Page 18 of Validus Vale Academy 1
The two Ordinarii exchange a look, and then a cruel grin spreads across their faces. Instantly, both Willow and I stumble and fall forward onto the gravel path. A swirl of power keeps us pressed to the ground. Willow whimpers. My body is utterly useless against them. “You feel that, Dud? That’s what real magic feels like.”
“So grateful for the demonstration,” I mutter, the taste of gravel dust and humiliation coats my tongue.
“For fucks sake.” A pair of stylish ankle boots comes into my line of sight. “Haven't you dumb bitches got something better to do?” I’m unsure what happens next, but the magical pressure is lifted off my body, and Duncan is helping Willow and then me to our feet.
The ankle boot wearer eyes us critically. “Are you OK?” she asks. Her hair is shaved at the sides and features a faux-hawk on top, totally rocking a Janelle Monáe vibe.
Willow straightens up from brushing gravel from her knees and turns bright red as she blushes. “Uh-huh. T-thank you, s-so much.”
“Yep,” I say, giving a tentative smile. “Thanks for the intervention.”
Janelle Monáe gives us both a cool look. “Intervention? Hardly! I don’t mess with petty status battles.” But she follows this sentence up with a wink. “I’m Naomi, by the way. Try to avoid those bitches in the future, and chin up, you won’t bein Defectivum forever.” She makes an elegant turn and heads inside. I’m a little stunned that a high-ranking Ordinarii girl like her would come to our aid. Willow must feel the same way, as her mouth is open and she’s blinking her big eyes at Naomi’s retreating form.
“Come on,” says Duncan, giving both of us a poke. “Can we finally get breakfast without any more drama? I think I’m literally dying.”
Willow and I exchange a look, the indignity and gravel burn still stinging, and hobble along the final few yards toward the cafeteria. My stupid brain chooses this time to remember a haiku Donovan had made.
Donovan sighs deep,
Theo walks by, his heart melts,
Trips on his own feet.
It had come about because I’d been shamelessly gushing over Wes’s photographs, the way he captured light and shadow, and Donovan had play-pouted. “At least I can impress you on the FateBall court,” he’d declared, chest puffed out like a gorilla.
“She prefers artistic pursuits to jock ones,” Wes said, sliding a hand around my waist. “You lose.”
Donovan had looked genuinely horrified, his vibrant turquoise eyes wide. “Is that true, baby girl? You prefer huffing fumes in a dark room rather than gazing at my manly athleticism out in nature?"
“Um, maybe? But I'm sure I'll be wildly enthusiastic about whatever you do in your sports stuff,” I hedged, kissing him on the cheek.
“Not good enough,” Donovan muttered. “I’ll take up something arty-farty. Poetry, perhaps? I could do that, it’s just like writing a song, but without a tune.”
That haiku had been his first and last foray into the world of poetry. He’d ceded the arts to his brother.
“Bloomhower, Links, Wilson. Hurry it up now.” A woman, stationed like a gatekeeper at the entrance to the building, pulls me sharply from my melancholy memories. She holds a tablet and frowns at the three of us. “You’re the last of the remedials.”
—Thank Gods we don’t have too many. This year’s crop seems even more useless than last year—I shake her out of my brain as she peers at me more carefully. “And what have you done, Wilson? Trip over yourself?” Her tone suggests this wouldn't surprise her in the slightest.
I offer her a weak, apologetic smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
She shakes her head, looking pained. “Clumsy. Join the breakfast line and watch where you go.” As we join the other students queuing for food, a ripple of giggles and commentary drifts through the air. “Stupid duds can’t even stand on their own two feet.”
This day, I can already tell, is going to be a delightful exercise in humiliation. Though I’m heartened to see Naomi and her friends have flattened mouths, disapproving of our treatment. At least there aresomedecent people here.
When we finally reach our turn at the food station, the muttered comments have subsided into a low hum. Three women in chef whites stand behind the counter, but two are already whisking away empty serving dishes, leaving only a solitary, questionable option.
“What the hell is that?” I whisper to Duncan, side-eyeing the pale, lumpy mass.
“Grits,” he hisses back, his face wrinkled in disgust.
Willow, however, takes a generous double helping. “Grits are delicious,” she declares with conviction, “you’ll see.”
Duncan shakes his head vehemently. “I don’t care how early I have to drag myself out of bed tomorrow; I’ll be here in time for pancakes.”
A wave of guilt washes over me. I’m why he’s so late today. It feels like a just punishment that the woman server tells me they don’t have English breakfast tea, and I have to go with drip coffee.
Once the unappealing-looking slop is dished into our bowls, the three of us brave the seating area. “How can you like this stuff, Willow?” Duncan moans, pushing his spoon around.
