Page 104 of A Heart of Bluestone

He expected I would stay behind to talk about it, the assignments that were handed out at the beginning of the lesson. Mine, stained red with one of the lowest grades I’ve ever gotten in Star Theory.

Without looking over his shoulder, Eric says, “I had a run through your assignment last night.”

He turns to me. A hint of sympathy casts his gaze to the red-marked paper crunched in my hand.

I trace his stare, and though I’ve been glaring at the assignment for most of the lesson passed, my stomach drops at the reminder of all those notes.

It takes everything in me to not groan in despair—or to kick him right in the dick.

Not the best approach.

So I grapple with my pride, my mood, my indignation, and I swallow down the bad words with a gulp.

“Eric,” I start, and his gaze lifts to mine, a flash in them. “Mr Harling,” I correct myself and move for the desk. I set down the assignment. “I’m usually… upgraded.”

His brow furrows. An unspoken question.

I unload my books from weighing down my arm. I slip them onto the edge of his desk, then draw back.

“At Bluestone—for years, since I got here…” There’s a nervousness in my tightening throat, in the dash of my tongue over my dry lips, in the tug at the sleeve of my cardigan. “With my…handicap,” I concede, and dig my nail into a small tear I just made on the wrist of my cardigan, “I… Well, most masters will account for that.Compensate,” I add, delicately.

His frown remains. “You are given a higher grade than you earned?”

My scoff turns into a fleeting smile.

Suppose that’s one way to put it.

Eric wanders to the side of the desk.

He sets his hand on the edge of the wood. “Master Milton mentioned no concessions to me,” he says, unsure. Not unsure of what I claim, but unsure of how to answer.

I see that in the nervous pinch of his fingers, like he’s pressing his nail into the pad of his thumb.

“Does this apply to all areas of your study?” he asks.

I run my tongue over my thinned lips, then bite down on them for a beat.

Talk about awkward.

Before I can answer, he draws in a breath that floods his chest, then loosens it. “I don’t plan on granting such provisions.”

My lashes flutter, once, twice, on the bleeding assignment. A swell of violence consumes my chest.

I steady it with a counterattack. “Consider theprovisionsless about my surname, and more about the lack of magic I need to do well in school. Like the good old saying, I get anA for effort.”

Eric’s smile is forced.

That look tells me one thing. An answer he doesn’t voice.

He might as well just say it outright:‘If it weren’t for your surname, there would be no A for effort.’

“Well,” he starts and buries his hands in his pockets, “we could begin your tutorship tomorrow and…” his words come out slow, his tone wary, and he’s careful in choosing his words, “achieve…moreorganicgrades.”

Or I kick you in the dick.

Smack your head into the chalkboard.

Drown you in the snow. Suffocate? I don’t know.

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