by Rebecca Sky
Even though my heart tells me to stay, I know there isn’t anything I can do to help him. Who am I kidding? Marissa’s right – I’m a Hedoness and no matter how much I want to, I can’t change that.
I run to catch up, guilt washing further over me with every step away from the will-less boy. That quickly shifts to anger. It irritates me how Marissa seems to float over the ground and how her gold mane sways in unison with her hips. She doesn’t even need powers to make men fall for her. It’s out of laziness that she uses them.
Marissa’s almost at the school by the time I make it to her side. She acknowledges me with a curt nod and then starts right back into her speech from earlier.
‘Amor est vitae essentia,’ she says, pointing to the words carved into the wood doors. ‘Love is the essence of life. Until you come to terms with that, Rach,’ she goes on, her tone dripping with contempt, ‘you’ll never experience any form of love. What we do might not suit your high morals, but it’s our calling, our purpose.’
‘Ladies,’ a gruff voice barks from the doorway. ‘You’re late.’
I look up in time to see Marissa curtsy, bowing her head to the large black form. ‘Yes, Mother Superior. Apologies.’
The woman in black turns her attention on me. She cocks her head, showcasing the wiry grey whiskers poking out from her chin. ‘And why is that, Miss Patel?’
‘Reverend Mother …’ I pause and attempt a curtsy of my own. By the look on her face, it comes across like a drunk trying to plié. I glance at Marissa. I could sell her out, buy me some much-needed favour with the nun. Though I can’t help noticing the uneasy way she grips the strap on her new gold purse.
‘The taxi—’ I begin, but Marissa cuts in.
‘I stopped to turn a guy.’
I hold my breath, waiting for Mother Superior to yell about how careless Marissa was for using her power without a teacher’s supervision, especially now, with all the media attention on the missing boys.
‘Good,’ she says instead, clasping her hands and lifting the side of her mouth in what I can only assume is an attempt at smiling. ‘What is your current turning span?’
‘They usually last for a few days,’ Marissa says. ‘Then I either turn them again, or set them free, depending on what the class needs are.’
Mother Superior strokes her whiskers. ‘That is passable, but you are an outstanding student and my expectations are high. You should be aiming for weeks, months – even years, soon.’
I’m pretty sure my jaw’s hanging open. The nuns are constantly telling us to be careful and not get caught using our gift. But now she’s practically encouraging it. It’s not surprising the reporters are starting to ask questions.
Mother Superior puts her hand on Marissa’s shoulder, but looks at me. ‘It is important to learn to control your gift. One day you will turn a future mate and that requires no error – it must last for ever. It is your duty to be fruitful and multiply so we can ensure the survival of the gift you were given.’ She drops her arm from Marissa, but her eyes remain locked on mine. I’m starting to see why Marissa didn’t get in trouble. Mother Superior seems more concerned with my lack of embracing the gift than Marissa’s overenthusiasm for it.
Her eyes wander down my body, taking in my dishevelled appearance. ‘Heavens, what muddy tragedy has happened to your uniform?’ Her voice cracks and her eyes bulge when they land on my shoes. ‘Did you dip your toes in white paint?’
‘They’re Converse sneakers.’
‘They’re responsible for the demerit I’m adding to your student file.’ She points to them, her nose turned up. ‘I never want to see those on school property again.’
‘Yes, Mother Superior.’
She nods and leans closer. ‘Now, how are your studies going? Have you had a successful turning yet?’ She glances at Marissa as she asks.
From the amount of times I’ve been sent to her office, you’d think she’d know.
I haven’t done it yet, and I don’t intend to.
Mother Superior clears her throat, waiting for my answer.
I hang my head and tug at my coat sleeve, wanting to tell her that I’m perfectly content to never test my ability. But instead I say, ‘No, your Reverence.’
She tsks and steps closer, a giant wall of black blocking me from the doors. ‘This troubles me, Rachel. Your mother was one of our best students – such a treasure. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t have developed your gift.’
There’s that word again. Gift. If it’s a gift, it’s a stupid one.
The bell rings, and Marissa shifts from one foot to the other.
‘You ladies better hurry or you’ll be shut out of homeroom.’ As soon as the words leave Mother Superior’s mouth, Marissa takes off, dashing around the nun and through the doors. I force a smile and follow after.
‘Miss Patel,’ Mother Superior says. ‘I want to see you in my office after school. Be prompt.’
I push down the wave of nerves and nod before continuing to the hall. Tuesday’s turning out to be the worst of the week.
My shoes squeak on the polished stone floor as I pass the housing wing and turn down the corridor of classrooms. Marissa’s way ahead of me and I realize I’m probably going to be late as I glance up at the domed ceilings painted with vivid scenes of angels and demons in a deadly war.
The halls, blue-striped wallpaper and wood trims, are peppered with art. Mostly historical pieces rescued from closing Greek museums, but there’s some custom work too, like the ceiling. I take a quick moment to study my favourite – a baroque of Eros gripping that magical golden arrow in one hand and a charcoal-black arrow in his other. His hair is curly like mine, his skin way paler, and his eyes are a striking blue. But the bow slung over his shoulder is what draws me to this particular painting: it’s carved with a celestial battle scene similar to the ceiling, but instead of angels and demons it’s the gods of Olympus versus man.
I continue to the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time, skidding on to the landing in front of a procession of Sisters guiding a classroom of first-year students to their homeroom. I feel for every single one of them. It’s hard enough being a normal thirteen-year-old, but for Hedonesses, thirteen means discovering we have an ungodly ability, that we’re monsters, and that everything we thought we knew about life and ourselves is one big lie. We’re torn from our normal schools and sent to ones masquerading as religious institutions so as not to be detected. Schools like St Valentine’s, which specialize in guiding us into our power.
First year is a whole lot of girls, with a whole lot of confusion and anger and tears – something that’s evident in the group before me. They take in every inch of the hall, trying to make sense of this new place, this new stage of their lives, and they walk in parallel lines, forced to hold hands with their recently assigned A.P.s.
The nuns stop to send a warning look – they can’t have my tardiness setting an example for the first years. I quicken my pace, less for fear of angering them and more because I can’t stand seeing the cries for help hiding in the eyes of the girls. It reminds me just how stuck I am.
When I finally make it to homeroom, the large oak doors shut. I take a moment to straighten my uniform, though it doesn’t really help, then ring the bell signalling to the class that a tardy student waits in the hall.
The door groans open, and Sister Anthony Christine peers out. Her hazel eyes fall on me and she offers a welcoming smile.
‘I’m sorry I’m late, Sister. I was—’
‘No need to give reason, Miss Bale’s already informed me. Please come in and take a seat.’ She motions me to a spot at the front of the class. I scan the room for Marissa to find her in our usual place at the back. She offers me a brief shrug before spreading her things on my section of the table.
As I take my new seat, the Sister hands me a paper. ‘The other students have already picked their end-of-year projects. I’m afraid you’re left with Joan of Arc or Queen Guinevere.’ She looks on with anticipation.
I chew the inside of my cheek, flicking my pencil back and forth, thinking over the choices. Truthfully, I don’t care which Hedoness I do my project on, but my teacher’s dedicated her life to preserving Hedoness traditions, and after this morning with Mother Superior I want to be careful with my response. The last thing I need is more demerits – failing transcripts from St Valentine’s would be even worse than regular ones, and I really don’t want to take school all over again.
‘Who will it be?’ The Sister clasps her hands.
‘Um, I’m not sure. Who do you suggest?’
She leans against her desk, crossing her hands in her lap, the shadow from her habit making her look like a sad doll. ‘Hmmm …’ She thinks out loud. ‘Joan used her gift to turn men’s will towards her cause and help end a war. She was not interested in love, per se. But Guinevere had men believe she was the most beautiful maiden in the world, when in truth she was a regular girl much like you.’ The girls in the class fight back chuckles. But they don’t bother me – I know I’m no Marissa. Still, I can’t help running a hand over my wild black waves.
The weight of everyone’s eyes on me, waiting for my answer, is too much. ‘I guess I’ll go with Joan of Arc,’ I say, knowing I’d rather be a fighter than a beauty queen.
‘Excellent choice.’ Sister Anthony Christine jots some notes in her planner. When she finishes, she stands, smooths out her habit, and turns to address the class. ‘Ladies, I’d like you to take the rest of this period to plan your essays and presentations. If you need any resources, please come to me for a hall pass before leaving for the library.’
I flip open my notebook and glance around – most of the class has already set to work. The girl next to me, Paisley, leans over. I know her a little outside of school. Our mothers were A.P.s when they went here, and they’ve kept in touch over the years. Plus we’re the only students whose parents aren’t from the US – my ma’s from India and my dad’s from England. Her parents are South African. Paisley’s nice, and I think we would have been real friends if it wasn’t school policy to only be friends with our A.P.s.
‘Did you see My Vampire Alien Life last night?’ she asks, her accent a more musical and wild version of my father’s British one. She tugs on her necklace – a charm of a spaceship with vampire fangs.
‘Not yet.’ I smile at her.
‘OMG, you have to. It’s the new it show about hot vampires that come from outer space and go on dates with high school gi—’
‘Paisley.’ Sister Anthony Christine flashes a warning look. ‘Just because your A.P. isn’t in class today doesn’t mean you can disturb Miss Patel.’
‘Yes, Sister.’ Paisley nods and leans against her hand.
It feels like hours go by before the bell finally rings. I glance at my notebook, where I’ve doodled the words ‘Joan of Arc’ and ‘fighter’ over and over in twisted writing. Sighing to myself, I pack my books and leave for the next class – Turning 101. As I walk past Sister Anthony Christine’s desk she looks up at me, disapproval flashing in her eyes.
‘Hey,’ Marissa calls from the hall, giving me an excuse to rush past the Sister. ‘I got Marilyn. Rita tried to claim her but I gave her the dirtiest stare.’ Marissa hooks my elbow and chatters away as we walk towards second block. ‘She caved so fast it was hilarious. You should’ve seen it.’
She stops to wait for my reply as a pair of A.P.s skip past us down the hall, heads together, giggling about their projects. I look up, trying to think of what Marissa said.
‘Nice.’ I force a smile, hoping it’s the right answer.
‘You’re not even listening.’ She watches the girls until they bound around a corner.
‘I’m trying, it’s just—’
‘What?’ She turns back, somehow managing to make one word a weapon.
My grip tightens on my books. ‘After that guy this morning, then Mother Superior …’ I sigh. ‘My mind’s someplace else today.’
She crosses her arms. ‘It sucks being your A.P. sometimes.’
I’m too shocked to respond. Of the two of us, I thought I’d be the one saying that.
‘I just wanted you to be happy for me,’ she says. ‘For my new purse from my mom, the hot guy I turned, for Marilyn. But all you care about is yourself.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
With a flick of her hair and a scowl, Marissa turns and stomps away, leaving me feeling like the worst A.P. ever.
I can’t be a normal girl, and I suck at being a Hedoness.
Maybe Marissa’s right. Maybe I have been self-focused, and though I don’t get why those things are important to her, they obviously are. She’s stood by me for the last three years of struggling with school. The least I can do is be here for her now. It’s what every good A.P. would do. Besides, somewhere along the way she’s become more than just an A.P. – she really has become a good friend.
‘Riss?’ I call after her. ‘Riss, wait up.’
As I enter the classroom behind her I cringe. Seated quietly on a bench at the front of class, where they’ve been told to wait since yesterday, are the three missing boys from the news report this morning. Though, unlike their serious headshot images, they have giant smiles now. Forced. False. But smiles nonetheless.
They wave and perk up when they see their girls. Paisley approaches her victim, a boy with the same shade of red hair as my father. He nearly stumbles getting off the bench to greet her.
‘How was your night?’ she asks. ‘Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?’ At least she cares about his wellbeing, in a way.
‘Making you happy makes me comfortable,’ he says with a giant smile.
I roll my eyes and turn my back so I don’t have to see the rest of their exchange.
Marissa’s already spread her things over my usual spot next to her. I ignore the message and plop down in the chair. She gives me one of her dramatic glares.
I force a smile. ‘You got Marilyn, that’s awesome. What are you going to do for your presentation?’
She crosses her arms and leans into the desk. ‘Like you care.’
The bell rings before I can reply, and Sister Hannah Marie enters.
‘Good morning, ladies. I trust you’ve come prepared to learn.’ Her voice is all sing-song which means we’re most likely having a pop quiz or a live demonstration. I hope to the gods it isn’t either, but if it has to be one, I’m praying for the quiz. ‘Why don’t you push your tables back, grab some floor mats and make a circle at the front.’
I groan – floor mats mean demonstrations. After this morning, this is the last thing I want to do. I debate excusing myself to the restroom or the sickroom. But of all the Sisters, Hannah Marie loves her job the most. Her eagerness to teach often results in me with a detention. If I don’t want to be sent to Mother Superior’s office early, I’ll have to at least look interested in the lesson.
‘How did your assignments from last class go?’ Sister Hannah Marie asks, surveying the room and taking a mental attendance as we get to work setting up our mats.
Marissa’s first to raise her hand. She kicks off her heels and stands on the edge of the squishy foam, waiting to be called.
‘Miss Bale,’ the Sister acknowledges with a nod.
Marissa’s head jerks up and she flashes one of her pageant-winning grins. ‘I turned a boy this morning. A cute one.’
The class bursts into a fit of giggles and Sister Hannah Marie claps her hands in joy at the news. I force a smile so as not to look too out of place.
She walks down the aisle to our corner of floor. ‘How did it go?’
Marissa’s posture straightens. ‘It seemed to affect him more than anyone I’ve turned so far.’ There’s a pressure in her gaze, a longing for perfection, and it freaks me out.
‘That’s splendid news, Marissa,’ the Sister says. ‘You’re well on your way towards top marks with all your accumulating turning credits. Where is he now?’
Marissa’s smile slips. ‘I haven’t been n
otified of any visitors and it’s been over an hour. Shouldn’t he be here already?’
‘For some it takes longer.’
It’s hard to believe that I’m listening to them talk about taking the will of someone so casually. But then again, there are three boys sitting at the front of class waiting to be called on for experimentation. I roll my eyes at the absurdity of it and Sister Hannah Marie notices. She gives me a warning look before returning to the board to jot down some notes.
‘It is important to learn to control your release. When you graduate you should be able to determine the amount of force required for the length of a turning you need. If you do not focus, you can under-turn your target. Too much, too soon can result in a very powerful but very short turning of a couple days. If you focus your release, you can turn someone for ever.’ She diligently writes her points on the board, making sure to underline the key elements.
I can’t help shuddering. I’ve seen someone who’s been turned for ever – it isn’t as glamorous as Sister Hannah Marie makes it sound.
The Sister stops writing and spins around, clapping for our attention. A cloud of chalk dust floats from her hands, sparkling in the colourful light from the stained-glass window as it drifts to the floor. ‘It seems to me, Marissa, that you released too strongly and didn’t control where you were targeting.’ She returns to the board, rewriting CONTROL in big letters and circling it.
‘Now, class, can anyone tell me what Marissa felt when she released her gift into the man?’
‘That part sucked,’ Marissa says, getting another round of laughter. She smiles, proud of herself, and takes a seat beside me on the mat.
Everyone in class has a hand raised, except me. It earns another look of disapproval from Marissa, and Sister Hannah Marie.
The Sister points to Paisley, kneeling on a mat a foot away, waving a little too keenly. ‘Yes?’
Paisley jumps to her feet, the momentum popping a button on her cardigan. ‘It’s painful. Almost like when your arm is asleep, or like a bee sting, or like vampire venom.’
The class giggles and Sister Hannah Marie purses her lips. ‘If vampires were a real thing, I’m sure it would be. Thank you for your contribution, Paisley.’ She looks to the other side of the room. ‘Now, can anyone tell me why it’s painful to release their gift?’
