Page 23 of Impossible

“This is the textbook for the advanced omega studies course I teach. I thought it would be better to give you this than the stuff written for the pre-teens. Figured I’d bring it early in case you wanted to read ahead. It seems like you didn’t get the best introduction to all of us yesterday.”

I remember the feeling of Leon purring against me. Everything else feels kind of fuzzy and overwhelming in comparison. Then I realize she probably meant the stampede, and I blush. “Yeah,” I say. The smell of the food is making my head swim.

“Do you want to eat?” she asks.

“Not hungry,” I answer reflexively, then curse myself. “I mean, I’ll eat when you go. Don’t want to waste your time watching me.”Read: I don’t want you watching me.

She gets the message. “These were outside your door when I arrived.” She nods at the two cardboard boxes. “I’m assuming they’re your things? They’ll bring the rest later, I’m sure.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that there is no ‘rest’. That’s my life: two cardboard boxes.

“There’s a map of campus underneath the textbook,” Ms. O’Brien goes on. “It isn’t too big of a place so you shouldn’t get lost. I circled where my office is. Trainer Midas showed you the cafeteria yesterday, right?”

Trainer Midas.Leon is Trainer Midas. I nod.

“Awesome. Make sure you get lunch and dinner, ok? You can get it to-go if you don’t want to brave the cafeteria alone. On Monday they’ll figure out a class schedule for you and probably assign you a buddy to show you around. Do you have any questions until then?”

I shake my head no, even though the word ‘class’ should be setting off alarm buzzers in my brain: I am safely graduated, thank you very much. All I can think of is the food. The fluffy pancakes, grease-soaked bacon, the scrambled eggs smelling of butter. My stomach growls.

Ms. O’Brien leaves and I fall upon the food. I didn’t eat yesterday, so this is ok, even doused in maple syrup and butter and salt. One meal is allowable. Especially since I won’t be going to the cafeteria. I don’t know if there’s a meal plan or assigned seating or what the hours are, and I have zero intentions of allowing anybody to watch me fumble around like a fool while I find out.

I open the textbook while I finish the food, flicking to the first page and letting my eyes scan the images on the page before I start reading.

The first anatomy diagram is on page seven. I lose my appetite when I see it. It’s a male’s… thing. And it’sdeformed. Nothing like what was in the diagrams in health class up at Adams. Nothing like what I imagined Cam would look like, in my most private and embarrassing thoughts. My eyes remain fixed on the graphic image long past the point of appropriateness. I force myself to flip the page and look at the corresponding female diagram. Better.

I lose the rest of the morning to the textbook. To knots and fated mates and nesting instincts and compulsion dominance and nutritional needs and IQ boosts. Each page is worse than the last.

Youbitesomebody to mate with them? And get some sort of psychic bond as a result? There’s such thing as a ‘perfect genetic match’? Calling it ‘fate’ seems hilariously corny in the context of the rest of the book.Fated mates. Gag.

The bit about purring is right after the section on mating bites and pack bonds:Purring is an intimate act usually done within the confines of a bonded pack, a rumbling from within the chest akin to that of a cat. Alphas and omegas can purr to express pleasure, joy, or love. Purring is often done to comfort a packmate’s stress or anxiety. The purr of a Pack Alpha is particularly potent.

Leon purred for me. It’s the only thing that comes close to describing what happened. The back of my neck feels very hot as I reread the words. It felt sogood. But it isn’t hard to read between the lines; to do itoutsideof a pack bond is wrong. Right? Iwasfreaking out, and itdidhelp, but still… packmate.

Thinking of Leon just brings the anatomy diagram back to the forefront of my mind, and then I’m embarrassed and flipping the page and trying not to think about that.

It’s dark outside when I finish. An entire day lost to this nightmare. I emerge into the hallway feeling groggy, my head throbbing with an eyestrain headache. I’m in search of water and a bathroom, but instead I find myself in a lounge where three omegas sit together. One has pin-straight blonde hair, another has a mousy brown pixie cut, and the last has long brown waves. Their scents all blend together and make my teeth ache—caramel and butter candy and vanilla ice cream. They’re all curled into chairs with notebooks spread open on their laps, studying—or, pretending to, if their loud whispers and giggles are any indicator. The blonde looks up at me when I enter, and both of the others look at her before turning to face me as well.

“You’re new,” she says.

I nod. “Nice to meet you.” I don’t sound very nice. She doesn’t look very nice. “Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”

She points to my left. I see the sign, nod my thanks, and leave. It’s only as the door is swinging shut behind me that I hear her voice, melodic and sinister, “well that’stragic.”

“Is she new? How can they think she’s an omega if she’s that tall?” another sniggers.

“Andbony,” the first voice snorts.

“Shhh, she can probably hear us,” a third voice chastises them. Then their voices drop so I can’t hear what they’re saying anymore. I just know it’s about me.

My cheeks burn as I look in the mirror. Iambony. Just like I meant to be. And still, it isn’t enough. I pick apart my features in the mirror. I just don’t understand why the universe had to make me ugly. Fat, and ugly, and omega. No. I shake my head. I hate feeling like a victim.

Ifixedthe fat problem. Which takes away the power of the ugly—better to be skinny and ugly than fat and ugly. People don’t notice as much. Which just leaves the omega problem.

The textbook talked about suppressors. I don’t have to be at the mercy of my hormones—my first order of business on Monday is figuring out how to get some of those. Every problem has a solution.

My rationalizing weakens the hold of the self-loathing, but I still feel the unpleasant emotions swirling in my gut. Some things can’t be outsmarted. But they can be starved.

I pee and splash water on my face and stare myself down in the mirror, watching my features turn to ice. I sweep by the omegas when I leave the bathroom, cool and aloof. I’ve practiced for this moment. I feel their eyes on me as I go by. I’d rather be their enemy than their victim.

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