Page 23 of Crashing Tides

He’s witnessed entirely too much of my shame.

Weeks pass. I’m not satisfied with my progress, but with Jane’s help, I’m not failing my classes. Not yet, anyway. Considering the circumstances, it’s a miracle I have any idea what’s going on.

I’ve only marginally improved at magic. Elarion hasn’t let us progress past plastic cups, although I can now safely levitate one without closing my eyes first, a marked improvement. In Prophecy and Prediction, we move on from soulmates and start trying to predict weather patterns, although that involves a fair bit of science that I’m admittedly not expecting. We spend entire class periods out on the cliffs, setting up barometric equipment, jotting down notes about clouds and pressure. Then, once we have what Professor Almara deems a solid understanding of the science behind weather prediction, we return to the classroom to make predictions of our own without any equipment whatsoever.

I normally work with Jordan, but he’s out today, so he doesn’t witness my humiliation when I’m inevitably wrong, forecasting a great monsoon that will blacken the ocean waves, send them crashing violently against the cliffs, followed by a light drizzle that will last until morning.

Apparently, tomorrow is going to be mostly sunny with a thirty-percent chance of rain.

I’m shit with a crystal ball.

“Maybe the storm will happen next week,” says my temporary partner, a fae woman named Ona. She has the most pointed ears I’ve ever seen, the tips so long that they remind me of antennae. She’s pale as snow, with bright green eyes and a wide mouth. White hair is piled on top of her head in an artfully messy bun.

My forehead drops to the desk. “It’s hopeless.”

“No, no,” says Ona hurriedly, like she thinks I’m going to cry, and hell, maybe I am. It’s been a rough few weeks. “You’re learning. You’ve never done this before. It’s going to be OK.”

It isn’t, but there’s no convincing her of that. “Thanks,” I say, lifting my head.

But by far the weirdest experience is in history. I’ve read as much as I can, but I’m still hopelessly lost. Fae history and human history only started to overlap when the fae came out of hiding in the late 1700s, leading an explosive and dangerous integration following the start of the Industrial Revolution. Even now, human schools mostly focus on human history and human politics, with fae and shifters largely overlooked. Their roles were minimized or outright removed from textbooks, especially in the United States.

I’m never entirely sure what Dr Ward is talking about, but I’m always fascinated.

Jane and I arrive to class to find all the desks arranged in two neat rows, facing one another. I’m instantly horrified. This is a group exercise. Everyone is going to know I’m an idiot.

By now, most of my classmates have deduced that I only recently learned of my heritage. A lot of them are even kind about it, which I wasn’t expecting. People offer me notes in ways that aren’t patronizing, or whisper answers to me when I hesitate. I don’t fit in at all, but I feel a lot less, I don’t know, abandoned? than I expected to.

But I’m still sick to my stomach. My grasp of history is nebulous at best.

I’m gonna look like an idiot.

I spot Duncan Stirling and Felix Cervantes sitting next to each other and quickly make a beeline for the opposite end of the row, on the opposite side. I can’t explain it, but Duncan makes my stomach flip, and not in a good way. Maybe it’s because he’s always watching me, like I’m some kind of museum exhibit that he can’t quite make heads or tails of. Like I’m an AI image that looks familiar, but somehow distorted. Like I’m a fucking cryptid in the woods, and he’s some poor bastard who stumbled across me, not realizing I’m more afraid of him than he is of me.

Technically speaking, he’s exactly my type: blond, serious, a little disheveled, bright-eyed, rich. But for all that he stares in my direction, he never comes within ten feet of me. We’ve never even spoken. Now, whenever I see him, I duck my head and hope he doesn’t notice me.

I’ve never, ever struggled socially like I have at Halea. I usually fit in just fine at school, even when people made fun of me for having a weird mom. In college, I was easily accepted, probably at least in part because I’m hot—for a human.

Here at Halea, I’m not hot. I lost seven pounds of muscle mass that I can’t seem to make up no matter how I try, and I’m horrifyingly, vulnerably human. I’m hairy where the fae aren’t (I go back and forth on whether or not I should just shave my entire body, but at the end of the day, I don’t have the commitment or the fine motor skills), I’m anything but willowy, and my face is nice enough, but it’s too wide compared to the fae. Someone recently called me a meat sack under their breath, and they’re right. I’m meaty. I worked really, really hard for this physique, but now I’m paranoid that I’ve overdone it even as I fight to regain muscle mass. My gym routine is the only thing keeping me sane.

Anyway. I’m just… not familiar with this. Feeling like an outsider, I mean. I don’t know how to be hot here. I don’t know how to make people laugh. I’m not even smart.

I’m lost and tiny and scared all the fucking time, and there’s no end in sight.

I sit next to Jane and pray I don’t look like an idiot in front of anyone who will actually care.

Class starts, and Dr Ward explains the assignment. It’s like speed dating, I realize, appalled. Two minutes with each partner, discussing a question from last night’s reading. Everyone in my row will move one seat to the left when the buzzer sounds.

I glance around, groan internally when I realize I’m going to have to talk to Duncan. That’s gonna suck.

Well, maybe I’ll finally find out if he’s actually a serial killer or just really, really awkward.

It’s only two minutes. I can get through this, especially if I let my classmates lead the discussion.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Jane says, like she can sense my terror.

I square my shoulders and curse my luck.

Then I accept my fate and raise my eyes to my first partner, Lily Monroe, who greets me with a big, lipsticked grin. She’s only half-fae, and stumbles through the first question as badly as I do. It’s a relief to have someone on the same level as me. “‘What is the significance of necromancers in World War II?’” she says, tapping her pencil against her chin as she reads off the board. “I don’t know. I guess I missed the part about zombie soldiers.”