Page 12 of Validus Vale Academy 1
As we finally reach the main building, I pause again. Shit, this is it. Am I really doing this? The last time I’d seen Donovan and Wes, I had shiny, love-filled eyes (and was wearing the lottery student-intensive uniform—a very reasonable maroon with pink thread).
Now I’m piggy-eyed and sweating in brown polyester.
“Theo? You OK? I know it all looks intimidating, but we’ll stick together.” Willow gives me a look that I know is meant to be reassuring, but for all her confidence, I can see she’s frayed at the edges as well. Her inner thoughts flash into my brain.—Remember what Gramps said; I’m a Bloomhower and Bloomhower’s never back down from a battle—
What I wouldn’t give to have a loving relative givemepep talks. Tilting my chin slightly in mock-assurance, I take one step forward, then another, until I’m through the threshold. The echoing foyer, filled with marble pillars, chandeliers, and plaster molding in various scrolls and flourishes, channels the throngs towards the assembly hall.
We wait at the bottleneck, and I crane my neck to look inside. The focal point of the room is a long, raised stage, framed by heavy, velvet curtains. Two dozen professors are sitting on it in rows of chairs, mostly chatting. But one sprawls, reading a book, ignoring everyone around him.
“That guy,” I mutter, as we wait for the crowd to start moving again.
“Who?” asks Duncan.
“The one on the end, Professor Feniks? He picked me up from the airport and was not exactly welcoming.” I’m turning my eyes away when suddenly an elbow slams into my back.
“And what the fuck do we have here?”
Shitballs.
I’d know that whiny superior tone anywhere. Without needing to turn around, I easily guess Jordan Singleton-Smith is behind me. “All alone?” she sneers. “No surprise there. How long did it take for the twins to dump your trashy, worthless ass?”
Jordan puts her hands on my shoulders, spinning me around. Grabbing my chin with her dangerous pink nails, she forces me to look up into her perfect, awful face. “You should quit right now if you know what’s good for you,” she hisses. “You’ll never belong here.”
How can someone so beautiful be filled with so much venom? It doesn’t seem fair. She pinches my face harder, and any second, I expect to feel small crescent moons of blood forming on my chin. “You won’t last a week. But while you are, keep looking over your shoulder. It’s not just me coming for you. Cosmo is going to destroy you. I’ll be in the front row watching.”
Gulp. Ido notwant to think about Cosmo Drakeward.
“Evening, ladies.” Little Professor Bilderblast suddenly stands between me and Jordan, forcing the Elite Queen Bee to retract her talons. “Let’s all take our seats now, shall we? Ms. Singleton-Smith, may I escort you?” Jordan, thankfully, has no choice but to take his arm.
I watch gratefully as the professor leads her to the Elite seating. Willow brings a hand up to my chin and examines it for damage. “Wow,” she whispers. “What a bitch. What did you do to deservethat? And who’s Cosmo?”—that was weird, how does Theo know her?—
“Long story,” I mumble, not wanting to get into how I’d become her number one target as soon as Donovan and Wes had taken an interest in me.
“You’ll have to fill me in sometime,” Willow says, giving me a hug. “I guess she thinks she’s all that because her dad is the WMO President.”
“What? Jordan’s dad?” No wonder she can get away with whatever she likes. “I knew her family was in politics, but not that powerful,” I sigh.
“Yeah, it’s true,” Duncan nods. “The last WMO President dropped dead a couple of months ago, and Alistair Singleton-Smith got voted in. Huge shocker to everyone.” He pauses, then adds, “Especially as his initials spell ASS.”
“Dare you to say that to his face,” Willow grins. “He’d probably have you beheaded.”
“Or iron-maidened,’ Duncan says.
Willow smacks him over the head. “You cannot turn iron maiden into a verb; your verbication is getting out of hand.”
While they bicker, I close my eyes and take some deep breaths. The cacophony of student thoughts pounding through my cerebellum is almost too much.
—Nice rack—who’s that?—where’s my bag?—ooh, he’s nice—somebody farted—hungry—
“Hurry up, duds!” We’re jostled from behind as the crowd starts moving again.
“Where do we sit?” I ask Willow, forcing dozens of different brain waves out of my head. “Are there assigned seats?”
“This is the first assembly, but, um, according to the handbook,” Duncan shifts from one foot to the other uncomfortably, “we sit in the front row.”
“Front row?” says Willow. The chairs are all filled with Ordinarii kids. “There’s no space left.”
“We’re, ahem, on the floor. In front of the chairs,” Duncan sighs.
