leave school echoes ominously in my head.
I think of Duncan again, the boy Morgan knows, and a thought occurs to me. Maybe the ones who weren't "selected" for this program are less supportive of this regime than the humans think they should be. I wish that were true.
Belinda, after mentioning nothing about why semi-
illegal segregation is going on or why the entire lower wing wasn’t remodeled using the government funds meant for expanding the school for M-DNA students, draws the meeting to a close. My eyes dart around the room trying to memorize the faces of all the seniors so I will recognize my monitor when he or she is revealed. Movement catches my eye, a flash of red hair. I see Duncan shifting his weight in his chair, looking straight ahead with a long-suffering expression. His eyes have glazed over from boredom, but because the sun is shining through a window close to the ceiling, I note the exact hue of the peridot irises from where I am. If he was a monitor, at least there would be one person who didn’t aggressively hate half-breeds.
“Off to your first day of classes!” the principal says at last, beaming. “Here’s to a wonderful school year!”
“I hope she smiles so hard her face splits like her ass crack,” the boy next to me mutters to his friend and I find myself agreeing with them in spite of their crudeness.
One of the more severely dressed faculty members, an older woman who was seated in the front
row of the room, rises with a pinched look on her gaunt
face. She ascends the small stairway to the podium and whispers something to Belinda, who nods and leans into the microphone once more.
“Sierra Maurell needs to stop by my office before her first class. The monitor assigned to her needs to wait outside my office so you two can get acquainted after her visit with me,” she says. Her tone is so casual it
sounds like she’s merely inviting me for a coffee, but my heart dips into my stomach all the same. I’m grateful for the fact that a lot of people don’t know my name yet, because the few who do whip their heads around to stare at me inquisitively. The principal confirms the dismissal, and I hurry to the exit along with everyone else.
Unlike earlier when I entered the school, people jostle me as I pass—some with unnecessary force—making me miss my old school with the friendly faces and basic same-species camaraderie. I’m not totally sure where I’m going, but I head back to the front of the school with a vague idea of the administration offices being in that general direction.
“Sierra!” Someone calls my name, and a body nearly crashes into me. An instant later I recognize Morgan, and I’m thankful that her antlers didn’t jab me during her rush.
“If you have Business Math for this class period I’ll save you a seat!” She speaks quickly, her face flushed pink from racing to catch me; I’m grateful she decided to include me, especially when she adds more information I don’t know about. “The seniors aren’t
required to eat lunch in the cafeteria, which is great because the one for us downstairs is awful, so I hear. If I miss you in classes this morning do you want to join me and some friends outside on the back field?”
“Sure,” I say. Smiling comes easier for a few seconds as she grins at me, but then I have to leave her to find where the principal’s office is.
People watch me as I pass, but no one tries to intercept or help me. I survey the numbers on the doors I walk by and recognize a few from what I noticed on my schedule. The thought of spending my entire day in that dungeon they call the lower level makes me shudder. It might be pushing the segregation issue a little too far if they separate us for actual classes, I hope.
A student with curly blonde hair and a sickeningly potent perfume brushes past me with a very dirty look, and I resist the urge to snarl at her. Instead I think of my brother Harold, the strategic one, the only one in my family who would excel in this kind of subtly hostile environment. I direct an acidly slow smile with all of my white teeth exposed towards her, purposefully looking like a savage. Her eyes widen, and she moves on hastily. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who saw because the rest of my fellow students let me pass with no more “clumsy” bumping into me.
I pass by the senior hall again as the seniors file into their homerooms to check in. My eyes fall on a redheaded boy I recognize as Duncan right as he’s
looking up. I want to look away so I don’t see his
reaction to my yellow-eyed gaze, but instead of avoiding my notice he smiles faintly and points to the doorway on my left.
Directions? I think, and when I turn I see he pointed me in the right direction.
At first I wonder how he knows I’m Sierra, but then I remember I introduced myself to the bear-boy right
before we all noticed Duncan’s presence in the hallway. That must have been when he overheard my name.
I smile back at him and turn to the administration area. So as far as I know, three people in the school don’t hate me: Lyle, Morgan and…Duncan, I think. One human and two half-breeds.
I try to take that as a positive sign.
4
When I enter the administration area I’m nearly overpowered by the scent of cleaning solution. The fur along my spine stiffens but I force myself to relax. People who might be able to read animal body language might freak out if they saw my flat ears and bristled fur right now. The chilly, fashionably dressed receptionist doesn’t notice my distress; she waves me through after a perfunctory glance. My monitor is supposed to be here too, but no one is present but me and the distracted receptionist with her pink polished nails and ridiculously high hairstyle.
And of course, the principal is here behind her shiny metal-plated white door. I stare at the door briefly, wondering why it looks sturdy enough to withstand a
bombing.
Belinda clicks open the door right as I’m about to knock. I study her face to try and read how she feels about my presence. She’s smiling, polite rather than cheerful, although an aura of motherliness still lingers at the corners of her almond eyes and perfect bow mouth.
“Hello Sierra,” she says, ushering me in and closing
the door. “I’m glad we have this opportunity to talk.”
I can’t imagine why she would be happy about having a half-breed student in her office before classes even get underway, especially after how she was talking about my kind during the orientation meeting. When she gestures for me to take a seat, I obey wordlessly.
“I have already entered your ID number into the system, so you don’t need to worry about checking in once we finish here,” she says.
“Neat,” I reply as she pauses, clearly expecting thanks. “Why am I here?” Perhaps I’m falling into the clichéd category of surly teenagers who have no desire whatsoever to communicate with authority figures, but I can’t help it. It's how I was raised, besides the fact that I am in no mood to
cater to anyone in charge at this school. Also, she’s staring right into my eyes, going against a few well-known instincts wired into my brain. Prolonged eye contact can mean a challenge, and I’m not in much doubt here as to who has dominance.
Occasionally I catch her gaze drifting up to my fox ears, but I reserve comment and wish harder that this
will be a short conference.
“Well, part of the reason is your unusual upbringing. I wanted to speak with you anyway to make sure you understood how a pure DNA student high school functions.”
“Unusual upbringing?” I ask.
“It is fairly irregular even for these changing times
for a student from a predominately M-DNA community to attend this type of school. Desegregation laws aside, many students in your situation might have opted for a smaller school,” she says.
“My guardian wanted me to have an education from one of the better schools in our area, chiefly because this will be my graduation year.” I’m still wondering where she’s going with this, but I’m also pretty positive I don’t want to bring up the fact that my oldest brother is my guardia
n instead of my parents. Sharing this information might not make a difference, especially since she might know already, but I have a bad feeling about this meeting already. I don’t want to add fuel to the fire.
“Hm,” Belinda says with a flavor of disapproval strong enough to aggravate my temper again. “Tell me, Sierra, do you have any learning disabilities?” What? I think, startled.
“No, why?” I ask.
“Do you have access to a SMART communication device, or does someone in your family have access to a device where you can receive messages?" she asks.
I stare at her, thinking these questions are both random and ridiculous. Her phrasing and her tone makes it sound like she’s talking to an idiot, which I don’t appreciate. She’s still smiling, but her fine-boned face is tight and her tan skin suddenly seems uncomfortably flawless. I almost giggle as I realize she has a pretty face because of extensive modification surgery, but I manage to stifle my ill-placed humor. It
dawns on me that she’s probably asking about the SMARTnote that was sent out that I didn’t see.
“I have been unable to fully set up my SMARTnote account on the school page since I didn’t get my school issue SMARTpad until this morning. I didn’t receive the welcome letter with the instructions and rules,” I say truthfully. Why is everyone obsessed with this damn SMARTnote? I think, wishing I could voice my real thoughts instead of picking over the words I say like a diplomat.
“Because you did not read the letter we sent to your student account, Sierra, you may not realize you already committed a few infractions that must be addressed.” Her smile is finally gone, replaced by a serious expression that she must be thinking makes her look stern but kind.
It isn’t working, and I wonder why she bothers with the fake behavior: everything she says is unfriendly to my kind, however politically correct her wording.
“As I said, I was unable to set up my account,” I say. “I can’t have committed any drastic offenses yet because classes haven’t even started. I can fully set up
my account properly tonight, now that I have my school SMARTpad.”
She shakes her head with a similar deliberate movement as when she nodded. “I will print the SMARTnote for you, and you can focus on setting up your account this afternoon, but it is not advisable for me to ignore your infractions so early in the school year,” she says, then adds: “I must be fair to my
students, after all.” I grimace as she speaks. It takes a little more effort to reform my face into something more pleasant.
“Could you specify what my infractions are then?” I ask, concentrating on making my voice meek.
“I asked M-DNA students to use the secondary and back entrances to avoid clogging the main entrance for students who are accustomed to coming in that way.” She says this with a little too much glee, but maybe I’m imagining that part. “I have been informed that you were dropped off at the primary entrance and arrived at school by the main doors.” I get the sense that she is watching my face closely, observing any responses I might make.
What is she looking for? I think. I want to ask why the hell she thinks she can get away with such obviously racist behavior, but I don’t. I’d be forced to answer my own question: desegregation laws do not automatically dismiss racism.
My mouth had opened to spout whatever popped into my head, but I force it to close; my teeth click together, perhaps revealing my irritation. It won’t do
any good to argue, I think. She knows she can get away with the bare minimum of the desegregation laws.
“Was there something you wanted to say?” The encouraging smile is back, painted on her face. I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. One curved edge of her smile falters, slipping like a crack in a painting before she continues. “Secondly…well, this is a
more delicate issue. One of the students approached me before orientation to address a few concerns he had about you. I believe they are legitimate, but it is only fair to follow up on situations like these.” If I wasn’t angry before, I am now. I resist the urge to drop her gaze to look down at my clenched hands. The russet-brown fur covering the top is stiff and straight, a product of my tension.
“This student seemed to believe that you were attempting to break into his locker and, according to him, when he confronted you, you insulted him,” she concludes her summary of the erroneous version of events the boy bullying me earlier must have told her. Her voice is lowered, as if in sensitivity for the situation.
I have no clue how to respond to such willful bias. I already know she won’t take my word for what actually happened. I could call on witnesses, of course, but who would actually take the side of a little-known fox girl? Lyle could probably back me up…but he is my kind, and clearly the word of half-breeds is not accepted here.
I try to explain anyway. “That isn’t what happened.” I’m trying to stay calm but I’m not sure if it’s working; this has already been a long day. Belinda stares at me dubiously, but she remains silent and her smile is more thoughtful than plastic at this particular moment. “Because I did not receive the SMARTnote, I was not aware that separate entrances were mandatory for me to use, just as I was not aware that there were two lockers with the same number in this
building. The boy whose locker I assumed was mine informed me of my mistake.” This too kind, bare minimum version of events turns my stomach, and the formality of my words disgusts me.
She’s still watching me, and I’m learning to read her expressions a little better. “Well, given the circumstances and the reality of both stories being very different, I think I will—”
“Principal?” Someone is rapping at the door, a brisk knock with three taps. I recognize a female
voice, so when a girl peeks her head in I’m not surprised to see a petite white face and a mass of brunette hair tied up in a messy bun peek around the currently open door. Belinda doesn’t seem surprised to see her either but, admittedly, surprise can be hard to communicate on a plastic face.
“I’m in a meeting now, dear.” The principal’s voice sounds warmer but at the same time more businesslike when it is directed at a student who is obviously and totally human. M-DNA students don’t wear glasses, and this girl has a chunky pair of black specs—very fashionable of course—resting on a turned up nose. Snooty is an adjective that readily pops into my mind.
“I know,” the girl says. “I’m the assigned monitor for Sierra Maurell and I just wanted to let you know she’ll be too late to her first class to catch up if you keep her here much longer.” Her eyes are brown and sharp, similar to Belinda’s but definitely more natural. I'm surprised this girl stood up for me, but something about her voice throws me off a bit. I’m not thrilled she’s my
monitor.
“Thank you for the reminder. I will be finished shortly. If you could just wait in the hall I would greatly appreciate it,” Belinda says and the girl frowns before abandoning the door. It automatically glides shut, and I’m alone with the principal, who continues like there was no interruption.
“Sierra. I am not unforgiving. I wish to be fair to my students, however, so I will compromise with you: you will accept the demerits I give you for failing to keep up with your student account, and I will consider the confusion you had over where your locker was as a part of that problem.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, wondering how many demerits I’m going to get at the same time as I’m wishing I’d clawed the face of the boy who had harassed me, and shortly after lied about me. She looks at me like she expects me to object more, but I won’t give her the satisfaction, just as I’m not going to quibble over how many demerits I get. “May I go?”
“Yes,” she says after a very long pause. “Yes, I think you should. Katrina should be waiting just outside to
make sure you don’t get lost again.”
I’m out of my seat before she can finish her sentence; my school bag thumps against the edge of the chair, but I don’t turn back. I’ve never been much of a reb
el, but I’m starting to remind myself of Wade back when we were in high school together. Thanks for the influence, brothers, I direct this thought towards them as the door closes behind me.
“Certainly took you long enough,” Katrina perches stiffly in a faux leather chair close to the receptionist desk. I was kind of hoping she would have been too impatient to stay, but her voice brings back why I wanted her gone in the first place. Isn’t school stressful enough without shipping in a bunch of jumped-up animals as well? I remember what she was telling her friends back when I first walked in by the wrong doors.
“It’s not like I wanted to be there at all,” I grumble, already disliking this short, skinny teenager as she stands up. “If you want you can just show me to my next class and then leave us animals to take care of our own.”
Her eyes narrow and she looks me up and down, assessing. This day has already worn me out, and I want nothing to do with someone who won’t see past my animal characteristics. I understand why the other half-breeds hid what they could to escape the burning looks from narrow-minded people like my monitor.
“I might if you don’t watch yourself,” Katrina snaps, her voice petulant. Everything about her is sharp, angular; she fits into this place well. Her clothes are chic, almost too businesslike for high school, and if she
was less cold she might have a sort of interesting
librarian vibe about her.
“What class do you have?” she asks me as I wait for her to lead the way. She also talks to me like I’m a fool, and I’m getting less and less in the mood to put up with this behavior, least of all from someone like her.
“Business Math,” I say. I begin walking in the general direction of senior hallway, and after a few
steps she follows. I’m sure I can feel her staring at my fox ears and most certainly at my tail as I walk.
“I only signed up for this for the extra credit,” she blurts as we turn the corner and leave the administration wing. “I don’t actually enjoy hanging out with mutts.”
Vixen (The Fox and Hound Book 1) Page 4
