Page 19 of Self Studies

A piece of old-fashioned chalk rested between the speaker's long knobby fingers. She turned from the top of a tall chalkboard to address me. A thin green flapper dress accentuated her sunken boney frame. Behind her, in curly writing, the name “Alchemist Blickenstaff” was scrawled across the top left corner of the chalkboard.

“You can join Derek, Rocks, and Deadeye,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Their potions can’t get any worse.” She pointed at a table in the middle of the room. The three boys looked mortified while the class laughed. I didn’t dwell on it and rushed to the workstation. “And I suggest you remove that hoodie before you knock something over or set yourself on fire.”

A loud laugh barked out behind me—the sounds of a few more pictures snapping grated on my nerves. Alchemist Blickenstaff’s beady, snake-like gaze scanned the room. A pulse of yellow flew in every direction from her shoulders. It washed through me like a gentle breeze, though a few people jumped. A small chorus of phones powering down rang through the space.

“Phones are off during my class,” Alchemist Blickenstaff hissed. “One more hint of those time-wasting machines, and my next spell fries them all.”

The angry at the world alchemist turned her attention back to the chalkboard.

I didn’t remove my hoodie, though I pulled it tighter to me.

She started writing. Squeaky chalk echoed in the space, making my ears hurt.

“Turn to page seventy-five in your recipe book,” Alchemist Blickenstaff called out. One of the boys started turning pages as if his life depended on it. “Today, we’re making potions to bring forward your inner beast.” She turned to face us. “No. Shape-shifting and werewolves are not real. And this is not a polymorph potion. This potion will turn you into the spirit of your inner self, the beast which mimics your very essence.”

This wasn’t new to me. I glanced around to see the reaction of my peers. Although a few of them seemed excited, most still seemed too terrified of the Alchemist to react.

“Why does this potion exist?” Alchemist Blickenstaff continued. “Primarily so we can harvest pieces of ourselves, our essence, for powerful spells. But also, so we can know who we are.”

The woman glided forward. With every step, her height got shorter. My eyes widened, and I leaned forward excitedly.

“She can shrink her size?” I’d mumbled the question out loud before my brain caught up.

“Really?” one of the boys next to me asked, rolling his eyes.

I didn’t look away from the ever-shortening teacher. On my other side, a different kid, his voice a tad lower, whispered. “She’s walking down a little set of stairs.”

Heat flushed my cheeks, and I pulled my hood over my face. Of course she was.

“This is important.” Alchemist Blickenstaff continued. “Control and creativity. The two sides of magic. You’re all here because you’ve either gained magic with no concept of what it was and hence no control. Or, possibly, you’ve done something hideous enough that the world thinks you’re a danger.”

My eyebrows knitted together, but the woman plowed on before I could think too hard about that.

“Knowing your inner beast will help you know your nature, your limits, and yourself. Now, begin. You have two hours.”

Noise and motion burst through the students in the room. The two boys on either side of me rushed away from the table. Alchemist Blickenstaff sat at her desk. She opened a large Tupperware container filled with pasta salad and began eating.

I blinked a few times, her sudden meal seeming out of place.

“No books for this class either?” a familiar voice asked.

I turned away from my new odd teacher.

The kid who’d given me the cloth at the end of history gave me an awkward smile and shuffled his feet. I nodded, though I wasn’t sure if he saw it. The freckles covering his cheeks light up with his smile, and his short sandy blonde hair bounced.

“Ah, no books,” I said out loud after an awkward moment.

The warnings not to make friends or ask too many questions fired off in my head, but I needed information. I didn’t want to be alone anymore.

It took me a moment to get the words out. “Who might you be?”

The kid gave me an odd look but smiled. “Derek. Son of Garrick,” he said in a fake deep voice. When I didn’t laugh, he added. “It was a joke, just Derek’s fine. You can use mine, not my name, my book, that is.”

I pulled on my braid. “Ah-okay, thanks.”

One of the other two boys returned. A bit short to delicately set his armload down on the waist-high table, he dumped his collection of Tupperware before grabbing a tall stool and clambering up. Derek joined him, and the two began discussing the best way to go about the potion.

Moving my hood down, I opened up one of the containers and took a sniff. “This is Thyme,” I said, missing my earrings which enhanced my five basic senses for this type of work. “It’s not even part of the recipe. Why’s it on our table?”

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