Page 6 of The Art of Exiley

“So, you’re a teacher?” I ask.

“I guess you could call it that. What do you do? I’m guessing you’re still in school.” His smile is wide, and by the way he says “school,” I know he means college and that he’s not going to be comfortable when he realizes I’m only a senior in high school.

“Um… yeah, still in school. I’m on winter break,” I respond.

“What are you studying? Wait, let me guess… art history?” Still with that smile and those oh-so-playful dimples. I really don’t want to, but I know I need to tell him.

“Actually, um, Michael, I’m still in high school.”

His thigh that is pressed against mine tenses. His eyes widen, and he assesses my appearance much like I did his a moment before.

“How old are you?”

“Almost eighteen.” Depending on what constitutes as “almost.”

“Oh.” He sits up straight, shifting over so none of his body is in contactwith mine. I feel cold air replace his warmth. “I should’ve… I just assumed… I mean, a smart, beautiful—uh, traveling on your own…”

The bench is small, and we’re still very close, and the music is loud, and it’s just too much for me. I stand, my napkin fluttering to the floor. “Maybe let’s go outside and get some air?”

“Good idea.” As Michael leaves some euros on the table, I rush into the cool night. He follows behind me tentatively. We dodge a couple of smokers and lean against a stretch of the cast-iron gate. The leaves of a dying potted plant sag along the rails, crunchy and brown. I busy my fingers by massaging the stem of the plant. Michael starts to nibble his nails, then catches himself and instead pulls a Swiss Army–style multi-tool from his pocket. He flips the bottle opener open and shut, open and shut. We both look at the ground instead of at each other.

He called me smart and beautiful.

I’m too soft, too frizzy to meet the standard definition of beautiful. I have some nice features: large brown eyes and a button nose, a butt that’s too big, or just right, depending on who you ask. Average pretty. But I understand that there is a distinct difference between pretty and beautiful.

Unfortunately, “average pretty” has never been good enough for Kor, but Michael seems to like it.

Not that it matters anymore. The disappointment burns deep. I guess I should have known Michael was too good to be true.

“So how old are you?” I finally ask him.

“Twenty-one.”

Okay, that’s notthatbad. I went out with a senior during my freshman year of high school, and he must be about twenty-one by now. Kor’s already twenty. But the active distance Michael is keeping between us makes it clear that my age is a hard no for him.

I continue fiddling with the plant, wrapping it around the bars of thegate. It brings that tingling warmth to the skin between my fingers, a feeling I’m so used to suppressing that I immediately remove my hand from the leaves. I don’t quite know where to look or what to think as the silence descends between us, the buzz from earlier now completely unbuzzed, doused with a cold bucket of awkward.

The easy thing to do would be to walk away. But I can’t. No matter how disappointed I may feel right now, the fact that Michael is here to recruit students is not something I can ignore. I need to establish whether he’s who I’ve been sent to find.

Despite my instincts warring against the action, I reach out to touch the plant again; I can use it to help confirm my suspicions. I normally try to avoid the tingling in my hands at all costs, but now I do the opposite and let it flow freely. As I do, I pry for more information.

“Twenty-one seems pretty young to be a teacher at a graduate level,” I say. There’s no way he’s teaching anyone younger; that piano player had been a full-on adult.

Michael blushes at this and looks down as he says, “I was the youngest, uh, graduate in my field in the past two decades.”

Handsome, sweet, and a prodigy. Figures.

I’m itchy with nerves as I feel the warmth still flowing from my hand into the plant. I can’t help but hear my mother in my head warning me that someone is watching, my father telling me to take deep breaths and hide it.

But when Michael glances at the plant curling around my fingers, his eyes light with wonder.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Just adjusting the stem so it will have better sunlight in the morning.”

“Ada, look at the vine. It was practically dead a few moments ago. Now it looks one sunny day away from pollinating.”

“I’ve always been good with plants,” I say. It’s true, but that’s not all this is.This is me using the abilities that make me different. The abnormality that, if I play my cards right, could get me the invite I’ve been sent across the globe for. The curse that, until recently, I was convinced no one must know about but now may finally prove useful for something.

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