Arche Enterprises stands in a complex that spans across what can only be imagined as several football field-sized plots of land. All of the buildings are uniform - made entirely of grey bricks and sleek glass. Room 502 has white walls and gray carpets, but no window. It’s completely boring. The boss likes it that way as it "minimizes distractions." The solid wooden desk sits expansive and colorful in the middle of the room; colorful in comparison to the rest of the drab surroundings at least. This is how the entire building is designed, thoughother rooms at least get windows. Your uncle gets a window.

    You started working for Vadimas Sorenson, CEO of Arche, a little over a month ago. You hate it, but he’s your father, so you didn’t really have a choice. Out of spite, you finally brought in a framed photo of Lola. No doubt he’ll be really displeased to see the dark complexioned girl sitting beside Brijit Sorenson. He’d already sneered at the photograph of your mother. It figures he moved on so fast. You arrange her carefully, admiring the way the light pink of her shirt contrasted with her tan skin and dark curls of hair. Her honey colored eyes always captured yours – they still do. She seems to be the focal point now and it eases you just a little as you sit down in your swivel chair. The filing cabinet behind the desk holds the files you need to type into the databases. It’s the most pointlessly menial task, but you don’t really care.

    You spin the chair around to grab the files that read “Morgan Brookhaven” and “Schuyler Florencio.” Flipping through the files, a yawn escapes your mouth. Schuyler’s, who has a freaking pronunciation key, contains some newspaper clippings that you always skip over. They’re too long and you’re not really interested in them. Really, you’re too absorbed with why his parents didn’t just name him “Skyler,” that would probably make more sense.

    For the first time, you actually pay some more attention to his files. He’s pretty short for a boy, maybe he just hasn’t gone through a growth spurt yet. Not that it’s really important for you to be thinking about because the new information you need to put in concerns the section that reads “species.” Glancing over the new copy of the first page, the typed letters stand out at you. “Vampire.” Vampire. Vampire? This kid is a fucking vampire? He doesn’t look anything like you would imagine. It’s not too surprising because Arche already has some shape-shifters and mages already in captivity. Another building houses their quarters. They don't get windows either. But, still, it’s kind of shocking because the boy looks pretty harmless. The muddled thoughts attempting to reconcile themselves in your mind are interrupted by the sound of the computer. It’s finished booting up.

    Turning all the way back around to face the desktop, you double-click your way to their electronic files. The familiar faces stare back at you – one neutral and the other smiling brightly. They are both enrolled at Hekat Academy, which you recognize as the school Shawn applied to last spring. The last you heard, he had flown over to the island a few weeks after you began to work. You hope he’s having a good time over there since it’s all you heard him talk about for half a year.

    You wonder what Adrastea looks like. Does it have a particular smell that’s all its own? Yeah, you’ve seen pictures: photographs of a land that seems to have been plucked right out of a fairytale story with rolling hills, forests, beaches, and even a desert. Strange and mystifying plants, crystal-clear pools of water complete with rushing waterfalls, flocks of pastel colored sheep, all complete with skies smeared with rich yellows, purples, pinks, and even greens. But you’ve never been there, even when your father visited, not that he ever wanted to take you anywhere.

    A half-dozen islands had sprung up five years before you were born. Some kind of magic ricocheted into the seas, pulling the land up to the surface. Nations made their claims to the islands and Arche took control, being the top company in magical research. A brilliant, new company on the cutting edge – it kind of makes you sick to think about.

    Simply put, you know a lot about the island that sits in the Atlantic Ocean, west of France and lined up with Iceland. You’ve studied the map enough, converting the inches into miles to see just how far away from Los Angeles it really is. The island has a rather diverse population: scientists, farmers, construction workers, people of all nationalities have been welcomed to the island to form a microcosm of the world. Sometimes you think that anywhere would be better than here with your father in his stupid company.

    As you type the new data into Morgan’s file, you find your eyes drifting over his information. He skipped a grade, his middle name is Isaac, and he was born in a town not far from Los Angeles, he doesn’t have many friends…you know more about this kid than you do about your so-called friends from high school. You find yourself wondering what he wakes up to every morning, what kind of music he listens to – you can’t seem to stop yourself from wondering.

    “Parents: Zoe Brookhaven and Cameron Bellini.” You read it over and over again. Cameron never told you that he had a son and you find that this bothers you. Thinking that the frontman of the bad you joined and you were pretty close, you can’t help but feel a bit cheated. He knows all about you and Lola. He had picked you up at the bar and had let you crash on his couch, even, the night you got the news. But more than irritation, you feel some guilt because you still can’t find it in yourself to tell him that your father’s company is going to kidnap his son. The son you shouldn’t know about.

    The door opening to your office jars you from the work you’ve been doing. Or not doing. It doesn’t matter, not much is actually expected of you, surprisingly. Looking up, hand immediately raking through your ink-black hair, you see your father’s stern face peering over sharp, wire-framed glasses at you. His cold, blue eyes flash behind the lenses. He’s tall, something you’ve inherited from his genetics, and his shoulders are stiff and squared. Vadimas Sorenson is the very picture of professional businessman. His broad forehead is crested with slate-grey, slicked back hair and you catch his eyes narrowing as he gazes down at your desk.

    “What’s that?” he asks, the nostrils of his large aquiline nose flaring with displeasure. His eyebrows pull together as the corners of his mouth curve down.

    “A picture of my girlfriend. You know. The one who died.”

    “Demetri, don’t you think it’s time to move on?” Your father’s voice is dry and you feel your anger welling up, the heat creeping up your spine.

    “Yeah? Just like you got over Mom?” You snap before you can keep yourself in check. He’s glaring at you full-force and an audible huff comes through his nose.

    “There’s no use being attached to dead people,” he says coldly. “Come on, it’s lunch time. You would have noticed if you weren’t busy staring at the computer screen.” You know better than to keep arguing, so you shove the chair back, almost tipping it as you stand. Leaning over the keyboard, you save the files and straighten the button-up dress shirt you’re required to wear. Nothing will make you button it all the way to the collar though. No, you keep it open to the hem of the undershirt that hovers below your collarbone. The shirt sleeves are rolled up to your elbows and your father always eyes you reproachfully, but he should be glad you dyed all the electric blue from your hair before you started working. Back straightened in what you hope is a sufficient mockery of your father, you strut past him and head to the cafeteria, his solid steps following you all the way.

You’d never stayed friends with anyone you’ve kissed, except for Babs O’Malley.  She wasn’t your first kiss, or even your best kiss – but she was certainly your most memorable kiss even if you were drunk at the time.  Babs is your best bro and you Skype with her every day.  You talk with her about girls, boys, everything in between and she’s cool with pretty much anything you bitch about.  So, when she sighs and rolls her eyes at you, you stop mid-sentence.

“What?”  You ask, watching as she leans back, navel piercing catching the light of her bedroom.  She tosses a lock of her champagne blonde curls over her spaghetti-strapped shoulder.

“You’re lusting after him,” she states, sticking her tongue out, nose scrunching up in distaste, as if she’s forgotten she’s on webcam with you.  Your own eyebrows furrow in the small window in the corner that houses your image.

“No, I’m not!” Your protests aren’t about the assumption that you’d ever be interested in another guy, but to the whole lusting part.  Unlike what’s typical for boys your age, you don’t lust, not the way she means.

“You totally are, Shawn.  You know how you hate when chicks treat you like a pack mule and gush about your muscles?  ‘Like oh my gawd, he’s so hot!’  You have seriously been talking about this kid’s ass all week, it makes me worried.”

“Have I?  Really?”

“Uh, yeah!  Like, either I need some pics of this ass or you need to stop treating him like a sex object.”  You already know which one Babs would prefer.

“Right, got it,” you say with a nod.

“So, how’s your alchemy stuff going?” she moves on like a breeze.

***

You came to Apollo’s Peak to study in an advanced program for alchemy, moving from California to the island located in the Atlantic Ocean only after months of convincing your parents.  You had applied immediately once you found out the high school had the best alchemy program.  Once you had applied, you got a scholarship and so far it was worth it.

But since school has just started, there’s no real challenge yet – except for Morgan Brookhaven.  You never had to try to make friends.  But you suppose if Babs is right, you aren’t actually trying to be friends…

You had seen Morgan your first morning at Hekat Academy. 

Entering the school and finding your place among the shuffling crowds of teenagers, you looked around to make note of the school’s architectural makeup.  The administrators’ and nurse’s offices were near to the main entrance, as expected.  The walls were painted a heather gray shade, offset by borders of heliotrope purple. Well, that’s at least the color it listed on the Hekat Academy website.  Not that you had any clue what a heliotrope was at the time.  You aren’t a freaking botanist, here.  The lockers, too, were the same strange shade of purple.  But soon enough, you were perusing the kids surrounding you – all in familiar groups. 

You didn’t mind if you were alone, because you consider yourself a scientist and scientists are all about observing.  It occurred to you as you watched that somewhere on the edge of your awareness, you were disappointed that everyone looked so normal.  Kids at your completely average high school looked more interesting than these kids.  You turned your attention back to the classrooms you were passing and the list of your assigned classes.

You judged by the pattern of room numbers that your first class was down the hall and to the right.  You faltered for only a moment as you turned into a nearly empty hallway, a sudden uneasiness washing over you.  You stopped completely as you saw a boy. 

He was obviously thin despite a bulky sweater and the sleeves practically covered his hands.  You could only recognize his shoulder-length hair as brown when it caught the light and his skin was the kind of pale you see in moonlight. 

As he shifted his hair from beneath the straps of his backpack, you could see that his face was drawn somehow – a tension of muscles beneath the skin that disrupted the passivity of his thin face, a pursing of his already thin lips into an even thinner line.  You sensed that you were too close, as you watched the widening of his eyes behind simple wire-framed glasses. 

But it wasn’t only the boy’s expression. 

There seemed to be a tense tamping down of magic around the boy.  You’re not an expert, though.  After all, you are rooted in a much more corporeal manifestation of the magic than others.  Alchemy doesn’t require the finesse of energy manipulation that others have – that this boy might have.  It felt like a reserve of potential that could possibly be released violently – but then it was gone.  A mirage blink.  And then the boy was gone, too, swiftly walking down the hall and disappearing through a door – not the same door that was your destination.

***

You learned his name was Morgan in third period advanced alchemy, which was completely unexpected.  This course is for the grade above you, and Morgan looked even younger, but no one seemed concerned.  In fact, no one seemed to sit by him at all, including you.  Considering your own situation – you’ve been in advanced science for a while now – it may be the same for him.  Still, you hoped he would be in more of your classes and to your disappointment, he wasn’t.  At least not most of the staples – English, history, algebra – but then there was Phys. Ed. 

He traded the sweater for a long-sleeved shirt, obviously a thinner material, but still unsuitable for gym class.  But, he was also wearing shorts which you found kind of interesting.  The interest lasted about as long as it took you to do a once over of his long, pale legs.  A guy named Greg nudged you.  He’s pretty no-nonsense, but he was right – you should be paying attention to your teacher, but Morgan turned around and you couldn’t look away because – damn – you could bounce a quarter off that ass.  Or your hand...  Y’know, whatever’s readily available.

So far, what you knew about Morgan was that he’s pretty, he’s smart, and he’s terribly uncoordinated.  You had never seen someone get hit so many times within one 45 minute period.  Still, he tried.  It was obvious that he does, and if he got rid of the sleeves, he might be able to move around better in the warm, still air of the gymnasium.  A girl on his team took it upon herself to protect Morgan in a sense.  She had dark, clear skin with a thin and athletic build.  Her curly brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

You got a date with her for the coming weekend.

***

You sat in the low-lights of Aphrodite’s Garden, a restaurant on the North end of the town– a bit of a surprise considering how casual Teresa is – but to you, that was promising.  You like when people surprise you.  She was wearing a sheer blouse and dark pants with heels that made her stand much taller than you.  The dark pink of her shirt blended with the color scheme of Aphrodite’s Garden – and Morgan’s uniform shirt.  He happened to be your server and he held himself differently in this place.  His back was straight but his voice was soft enough to mix with the classical music playing in the background.

You placed your orders and, despite being on a date, your eyes followed Morgan.  Once he was out of sight, you returned your eyes to Teresa’s freckled face.

“Are you gay?”  She asked, without malice, just simple curiosity.

“Well, I’m not straight,” you quipped, lips curling a bit.

“So, you like both?”

“I like anyone I find interesting,” you said as a means of explanation.

“And you find Morgan’s ass interesting,” she giggled – light and girly.  You had enough decency to blush.

“Well, yeah.” Your tone was sheepish.

“We think he’s gay, but no one is really sure, because he doesn’t have many friends.  He’s quick to dismiss people unless it’s about homework.”  You took this in quietly as you slid a finger around the rim of your water glass, feeling the rising urge of a challenge.  The same urge you feel when faced with a difficult worksheet for alchemy.

“Why d’you think that is?” You asked before taking a sip of the water.  Everyone knows about the loner-type, but you were always under the impression that it was a societal conflict caused by a group, not an individual inflicting it upon themselves.

“Could just be a bit stuck up.  One of those people who only think school’s for learning, not for making friends?”  Teresa shrugged her shoulders.  “I mean, he’s a year ahead and has perfect grades…”   You wondered if maybe you were wrong about thinking Morgan was doing it to himself as you recalled the times the soccer ball had hit the boy.  Kids are bound to envy that kind of academic success.  Before you could voice your thoughts, Morgan was back with your food.

***

Over the next week, you become less comfortable with simple observing.  During lunch, you find Morgan sitting at a small square table tucked away in the far corner of the cafeteria.  He sits with a small-statured Asian girl.  Taking a chance, you fall into a seat and they both look up and give you identical blank stares.

 “You could have asked to sit first, you know,” the girl points out as her dark eyes flicker up at you.

“Sorry,” you say.  You feel foolish because that would seem to be a common courtesy – one you aren’t used to following.

She shrugs and exchanges a glance with Morgan.

“It’s fine if you sit here,” Morgan tells you, though he doesn’t look thrilled either.  “This is Akane,” he introduces you to the girl, who simply raises a hand, waving stiffly as she peers back down at her book.

You don’t want to be a creep like Babs was saying, but you watch them flick the pages from right to left, forcing yourself to be an observer.  It’s impossible for you to derive whether they really don’t mind if you’re there or if they simply don’t care – maybe they simply tolerate your presence.

When Morgan raises his eyes to check the time, he catches you watching him.  His gaze wavers and his pale fingers ruffle paler pages.

“There are plenty of people who would be happy if you sat with them.  People who want to be friends with you,” he says, voice not reflecting his fidgeting movements at all.  It’s as cool and smooth as an iced over pond.  You can’t even pinpoint your feelings because they’re spreading like blood on a tourniquet.

“Oh,” you murmur, unable to form any other response.  The bell rings, jarring you from your seat and you grab your bag.  You sling it over your shoulder, still feeling shocked by Morgan’s words. 

It’s the truth and you know it – have always known it – but you’ve always felt very little desire to be friends – real friends – with those kinds of people.  The kids who match you in appearance and style, expressions, interests, they never held much interest for you.  They were not like this boy in front of you, who seems to be bored and unamused by the surrounding environment, but sits ramrod straight in his seat during class.  Someone who doesn’t seem even somewhat impressed or interested in you is someone worth being around.

Is it some kind of romanticization, you wonder?

***

You don’t return to their table again – confidence shaken by blue-violet eyes.  Hanging with Teresa and Greg suits you better, but they aren’t in your lunch period so you sit with the more proficient members of your gym class.  Mostly, you sit with them because they invited you, not because you like them.  And you try not to watch Morgan too much.

***

It’s Saturday afternoon and you can’t bring yourself to make another freaking box of mac and cheese.  There’s a good diner down the street – about a twenty minute walk from your apartment.  You’re just hungry enough that you’ll be starving once you actually get the food.  You grab your wallet, shove it into your pocket, and leave.

About 40 minutes later and you’re leaving the diner with some leftovers.  The rain is light, but your gelled hair is stuck to your forehead within minutes.  The paper bag swings from your hand as you walk, thick enough to protect the food inside.  Casual stride stutters to unsure steps and then comes to a halt as you turn to face the road, observing the tablets of gray that rise from sloping hills of green.  Angels and crosses stoically keep watch of the hillside of a graveyard you haven’t noticed before.

Rain drips down the back of your neck as you cross the road and backtrack to the gate.  There’s no real reason for entering the cemetery, or at least not one you know of.  There are several paths that wind around the graves.  You pick the leftmost one and start up the hill. You’re not particularly looking, because cemeteries are rather commonplace.

About halfway up the path, you’re stopped by a familiar sensation creeping along your insides.  You have no way of explaining, but it’s blue and wispy and suddenly, it tugs you forward again.  You walk as the unknown synesthesia grows within you.  It directs you between rows of headstones, pulling you to the right. 

As you spot a figure in the distance, kneeling in front of a headstone, you have no doubt that the feeling inside you is Morgan’s magic.  You walk to the boy’s side, pausing on his left.  You use your forearm to push your damp hair back from your face.  Morgan doesn’t stir at first and you noticed that there are three dark pink roses in front of the granite slab that reads Celeste Ackerman.

If it weren’t for the red rims of Morgan’s eyes, easily visible due to his lack of glasses, you wouldn’t have been able to tell he was crying.  His glasses are folded in his hands, maybe to protect them from droplets of water.  The magic hangs heavy in the air and you’re not sure if this is some ritual, so you don’t bother him.  As you try your hardest not to disturb him, the tears start rolling down your own cheeks.  You tell yourself it’s just the rain.  But the rain is cold and your tears are hot.  You can’t remember the last time you cried.

After a few minutes, he looks up at you.

“You okay?” you ask, rolling the neck of the bag down tighter, trying not to sniff.  He nods and stands, placing the glasses back on his nose.  The lenses are speckled with rain, but there’s no reason to fix it.  “Want a sandwich?” you find yourself asking with a broken voice, realizing how fucking stupid it sounds as it leaves your mouth.  You hold out the bag anyways.

“Are you stalking me?” he asks and your hand falls.

“No!  I’d never – that’s weird!”  Your cheeks are hot with the accusation, the rain freezing cold against them.  Morgan’s lips curl slightly and you are the biggest idiot.

“I don’t know, you seem pretty weird to me,” Morgan points out, lips still threatening to curve into a smile.

“You’re joking?” You run your hand through wet hair, disbelief lacing your voice.

“You’re really not as cool as you act, are you?” he asks, voice still retaining a bit of that cold edge to it.

“Never claimed to be,” you reply weakly, feeling as if he has just socked you in your solar plexus.

“What kind of sandwich?”   You blink at his question.

“Uh, Reuben…?” you answer, scratching at your scalp a bit with blunt nails.  Morgan’s nose scrunches up but he nods.

“As long as you heat it up for me.”  You nod and follow him down the path before taking him back to your apartment.

***

“So, you never found out who Celeste was?” Babs asks, tucking the lock of blonde hair that doesn’t fit into her braid behind her ear.

“Nah, we watched Doctor Who and then he went home,” you shrug, quickly circling an answer on your worksheet.

“Aren’t you curious about her?  And why he decided not to be a bitch?”  You shrug again.

“I figure if he wants me to know, he’ll tell me.”

“What if he goes back to how he was before in school?” 

You don’t have an answer for her.

***

You walk into school the next Monday, the fourth week since school started.  You exchange your books at your locker before heading to first period.  There’s no sight of Morgan, so you wait for third period to come around.  You walk into room 322 and immediately see the other boy.  He looks up from his book and gives you a small smile.  You almost miss it, but it lingers long enough for you to return it.

You don’t really know how to make friends.  At least not in the same way that Shawn makes friends, because up until now your friends have consisted of your sister Belinda, your neighbor Khaphiri, Akane, and your aunt Celeste.  But your aunt is no longer around.  In fact, it’s been a full year since she passed away.

You didn’t mean to draw Shawn to your side, but you knew it would happen.  You feel your magic, previously unhindered, grasp onto a dusty, earthy sphaira that swirls and clings in return.  For only a moment, you look up to see your own trail of blue, shimmering dimly in the rain, mix with the mist of brown.  You return your gaze to Aunt Celeste’s grave.

You brought her roses, the same dark pink ones from her greenhouse that you cut for Aphrodite’s Garden.  The roses catch rain drops on their petals as you set them down on the grave.  The droplets on the grass bleed through the knees of your jeans, staining them green and deep blue.

You aren’t religious by any means – this is purely for comfort and you have no pretenses, you don’t feel a presence, you simply go to spill your thoughts and feelings as you used to.  She was the one who taught you about the sphaira.  You aren’t sure if that’s actually the official name of the aura that surrounds magic users, but that’s the term she had used.

“Keep it close to you.”

“Why?”

“It’ll keep you safe.”

“How?”

“You won’t lash out.”

You knew fighting back was a bad idea, even then at age 12.

You never told her exactly what the situation with your stepfather was, but she had figured it out herself.

“You might have to fight back eventually,” she had told you softly, sorrowfully.  Her dusky pink-purple sphaira told you it made her sad to think about.  You didn’t like to remind her about her first marriage. 

Only able to rely on what you heard from Aunt Iris, your mother, and Aunt Celeste herself, you imagine you’d never wanted to meet Uncle Henry anyways.  But he was dead now, gunshot right in the chest – bullet lodged deep in the cavity of his rotten heart.

It had been self-defense. 

She had the bruises around her neck, across her torso, and along her thighs to prove it.  Yours are on your shoulders and your torso.  Sometimes across your cheek, but you always make sure to hide those.  Split lips, bruised cheeks, black eyes – they’re all fairly easy to get rid of when you have magic on your side.  The spots are always tender even after you heal them, but it soon fades.

But magic couldn’t save her – her disease too strong for even supernatural powers. 

You know it won’t save you, either.

You know Shawn stands in the space to your left now.  It’s no longer time for tears and you draw your magic in, tucking it carefully around you.  You feel a bit sick, letting Shawn be aware of it, even if the other boy didn’t understand.  You can tell he’s not like you.  Not a lot of people are. 

A magical island, full of dilute folks.

But your magic is potent, just another factor keeping you separate from your family.  Luke’s is weaker than Shawn’s, a beer bottle brown, translucent and barely there.  Adrian is purple, sheer cloth.  Barely there.  Zoe, your mother’s, baby blue, stronger than Luke’s, weaker than your Aunt’s.  Belinda’s – mint green – compacted like yours.  Seth’s – blood-mist that hangs in the air and clots in your throat.

If you knew who your father was, maybe you’d understand.

Standing up, you face Shawn finally, molding your expression back to tight-lipped, even though the sight of Shawn crying is a bit of a shock.  You’ve never met someone so persistent.  Maybe you should humor him.  You’ll take the messy sandwich, only if it’s heated.  The chill of the rain is beginning to get to you and you wish you were back in your bed.

***

His apartment isn’t surprising, rather mundane, actually.  He isn’t dirty, which is pretty much the only thing you care about.  Though, you did take him for a root beer guy, but all he has in his fridge is milk and orange juice.  So, you accept a glass of water to wash down the Reuben.  He doesn’t ask you about the grave or even much about yourself.  Simply, he asks you if you like Doctor Who.  You nod as the over-stuffed couch engulfs your backside.  Shawn slides a DVD in and sits on the other end of the couch, far away and no longer in your space.

When you make it through two episodes, you check your phone.  No messages, but it’s growing late and you have to make dinner.

“Thank you for the sandwich,” you say, standing to make your way to the small kitchenette, placing the plate and glass into the sink.

“You’re welcome.”  There’s Shawn’s smile again – easy and warm.  If you tried to smile like that, you’d probably feel like you’re breaking.

“I have to go,” you tell him, pulling your jacket back on, tugging down the sleeves of your sweater underneath the stiff jacket sleeves.

“A’ight, I’ll see you at school,” Shawn continues to smile.  You nod your agreement, even though you don’t want to.  His smile upsets you.  You want that raw image of disappointment on his face again.  “We should do this again some time,” he adds.

“Yes.”  You try out a smile for him to balance out the stiffness of your voice.  It seems to be enough for the other boy.

***

            The walk home is almost inconsequential.  The cemetery is the halfway point between your house and Shawn’s apartment, but you walk everywhere – to and from school, to the grocery store, to the cemetery – so the 45 minute walk doesn’t bother you.  You simply pull your iPod out, put in the ear buds, and tap the play button.

You sigh once you make it to the bottom of Cyrene Street.  This street is a steep hill that makes your legs burn and ache in protest.  You are by no means “in shape”.  You’re thin and lanky, and your legs are the only remotely toned parts on you from all the walking.

Reaching the crest of Cyrene, you make the right onto your street just as the sky is clearing of its dark green and navy shades, turning to rich oranges, pinks, and purples that wash over the afternoon like melting sherbet.

You wonder what you should make for dinner as you pass the sign for Hyacinth Street and it occurs to you that it’s been a while since you’ve had spaghetti.  You think there’s a can of meat sauce in the pantry. 

It doesn’t take long to get to your house from the corner – about two blocks down – but you check your phone for the time.  Your stepfather’s hours are not always predictable, much like the man himself, and you wonder if he’s home already.

The faded and peeling green paint of your porch is noticeable several houses down and your spirits fall seeing it.  It’s one thing you just never seem to have time for – no one in your family has time to give the porch and shutters fresh paint.  Number 33, Hyacinth Street has had the same paint for at least eight years and the same creaking gate that you open and close gingerly before heading down the step-stone path to the concrete steps. 

You check the door and the knob turns easily.  You take a sigh, square your slim shoulders, and push the green door open.  The murmur of the television is heard and you kneel down to untie your sneakers, slip them from your feet, and line them on the mat to the right of the doorway.  You take several seconds – almost a full minute – to make sure the toes are in perfect line with each other before shedding your jacket, hanging it up on the hook behind the door.

Luke hasn’t noticed you entering just yet.  Finally, you stand and turn to shut the heavy door quietly.

“That you, Morgan?” Luke calls out.  He must be used to your careful way of existing by now.  It’s only been 16 years.

“Yes, I’m home,” you tell him, heading through the hall to the kitchen, turning the lights on as you pass the switches.  The dimness of your house always weighs heavy on your mind.

“Where you been?” he asks, picking the worst moments to actually try to talk to you.

“Visited Aunt Celeste…”

“Oh, right…” And that’s where the conversation ends.  If it can be called a conversation.  You settle into a silence and you stand in the kitchen with its faux-marble counter tops and darkly stained cabinets.

Opening a cabinet, you find the jar – mushrooms, not meat.  You suppose you can brown some ground chuck from the fridge.

You try to focus on the sounds of the television.  Music would help more, because football is boring, but you wouldn’t dare compete against Luke’s down-time.  Every time you find yourself watching the fire underneath the pan of bubbling sauce, you wonder what burns would look like on your skin.  Momentarily, at least, the thought of laying your hand across the burner prickle at the corners of your mind. 

Your eyes flicker to the copy of Hamlet that sits on the counter to your left, which hasn’t been assigned and won’t be assigned for your English class at all because you’re taking American Literature this year.

Before you can get too caught up in Polonius, Laertes, and Ophelia you turn the stove off.  You wish Ophelia had a better outcome.  Maybe she should have gone to a nunnery, you think as you ladle bright red into the drained noodles.  Ground meat goes into bright red, engulfed by the thick liquid.  You grab the wide bowl for serving pasta, scooping the spaghetti to fill it to the brim.  Another bowl for the sauce joins the pasta bowl.

Soon, everything is on the table, the silverware is set – knives turned in towards the plates, napkins folded underneath the forks.

A symphony of snoring, generic announcer-voices, and cheering seem to burst from the living room, but you know it’s simply your awareness returning. 

The shifting blue light from the television flickers over Luke’s slack face as you lean down to shake his thick shoulder.  He jerks awake, his beady brown eyes bloodshot and confused.  They narrow as he assesses your hand on his shoulder.

“Dinner is ready,” you let him know, placating your waking bear of a stepfather, even before he rises to the possibility of drunken anger.

“Alright,” he mumbles as you drift back with a nod and careful smile.  You turn to head back to the wide dining room, leaving Luke to collect himself.  Heavy steps approach as you sit.

The silence hangs like a threadbare shirt.  It’s normal, but you focus on serving up the spaghetti; cutting your own into smaller noodles before twisting your fork into them.  Luke lumbers up, elbow pushing off the doorway as he retrieves the bag of pre-sliced Italian bread and a tub of margarine.  In his typical fashion, he captures his pasta with a slice of bread.  You watch him devour the full plate of spaghetti in record time.

“Thanks,” is all he says – all he ever says – before returning to the living room, abandoning you at the large table.  A few years ago it was full of chatter from Belinda and your mother before your sister left for college and your mother began working international flights.

The length of Adrastea isn’t much, so a few nights spent in Skeiron on the West coast wasn’t uncommon, but now she spends entire weeks in other countries, in the continental United States, and you wonder if it was better to be a flight attendant.  Maybe your mother had the better idea.

***

The school seems to be full of more chattering than usual when you walk in on Monday, but you ignore your peers as you walk past towards your locker.  Through the glass doors, down the halls to your locker, to class – every morning, that is what you focus on. 

You open your locker to survey your books, neatly lined on the top shelf of your locker in order of your class schedule, an extra sweater hangs on one hook, and a bag with clean gym clothes on the other.  You slide your English, magical theory, and alchemy books from their allotted spaces and one by one they go into your messenger bag, spines up.  You shut the flap and turn to walk to class. 

Another herd of students pass by; a loud conversation snags your attention.

“I swear – it’s a boy!” a freshman who lives a few streets down from you says.

“So, he’s a tranny?” You wince at the term and decide to force your attention elsewhere, pushing some freezer-burn magic outwards.  You’d rather focus on the reading assignment you would be going over in class today – the first five chapters of The Scarlet Letter.

***

You sit down beside Shawn before advanced alchemy starts for third period.  Like a lot of the school, he seems rather excited.

“Have you heard about the new kid?” It all makes sense to you all in that one question.

“Oh, is that what everyone is talking about today?” You look up from your bag.  Shawn gives you an expression that borders on aghast.

“What’s up?  It’s been all over the school since the doors opened.” You shrug, you really hadn’t wanted to continue listening after hearing the word tranny – it just led you to the word faggot.

“Preoccupied.  Not all of us thrive on gossip, Shawn,” you tell your friend.  He lets out a chuckle at your dry jab.

“You’re not curious at all?” You shake your head as you lay out your textbook to the assigned pages.  Your notebook below it; turned to a blank page.  Your pen is held firmly in your left hand as you begin to write down the key terms of the chapter.

“It’s none of my concern.  I haven’t seen him or her – whichever pronoun they wish to use.”  You barely catch the amused tilt of Shawn’s lips at your stiff answer as you write in a small, neat print, forming each letter precisely.

Your teacher enters the room and your class falls silent obediently, including Shawn.  You have a feeling that Shawn would want to continue the conversation after class, during lunch.  He won’t forget about it after a simple alchemy lesson.

45 minutes later, you and Shawn depart from the alchemy lab and head towards the cafeteria.  The cafeteria lies in the center of your school while the science department resides in the rightmost wing.

“I don’t know – creating artificial life and transmuting materials to precious metals seems like a bad idea to me,” you say as you turn the corner into the English wing.

“So, I’m assuming you prefer the Chinese theories?”

“Well, medicine is much more useful, in my opinion.  Not that alchemy is my favorite subject anyways,” you shrug and Shawn’s expression falls until he’s almost pouting.  “Yes, Shawn, I know – that’s why you’re here,” you smile a bit at him.

“I guess it’s different for a magic user like you,” Shawn says, peering at you as if he’s searching for some kind of answer.

“I suppose it might be.  I don’t actually know that much… Except that it’s weird that you can see my sphaira.” You frown at him.  You’ve always found that it was easy to hide it away from lesser magic users.  A lot of the researchers and scientists on the island aren’t strong in your type of magic.  Like Shawn, they’re concerned with magic rooted to the physical world: plants, archeological structures, animals – not the strange cloud of magic that hovers as if in some other dimension. 

“Yeah, I don’t know.  I felt it more than I saw it.  It’s blue, though…I’ve only ever heard about them before, though,” Shawn looks thoughtful as you turn a corner, but you become distracted by some sort of commotion.  There’s jeering and finally, you see two boys sneering down at an unfamiliar student.

Short waves of blonde hair fall across the kid’s eyes, papers are scattered across the floor, and you can see that the person clutches something to their chest with one arm.  A puffy tulle skirt sticks out ballerina-style as the boy, you assume at this point, shifts to his knees.  The two boys, large sophomores, continue on down the hall looking rather satisfied with themselves.

The crowded students begin to disperse, leaving the boy there to collect his papers dejectedly.  You see him slip the sketchbook he was holding tight against his chest into his knapsack.

“What dicks,” Shawn mutters beside you, but you’re already moving away from his side.  You bend down to pick up a loose leaf sheet of paper.  You see a design in the margins, curling around some sparse notes written in a playful curlicue.  After collecting a few more of these papers, you hand them over to the boy who is shuffling the remaining papers into a neat stack.

“Oh, thanks,” the boy looks up at you with eyes lined with thick sweeps of black, pink glitter powdering his lids, and his matching bubblegum pink lips split into a smile.  You nod and pull your hand back as he takes the papers back.

“Not a problem,” you tell him, rising to your feet.  Shawn’s watching, leaning against the wall.

“I’m Schuyler – or just Sky,” the blonde tells you cheerfully, as if the incident with the two other boys didn’t happen.

“Morgan,” you return out of politeness before heading back to Shawn.  It takes you a little while to realize that Schuyler is trailing you.

“Um, are you guys going to the cafeteria?” he pipes up, the clicking of heels rapid on the linoleum floor as he catches up.

“Yeah,” Shawn says when you’re too busy looking at the pink pumps the blonde is wearing.  “You wanna sit with us?” Shawn asks, and your head snaps back up.  You see Shawn smiling and of course Shawn thinks nothing of inviting this boy to sit at your table.

“Oh, sure!” Schuyler then introduces himself to Shawn as you all enter the cafeteria.  A few heads turn to watch you.  Ignoring the attention, you make your way to where Akane is already sitting, nibbling at her sandwich absently as she turns a page in her book.

“Incoming: new transfer student number two,” you murmur to her as you sit down.  Akane looks up to see Sky and Shawn getting into line while you busy yourself with unpacking your lunch.

“Wonderful.” Akane sighs before taking a larger bite of her sandwich.  You peel your banana and bit off the tip.

When the two other boys return with their plastic trays, they’re talking about Schuyler’s shoes.  You only pay attention long enough to hear that they cost way more than was necessary.  Instead of paying attention to their words, you watch how they interact.  Shawn looks just as enthusiastic as Schuyler as he leans in to look at the nail polish on Schuyler’s fingers.  You wish that Shawn hadn’t invited the blonde to sit at your table, but in your allowing Shawn to sit at the table, you have given him every right to invite whomever he wishes.  They’re sitting too close for your liking and you sneak glances at the surrounding tables.  A few people watch curiously, but mostly the exchange between the new students is unnoticed.  Frowning, you take a bite of your sandwich and chew slowly.  It occurs to you that you’re staring and you quickly dig in your bag for a book to read in order to avoid social interactions.

Shawn is already used to the way lunch is conducted and soon he’s working on an assignment.  Schuyler doesn’t seem to mind the quiet, which surprises you.  He pulls his sketchbook out and you barely catch his eyes doing a quick once-over of surrounding tables through thick blonde lashes as he flips it open.

As soon as pencil touches paper and begins making small sketch-strokes, there’s a burst of dazzling cotton candy pink.  It clouds the space around Schuyler before spreading.  The sugar-spun sweetness of the boy’s sphaira clogs your throat and nose, overcoming your senses, but it’s the sudden underlying acridity that makes you want to gag.  You mask it by coughing into the crook of your elbow.

“You okay, Morgan?” Shawn asks and you give a curt nod, coughing some more.

“Just swallowed my water wrong,” you gasp.  Schuyler is watching you now, hand paused over the paper.  His sphaira dissipates and your throat clears.  The bell rings and you hurry to pack up.  Swiftly, you’re slinging your bag across your shoulder and tossing your trash away before slipping out the doors towards your history classroom.  The sooner you can get to class, the sooner you can put the strange corruption of the boy’s sphaira out of your mind.

***

History passes with a quiz and lecture on the Revolutionary War, a worksheet is assigned for Friday.  Gym class is complete with its flurry of volleyballs.  You manage to avoid getting hit in the face and even serve the ball over the net for once.

You are heading to study hall when you and Shawn come across another scene in a little-used hallway.  There is a swell of students closing the space.  Schuyler had been knocked to the ground again and he’s glaring up at the boys from earlier – Tyler and Jeff.  You overhear their names being whispered.  There aren’t many troublemakers in school, but you suppose you can understand that Schuyler would bring out the aggression in certain people.

The taller of the two is lazily flipping through Schuyler’s sketchbook and you can feel the cold anger of having your personal life invaded coming off of Schuyler in waves.

“Give it back,” he demands the boy.  His voice is high, but stern.

“I’m not done yet,” the boy returns lightly, lifting his eyes from the page before turning it.

“I said.  Give. It. Back.”  Schuyler pushes himself up finally, heels clicking on the floor over the hushed whispers of the crowd.

“But I’m looking…” the boy, Jeff, is smirking.  Some of the girls are urging him to return the sketchbook as well.  Shawn looks as if he’s about to barrel through the crowd and end it.  You continue to watch the petite blond.  The color is rising in his face steadily.

“I’m not going to ask you again,” Schuyler sighs, shifting his right heel back, as if he’s about to just turn and leave.  Jeff broadens his smirk.  Of course he has no intention of returning the book.  Instead, he tears out a page.

“Who’s this?” he asks, holding up the sheet with a headshot of a dark toned man, heavily shaded.  Schuyler’s eyes narrow and suddenly he pulls his weight back and snaps his knee up, turning his body.  His right leg extends quickly, foot driven into Jeff’s chest.  His skirt flutters with the graceful movement, but you can see the power behind the kick that propels Jeff back into the locker.  Schuyler’s sketch floats to the ground.

Sky doesn’t stop there, his forearm now thrown across Jeff’s neck.  He’s on his tiptoes, face to face with his bully.

“Don’t fuck with me and don’t touch what isn’t yours,” he growls harshly.

“Okay,” Jeff gasps, face drawn as Sky’s arm digs into his throat.

“That was so hot,” Shawn murmurs, making you lift your brows at your friend.

As quickly as Sky pinned the boy, he releases him, scoops up the paper, and plucks the sketchbook from Jeff.  Everyone watches Schuyler straighten his neon pink skirt and strut down the hall.  The silence breaks with giggles and mockings of Jeff, who simply leans against the lockers, looking stunned.  You and Shawn exchange glances before making your way through the dispersing crowd to your study hall.

***

You take the walk home slowly, thinking about Sky.  You feel relieved that the boy got himself out of a bad situation.  No one bothered reporting the boy for attacking another student.  It might be because Jeff’s pride is too wounded already and everyone else was too impressed.

Pulling your sweater tighter around you as the wind sweeps down Cyrene Street as you’re making your way up, you wonder if Schuyler will sit at your lunch table tomorrow as well.  Sighing, you tell yourself you don’t care and stare down at your worn tennis shoes as you turn down your street.  There’s a crack on the sidewalk that signals that you should stop.  You only look up once you see the small strands of grass valiantly making their way through the concrete.

Wondering if Luke is home and if his truck is in the garage, you stride down the path and open the unlocked door.

“Luke?” you call, hearing the television, but not the announcers, but laugh tracks of a sitcom.  You pause and see someone shift on the couch.

“Hey, Morgan,” a voice calls and you shut your eyes for a moment before shutting the door.

“Hello, Seth,” you return, crossing the hall to see your blond half-brother lounging on the couch, eating a bowl of ice cream.  “What are you doing home?” you ask stiffly.  He grins up at you through the dark and you fight a shiver that threatens to spill down your spine.

“What, I can’t come home every once in a while?”  You sigh at his response.

“Well, it’s an awful long way from California,” you point out.

“What if I’m here for my job?”

“I’m pretty sure you just like to bother me…”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” his smile drops and he sits up just in time for Luke to come through the door.  Your stepfather looks confused for a moment.

“Oh, thought you were with that friend of yours,” Luke said, but smiles when he sees Seth.  But Seth has his eyes trained on you.

“But you don’t have friends,” he says with what anyone would see as a teasing smile, but what it’s saying to you is you’re not allowed to have friends.  He doesn’t mean friends like Akane, because she’s a strictly school friend; and not the neighbor whom you spend summer afternoons with to pass the time, but a real friend who will be around to ask you how you are and what you’re doing.  Someone who surpasses that distance you place around yourself without asking for anything in return.