by Kat Zaccard
She actually looked surprised. “No way. We’re, like, ALL lactose intolerant after age seven.”
I wasn’t sure quite what she meant, but I had read an article about humans not being able to digest lactose after seven due to some gene that turns off or something because now we have such a global market for food. Maybe this was a brainy, cutting-edge school? I shrugged and went to get some eggs.
As I sat back down, my plate laden with eggs, more bacon, and some fresh fruit, and said, “I guess I am hungry. It’s funny, because I already ate a bowl of cereal in my room.”
Shea looked up at me. “Oh, right, you would have a suite. I can go if I’m bothering you.”
I was surprised. I guess there was a hierarchy I didn’t understand here. “No way, you’re the first normal person I’ve met. I mean, have you noticed they’re, like, all staring at me?” I nodded my head behind me to a table on the left that was filled with six beautiful girls in designer clothes, all staring daggers at me.
Shea laughed a little uneasily. “Honestly, Alice, I think they’re staring at me. I have a first-floor room. Worse still, I’m an orphan, so I’m, like, out of your friend-league or something.” She shrugged like she didn’t care, but I was never good with class-ism. Or most of the –isms, really.
“I’m an orphan, too.” The word felt strange to me. Until that moment, it never occurred to me that it was true. But this was the place my birth parents had selected for me before I was born. Even though I knew nothing about them, their non-presence seemed to be lingering around me.
Shea looked just a little cross. “You have parents,” she grumbled.
“Oh, Shea, I’m sorry, you’re right. That was insensitive of me.” I didn’t know how to ask her anything else without being more of an ass.
Luckily, Shea seemed the type to forgive readily. “It’s okay. I suppose you are technically an orphan, too. But you’re lucky to know your family name. You know your Clan. I never got parents, adoptive or otherwise. I was raised in an orphanage outside of Seattle. I don’t even know my real name, but when I turned fifteen last year, I was sent here and renamed Shea Winterstone from Shea Doe. I guess the headmistress worked things out with the orphanage to give me a full scholarship. I really like it here, but it’s a lot to get used to, and well … not everyone is as accepting of my background as you seem to be.” She subconsciously glanced over her shoulder at the table of decidedly mean girls.
“Hey, I think a person makes their own way in the world, regardless of where they come from.” I smiled, and Shea smiled back.
“Nurture vs. Nature?” she quipped.
“What you got and what you do with it,” was my retort.
A large gong sounded from across the room, and Den Mother Grissle spoke to the group. “All right, ladies. You will notice our new student, Miss Alice Luna Nacht.” Did she have to say it?
“Please be welcoming, as many of you recall your first day here as initiates.” Knowing nods peppered the room, but her emphasis was lost on me. A few girls smiled or waved at me, though most simply stared like I was some anomaly, especially the six girls I’d noticed glaring at Shea and me earlier. I tried to look pleasant, but the attention was so not my forte. I could feel my cheeks warming.
“All right. Miss Reynolds, you will show Miss Luna Nacht around this morning, I have a note to excuse you from being tardy for fourth period since that is the only class you do not share. Please see that Miss Luna finds the Headmaster’s office before lunch. That will be all. The rest of you, please be discreet, as Miss Nacht has only just turned sixteen two weeks ago.”
I looked to Shea for an explanation. “That’s a little weird, what did she—”
But Shea was already clearing her plate. “See you around, Alice.” She flashed a brilliant smile and headed off.
“Ahem, Miss Luna? I am Jillian Reynolds.” I turned to see one of the Bratz doll’s smiling down at me. Her sheet of ice-blonde hair was pulled up in a severe ponytail, her light blue eyes held no warmth, and she said her name as if I should know or care who she was.
“Hi Jillian, I’m Alice Nacht.” Could everyone in this place drop my middle name?
She looked at me with what almost appeared to be pity. “Right.” She drew out the word with her deceptively sweet southern drawl and I could tell she was itching to say more. “Well, anyway, let’s go. First period is Drawing.” She turned to leave.
“Crap, I forgot my art supplies. Do we have time to go up and get them?” Her eyes narrowed. I don’t know, maybe it was because I said “crap”?
“No, you can borrow things today.” She turned on her heel, not waiting for me to follow, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her.
I gathered my bags and started to get my plate. She turned back and said with a huff, “Just leave it, we have staff for that,” then turned back and trotted down the wide staircase to the first floor.
I shrugged and quickly followed, not wanting to be late.
We headed outside and crossed the lawn to Mt. Henley Manor. At this point, I shouldn’t have been surprised by the opulence of the place, but the manor was beyond glorious. Black marble floors with dark wood paneling lined the halls. Huge chandeliers dangled from vaulted ceilings, and more incredible art hung high on the walls.
“This is the East wing,” announced Jillian. “We are not allowed in the West wing; it’s for college students and faculty only. Come along, our class is down this hall to the left. Room 102.”
The girl was a speed walker and I practically jogged to keep up. The halls were a little crowded, but the area was so large, I got to class without getting jostled once. Jillian sat down at a large table, and I joined her. I felt a little more comfortable inside the art room with the familiar jars of paint, kiln, and student art hung high on the walls above posters displaying the color wheel and reproductions of famous artwork. Yeah, the corners of the room had white marble columns, and the floor was not linoleum, but it felt more like a classroom than the hallway felt like a school.
A black-haired boy with dark skin and startling green eyes sat next to me and smiled. I smiled back, but before we could introduce ourselves, the bell rang. Our teacher entered the room from his back office. He was a large man, not fat, just huge. Thick arms and a barrel chest, he had a head of shocking bright red hair. It occurred to me then that I’d noticed a lot of redheads at the school. I liked that, given my wavy auburn curls. His eyes were pools of onyx and he stared right at me.
“Welcome to Mount Henley, Miss Luna. A pleasure. I am Mungo Frasier, at your service ma’am,” he said in a thick Scottish accent. Then to the class, before I could correct my name, he called out, “Now, we are studying the human figure. Class, take out your notes.” He lectured for a bit on Da Vinci and showed slides of nude figures as he spoke. I was blushing as red as his hair, but not one adolescent boy snickered and no one else seemed embarrassed. I was praying that no nude models would step out of his office for us to draw when he flicked the lights back on. Luckily, he told us all to take out our wooden models and begin to draw whatever inspired us.
The rest of the class began, and I looked helplessly at Jillian, who was studiously ignoring me.
“Here,” said the boy next to me. He pushed his box of pencils toward me and tore off a few sheets of paper to pass my way. A pretty gold chain hung around his wrist; a small charm I couldn’t quite make out jingled a little. “You can share my model. Is this position all right?” he asked, adjusting the wooden figurine.
I looked at him gratefully. “Thanks! I’m Alice.”
“I know.” He smiled, teasingly.
“And you are…?”
He chuckled a little.
Suddenly, Jillian snapped at him. “Adam, know your place!”
“Yes’m.” Adam looked mock contrite at Jillian, then to me, he said, “I’m Adam Abernathe. Can you believe that’s my given name?” He shook his head with a look of utter despair.
I laughed at his expression, but then turned to Jilli
an. “Jeez, Jillian. The South lost, if you haven’t noticed.” I just hated people acting like bigots. I once punched a girl last year for teasing a classmate about being gay. Somehow, I was the one who got suspended!
Jillian ignored me. Adam laughed. “Oh, she’s not acting superior to me because I’m black,” he said. “It’s because my family isn’t as rich as hers or royal like—”
“Adam!” interrupted the teacher, who seemed to appear suddenly behind our table. “With all that chatting, I suppose you have finished your drawing already, have ye? A word please, Mr. Abernathe?”
Adam went with the teacher to his office, and when he returned, his spirit was no less diminished.
I tried to ask him what that was all about, but he just shook his head with a smile and bent over his paper to work.
This place is weird, I thought.
When the bell rang, I thanked Adam again and handed back his pencil. He handed me his drawing. I gasped. He’d drawn me in profile head bent low over my paper, a look of concentration on my face.
“Wow,” was all I could manage. My own anonymous figure looked flat and childish compared to his drawing.
He grinned at me a little sheepishly. “Welcome to Mount Henley. See ya around, Alice.”
Behind me, I heard Jillian scoff. “How pathetic.” I was annoyed by her attitude. She seemed to act personally offended anytime someone was nice to me. She took off without a word, and again I had to scurry after her before I lost her in the crowd. Her swinging gold ponytail stuck out among the sea of mostly brown, black, and red heads, so I managed to follow her as she twisted and turned down hallways, up a flight of stairs and into our next classroom. She sat down at a desk by a few girls I recognized from her breakfast table. I was sick of her, and happy to see Shea waving at me from the other side of the room. I cut across to sit near her instead.
“Hey!” she said in her chipper voice. “How was first period?”
I showed her Adam’s drawing. She smiled up at me. “You’re making friends all across the board, aren’t you? Isn’t he talented?” The note of admiration in her voice made me wonder if she had a crush on Adam. I wanted to ask, but hesitated. Was it any of my business? At least she didn’t seem annoyed or jealous about the drawing.
Sadly for me, this current class was in French, and I didn’t understand a single thing said for the next fifty minutes. I copied down what I saw on the board, at least getting that we were conjugating verbs. That was familiar from Spanish class, so I got the gist of what we were doing, even if I had no clue what the verb meant. I tried to mimic the sounds when the class started, repeating the teacher, but by the glances and giggles from Shea, I was failing miserably. She, however, sounded fluent.
By the end of class, I was harried, to say the least. “Will you help me with this later?” I asked Shea. “I have no idea what our homework is.”
Shea smiled and said she was happy to help. I went to find Jillian and realized she had left already. I dug my schedule out of my bag to see what class I had next. Geometry in Room 334. Okay, I could figure this out. Go up a floor and follow the numbers. I headed down the hall, back toward the staircase we had taken earlier. I made my way up and realized I had a long way to go to find the class. The halls cleared and the bell rang. Great, now I’m late. I hope I don’t get detention. I wasn’t sure how strict this place was, but considering the last teacher had not said one single word in English other than “Alice Luna” when she, I assumed, introduced me to the class, I wasn’t ready to find out.
Luckily, I noticed a hallway to the right had a sign pointing to Rooms 330-339. I entered class, flushed and breathing heavy. The only available seat was in the front row, of course. The teacher was a stern-looking woman with close-cropped black hair, copper skin, and chocolate eyes. She frowned at me but continued to lecture on polygons. I heard a snicker from the back of the room, but decided not to acknowledge Jillian’s presence. I was pretty good at Geometry, so I felt much better after this class than the last. When the bell rang, I didn’t even bother to find Jillian. I knew we didn’t have fourth period together anyway. Looking at my schedule, I was relieved to see that my next class was on the same floor, just a few doors down.
I made it to class with time to spare. I was disappointed to see neither Shea nor Adam in class. I would have thought with so few students, we’d have more classes together.
A tall, thin man entered the room. He looked like a professor with his tweed coat and (for real!) leather patches at the elbows. His trim beard was the same salt and pepper as the rest of his hair. He had bushy eyebrows and a serious demeanor. He seemed distracted as he began his lecture, and I was relieved he hadn’t pointed me out like the rest of the staff had that morning.
I took out my notebook, wishing I’d brought more than one as he began to scribble on the blackboard. I’d have to transfer my notes to separate notebooks that evening if I was going to keep organized. I wondered where I could get a few more pens, notebooks, and other things I needed. The last two classes had assigned reading homework, and I didn’t have any text books.
I looked up at the board just as the teacher started talking.
“The history of the werewolf has been so muddied by Hollywood that most humans find the concept to be frightening. The misnomer of ‘monster’ has been applied over the ages, but as you’ve learned in health class, much of that misinformation comes from legends about the hybridization of werewolves and humans. The fear that being bitten by a werewolf to become a hybrid is perhaps the most amusing of myths.”
Several people in class chuckled, and I laughed with them. This teacher had an interesting teaching style, but I feared I was in the wrong class. I double checked my schedule, feeling a little embarrassed. I was certain I’d gotten the right door, but this appeared to be mythology, not history. I wanted to raise my hand to ask, but as the new girl, I knew that was a recipe for disaster. I didn’t feel like being ridiculed, so I decided to stay quiet and take the absence from the class I was missing.
“The history of werewolves in America is less well-known, given that werewolves were present long before the colonization of the Americas, and they were less organized than European, Siberian, and Asian werewolves. Since this is history of the North America, we’ll leave the discussion of European caste systems for another day. The earliest written evidence of werewolves in North America comes from Norse mythology. It is well-known that several groups of people traveled to the Americas prior to Columbus. Japanese and Polynesian cultures explored South America on the pacific side of the continents, and later, Vikings explored parts of Canada and what is today the United States on the Atlantic side.
“In Old Norse tales, we gleam evidence that those early explorers encountered a pack of wolves we would consider rather primitive today. They traveled and hunted in packs often led by a female alpha, and many times they cast out young female pups to seek packs of their own. This practice has declined over the years. Especially in recent centuries, given the dwindling number of werewolves today, as families stay closer knit to ensure the continuation of their bloodlines.
“Now, who can tell me when the tribal packs dissolved their autonomy to become one Great Pack made up of many clans?”
Several hands went up, and I couldn’t help admiring this teacher’s approach to mythology. It was fun, if a little strange. These were stories I’d never heard before, and I couldn’t help wondering if this was a Canadian thing.
A boy named Carter in the back of the room was called upon. “The Great Pack formed in 1757, prior to the American Revolution. During the war, many clans were called to fight and made peace with each other to protect the species. Humans stopped hunting wolves when they had the bigger threat of England. It wasn’t until 1784 that the Canadian clans joined the Pack at the Wolf Pack Convention in Toronto.”
I giggled a little, thinking this was a joke.
“Something funny, Miss…?” The teacher was writing Carter’s dates on the board and had his back t
o me.
“Miss Nacht, sir. No, I’m sorry to interrupt.” I could feel my cheeks burning as half the class turned to stare at me.
The teacher turned, a look of surprise in his eyes. “Ah, Miss Luna Nacht. Welcome to Mount Henley. Truly a gift to have you here. However, I think you are supposed to be in another class.”
“Yes, sir. I’m supposed to be in history, not mythology.” I must have said something wrong, because everyone was snickering at me now.
“Oh no, Miss Luna. This is history, but you are supposed to have an orientation before joining us. Who was your guide today?”
I really didn’t want to get Jillian in trouble, even if she had ditched me, but this guy obviously took his subject way too seriously. “Umm, I lost track of Jillian after my last period.”
“Of course. Miss Reynolds. Though I’m a little surprised you couldn’t sniff her out; her perfume is rather distinct. Please go to the office on the first floor. I’ll give you a pass.” The class wasn’t trying to hide their laughter anymore. Mortified and uncertain what was so funny, I gathered my things to leave.
As I took the pass from the teacher, he said, “I am Professor Wells. After orientation, you can rejoin my class next week.” He had the same bright jade eyes that Adam had. “We are so pleased to have the last Luna here with us.”
The last Luna? He knew my parents? I was dying to ask him more, but I knew better than to linger. Plus, I was embarrassed by my ignorance that this perfect stranger knew more about my family than I did. And come to think of it, he probably wasn’t the only one. Other members of the faculty knew my former last name, and it seemed like it wasn’t just because of the prepaid tuition. Maybe one of my birth parents went to school here?
I headed down the empty halls, making my way to the office. On the second floor, I heard the familiar sound of basketballs. I passed the gymnasium and saw several boys and girls in a heated match. I stopped to watch for a moment, impressed by the scoreboard that read 54-49. The kids were tearing up the court like the NBA. Damn, I thought, I hope I don’t have gym today. A girl on the sidelines caught my eye and waved. It was Shea, wearing a blue jersey, with her curly hair pulled back in a ponytail. I waved back, glad to have a friend in this place, and glad she was on the winning team, though the score kept bouncing back and forth so quickly, I didn’t know if that meant much. It was already 60-57. She sneaked a peek at the unaware coach and sidled over to the doorway.
