism only made me feel more panicky by contrast. Maybe she knows what to do, I thought, as she flipped open her folder and frowned at the contents. I should talk to her. I should ask her a question, maybe.

“Did you, um, did you understand any of that?” I asked.

She gave me a sudden hard look and I cringed. “I understand,” she said, her bizarre accent even more noticeable. Short, clipped vowels and off-balance accents on her syllables. Where on earth was she from?

“Oh,” I relented. “Sure. Of course. I just don’t get, um, what we’re supposed to do now?”

She gave me a blank look and returned to staring sullenly at her folder’s contents.

I should be used to being ignored by now. It still felt like a slap in the face.

My panic from earlier in the morning was returning in full force. I opened my own folder, the pages quivering slightly from the fine tremor in my fingers. There was a map there, but the lines swam in front of my face. The words bled together. None of it made sense. Out of the corner of my eye, Camille was turning her packet sideways, and upside down.

I just wanted to go home. No one wanted me there either, but at least I knew where I was.

Someone cleared their throat.

“Are you - ahem - I mean, hi,” said a voice behind me.

I turned to look, then angled my gaze down about six inches. A boy with shaggy blonde hair looked up at me cheerfully. He honestly didn’t look old enough to be in high school.

“You look lost. I mean new. I mean...hi,” he said. “I’m Mac.”

I blinked at him. Where had he come from? “Um, hi,” I said. “I’m Jul. I am new, yes.”

“Those packets are pretty useless,” he said. A slight southern accent relaxed his vowels. “Lucky for you I know the place like the back of my hand. I was born here. Not uh, here in the school, here in town, I mean. Obviously.”

I smiled weakly. This was better.

“So um, do you know who you have for first period? For homeroom?” he asked.

I looked at Camille. She shrugged, expression blank.

“Homeroom...” I racked my brain. “I think she said...Tailor?”

His face lit up. “Awesome! You’re in our class!”

“Oh, ok,” I said. I couldn’t begin to share in his enthusiasm without context, but it was nice to talk to someone upbeat for a change. “You’re really in tenth grade?” I blurted, and immediately regretted it.

His face fell for an instant, but he recovered almost immediately. “Skipped a grade,” he explained briefly. “Come on, English is upstairs. You’ll love it, Tailor’s got all the charm of a wet cat. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“Oh. Alright,” I said. I started to follow and then paused, looking back at Camille. “Are you coming?”

She looked at me, her sideways folder, closed it with a little huff and followed.

Mac led us up the stairs onto the second floor landing, overlooking the atrium. I thought of the boy from earlier. He had been looking at something up here. I blushed slightly, glancing down at where he’d stood. Now, if he had found me wandering the halls...

Oh, let’s be realistic. I’d have been too flustered to even say a word, much less anything intelligent.

“Over here,” Mac said, leading us down the hall to the right, to a door labeled 2-B. “Found the new students!” he announced as he opened it. I was acutely aware that over a dozen pairs of eyes were staring at me. My pulse hammered. Transmute, transmute, transmute , I repeated in my head like a mantra.

Inside, the teacher paused mid-lecture, at the board with chalk in hand. He was thin and bookish, but handsome, though he wore a pinched sort of frown as he turned to us. Then his eyes widened in a moment of real shock as he saw me. It was just like when I’d surprised Bea on the phone - he was afraid of me.

Mac also appeared confused by Mr. Tailor’s reaction. “See?” he prompted. “Jul Graham and...um...” he looked at Camille. “You know, I just realized I missed your name.”

She rolled her eyes.

Mr. Tailor seemed to recover somewhat, but I still didn’t like the way he was looking at me. Like I was liable to end the world at the slightest provocation. “Graham,” he murmured. “Yes, of course. Go have a seat. In the back.”

The back of the room? I clutched my bag to myself and went down the aisle. Was that another way of saying he wanted me as far away from him as possible?

Was this kind of reaction going to become a trend around here? What had I done? I slid into my chair, convinced that the butterflies in my stomach had mutated into parasites of the nervous system. At least I was still breathing ok. Small blessings.

Tailor turned and adjusted his glasses, focusing on Mac. “And why exactly were you wandering around in the hall, Dupree? What excuse did you cook up so that you could play white knight?”

Muffled chuckles from other students around the room. A flush crept up Mac’s neck. “Uh...that is...”

“Oh just sit down already,” Tailor groaned. “I don’t have time for this.”

Mac slid meekly into a desk near the front, next to a tall boy with dark hair that covered his eyes, who slipped him a piece of paper when Tailor turned to Camille.

She was still standing just inside the door, shoulderbag slung across her back, hands stuffed into the front pocket of her hoodie. She met his scrutiny with a bland expression and his eyes narrowed.

“That makes you Teague,” he said with distaste.