Strains

The next morning, I wake when the rooster crows. I take a quick shower and put on my uniform. This is it. First day of class. I grab my backpack and notice a note on top of my class schedule.

Good luck today, and don’t embarrass me out there.

When did he even leave this?

I turn it in my hands. On the back is a map of the academy. At least he’s being somewhat helpful. I tuck it into my pocket. A bell gongs in the distance. Alright, I’ll grab a quick bite to eat and then it’s off to class.

At breakfast time, the cafeteria looks like a free for all. No having to sit exclusively with the house. That’s great, not that it changes the fact that I still have no one to sit with. I stagger into a buffet line that didn’t exist yesterday. The little ghosts are putting out trays of food, and students are using disposable plates instead of porcelain.

By the time I get up to the actual food, a ghost approaches me with a covered plate. Everyone is staring again. This is the worst. My face is beet red by now as if it were becoming a reflex. The little note on the tray says my name and the little hope I had that the ghost made a mistake is crushed.

I made breakfast for you, you’re welcome. 😊

I groan and put the tray on top of mine. I slip to small table in the corner and sit. This is going to be depressing, I can just feel it. The juice cartons that everyone else has is notably absent from my tray. Instead, I have a glass of water. Under the hood, confirmation of my worst fears. Half of a disgusting grapefruit and a boring boiled egg. He even set aside measured salt, pepper, and sugar. Half a teaspoon for each.

Damn.

Oh, and there’s another note.

Make sure to clean your dishes after you’re done.

I look up and watch the other students dumping their trash. It must be nice to have a facilitator that isn’t a sadist. Doing dishes has got to be the worst chore ever. Pruny hands and dried nails, then there’s the soggy food to deal with, disgusting. At least it’s only a plate and cup. Maybe I’m complaining too much.

I peel the shell off the egg and sprinkle it with salt and pepper. It isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I drink some of the water and stare at the grapefruit. It’s red in the middle, like a cherry jolly rancher, but it smells bitter. Maybe I can pretend it’s something else. Come on fate, give me a placebo. My hands shake. I put it to my mouth, attempting to ignore the bitter tang of citric acid on my nose, and give it a lick.

“Good God that’s disgusting.” I drop it on my tray. The teaspoon of sugar Matthew allotted me isn’t going to help that. Damn Matthew. I am really starting to hate that man. I smile and pick up the dixie cup of sugar.

“Thank you for the meal, Teacher.” I pour the sugar down my mouth and follow it up with the rest of the water. Now for the dishes.

“Got a bit of a sweet tooth, eh?”

“Oh, Mr. Hercules. Good morning.”

He looks over at my tray of dirty dishes.

“Matthew has you on a special diet?”

I nod and try not to look him in the eye. He’s being really casual right now. He doesn’t seem to even have a fraction of the intensity he had yesterday. I hope people aren’t watching this.

“If you’re done, I’ll take it to the back for you. I have to pick up my delivery anyway.”

Before I can stop him, he’s already on his way to the kitchen. I follow behind him and keep my head down. There are a few muffled whispers and I know they’re about me. We disappear behind the double doors.

“You should walk straight. Keep your head up, or they’ll think you’re weak.”

Yeah, I wouldn’t want them to get the right impression of me.

“Yes, sir.” I take the dishes from him and reach for a sponge. He stands over me. Why is he sticking around?

“Elizabeth, how are you and Matthew getting along? He didn’t rough you up too bad, did he?”

“No, sir. Everything is fine.” Getting thrown off a cliff was no picnic, but it was better than the knife.

“OK good, then I have a favor to ask of you.”

Geez, I just got here and I’m already taking on more responsibilities. I already clean his dishes, what more could he possibly want?

“What is it?”

He pulls out a set of keys and unlocks a wooden door on the far side of the kitchen.

“This is the wine cellar. I get a crate every day to do with as I please,” he says, as if there is more than one thing he would do with a crate of wine.

“That’s nice.” Somehow, I don’t think wine is permitted on my slave diet. Not that I ever had an interest in drinking before anyway.

“Yes, well I don’t always have the time to come over here to get it. It’d actually be a lot better to have it delivered to me personally.”

I don’t like where this is going. I’m already a slave to one man, I’m not going to break my back helping another. He looks a lot more equipped than I am to lug heavy boxes around anyway. He looks down at me in silence. No. I am not going to go ahead with what he is insinuating.

He is seriously looking at me like I would actually offer to help him with his so-called “problem”.

“You know, like a person. Anyone who could bring me just a crate. Easy as pie.”

I just nod and stay quiet. Nope, not going to happen.

He begins tapping his foot. I think he’s getting impatient, how much longer will he remain civil or just go away.

“Matthew was talking to me yesterday about how he wants me to treat you when you join my physical course next week. All the stuff he said had me just scratching my head. I mean how am I supposed to be that ruthless? I guess I’ll have to think of something.”

He’s playing hardball now. I can’t even tell if he’s bluffing or not because my sadist of a facilitator hates me enough to ask him to make my life miserable too.

Even when Matthew isn’t around to threaten me, he’s threatening me. No way around it now.

“Maybe I could make your delivery for you, as extra credit?” I say, trying to hide my disappointment.

“You know, I think that’d be a great compromise.”

Compromise? He practically twisted my arm.

“Don’t worry about the class next week. I’ll make sure to treat you like everyone else.” He went inside the cellar and left with a crate. “I expect you’ll make it before the rooster crows? That way we’ll both be on time for class.” With that, he left me the keys, which I tied to my satchel, and left. I was already not a morning person and this just made it a million and a half tons worse. I don’t even know how I’m going to manage waking up that early, it’s not like I have an alarm clock.

I have to hold onto the plate and tell myself not to throw it. I stroke my hand. Maybe it’ll be a good thing. If I can’t make friends with my classmates then I might as well settle for the professors. No, I haven’t even tried talking to the other students. It’s been a hundred years, they probably just have to get used to me. Being a teacher’s pet should be a last resort.

Wait.

Damn psychic.

When I finish the dishes, I dry my hands and go to class. The first period of the day is Latin with Korma. Why the hell did Matthew sign me up for that? Then again, if I think about it, the whole foundation of this place hardly makes any sense. Why do dead people need to take classes? Is there actually a way to use this knowledge? If I really am dead that means my brain should have stopped working, can I really still learn things? My head starts to hurt thinking about it, so I guess that’s my answer.

Not everything has to make sense.

***

Alright. I’m in the language and letters building. Students are zipping past me, heading up the stairs and into the doors lining the hallway. Being short makes it impossible to figure out which classroom is which.

I just have to find room 163. The hallway is clearing up, making it just a little easier to see the room numbers printed on the door windows. Looks like my class should be at the end of the hall. A bell rings, and my heart drops. I do not need to be late on my first day.

I peek into the window of the classroom. The class is only half full and it looks like the professor is writing on the board. I’m going to have all eyes on me again. My palms sweat as I grab the door handle. Just hurry and take a seat. There’s a seat in the front, closest to the door. Just take it and sit down.

When I open the door, the room is silent. The professor’s chalk squeaks as she rubs against the blackboard. Korma doesn’t turn around so at least there’s one less person staring at me.

“Alright class, pass up your assignments.”

Papers begin to shuffle forward as Ms. Korma picks up every aisle’s work. She stops in front of me and taps her foot. There isn’t anyone sitting behind me, and I’m new so I don’t know what she is expecting.

“So, you’re Matthew’s new prodigy? Well? Where is your assignment?”

You’ve got to be joking. I’m half tempted to walk out and drop the class, but this isn’t a living world university, and I have to save face or Matthew will be pissed.

“Sorry, I don’t have it.”

“Oh, I see, too good to work hard? You know the rules well enough that I can’t punish you for being late. Listen well, prodigy, just because your facilitator is the only one who can discipline you, don’t think you can skate by my class.”

I’m going to just assume that means I’m being punished for being Matthew’s student. So much for his good reputation.

“Yes, ma’am.” She leaves me alone long enough for me to get drowsy in her class. In addition to this being my first class of the day, it’s also the longest. An entire three-hour block dedicated to dead languages, can’t get more irrational than that. Now I get why everyone is in the back seats. My eyes snap open as a ruler slams against my desk.

“Well? Answer the question!”

Oof I have no clue what she’s talking about. She looks like she’s going to pull something if I don’t say anything. Damn, I really didn’t want to look bad.

“I apologize, I must not have heard it. I’ll do better to listen the next time.”

She points her ruler towards me. “You’d better.”

I watch as she goes back to the blackboard and scribbles more incomprehensible nonsense. At least it looks like nonsense to me, I don’t even know what part of the course we’re in right now. To my right is a cork board adorned with an assortment of papers under headings in languages I can’t understand. The page closest to me looks like a chart of a curve, I squint to see the small print underneath. Finally some Latin I understand, the roman numerals from one to five. Weird. The bulk of the data lands in the I and II sections. These aren’t grades, are they? The curve’s five sections are shaded, and inside are letters that confirm my suspicions.

Nearly everyone in this class is “passing” with a D. Maybe grades work differently here, but the way Korma teaches, I doubt it.

My eyes go dry as I strain to keep them open for the rest of the class. Once the three hour session is over, there is no bell to signal everyone to leave. Instead, there’s the sound of papers shuffling as everyone gets up and walks out. I hurry behind them, looking forward to some fresh air before my next class. The next class on my schedule is in the art cluster, a collection of studios. I pull out the schedule from my pocket and sigh heavily.

I didn’t want to get dirty today, not at all, but I never get what I want. What else is new.

The art cluster is on the opposite side of campus, closest to the dorms. It’s a little intimidating, no, more like a lot. The studios are set up in a half circle, with the center making up an outdoor museum of art pieces. When I’m not weaving through precious statues, I’m staring at the ground, where some of the most famous pieces of artwork have been sealed underneath the pavement. How did they even manage that?

No, there’s no time to be caught up in this. I am not going to be late to another class. I find my studio, and pull the dusty handle. I am hit with the smell of stale dust and dirt as I enter the room. There’s only nine other students in my class, so finding a seat is easy. I take an empty stool in the far back and sit down. Hopefully I won’t get accosted by the professor again.

Alright, Traditional Ceramics, let’s do this.

The professor enters through a door from the left side of the room. Mr. Crowe is older, probably the oldest I’ve ever seen on campus. His face is worn, droopy looking, and he walks hunched over at the waist. Still, I can’t help but feel elderly myself when I’m surrounded by all of these teenagers.

The old man approaches a pedestal in the center of class and places a small vase on top of it.

“This,” he says in a raspy voice, “is this week’s assignment. Acceptable pieces will be fired on Thursday and graded on Friday. You may begin.”

So nearly a week to make that small vase? Should be a piece of cake. Maybe. I’ve never used a pottery wheel before. Where is he going? Oh, he’s sitting in a chair. Is there not going to be a demo, or something?

He reaches into his smock and pulls out a novel.

I guess that’s all the direction we’re getting.

The studio is large for a class of ten. There’s a pretty even distribution of the houses here, and they all seem to know what to do. I get up from my seat at the pottery wheel and go to the large bin where everyone seems to be getting their clay. Next to the clay bin, is a shelving unit filled with pails of tools. Since everyone else grabs one, so do I.

I get back to my seat and look back to the professor. He’s still reading. I sigh. God help me and this forsaken school. Then I spot something.

There are three banners hanging from the ceiling, each a picture that I think describe how to get started. Wet the wheel. Shape clay into a cone, and affix it to the wheel. At least I’m not flying totally blind. Now I just have to focus. I begin to pedal the wheel, wow this is so cool.

It quickly becomes uncool, and my clay cone flings off the wheel into my stomach. My class, which is only forty five minutes, devolves into me avoiding hitting myself with my art. I exit class with clay stuck to my dress and a few new bruises.

My next class is Ancient Basket Weaving. Like Traditional Ceramics, it begins with another sample, and a pile of assorted materials. I don’t understand the point of courses like this. I’m not learning anything, and the professors ignore any pleads for assistance or even criticism.

With my morning classes concluded, I’m finished for the day. I won’t have to attend Hercules’ class until next week, so I have time to get more accustomed to campus life. No homework tonight, just study for the midterms that will be in a few weeks. I’d go back to my dorm and study, but...I don’t have anything to study.

I wasn’t given a single textbook for any of my classes so it’s quickly looking like I’m doomed to fail. Geez, I wonder why graduations are so rare. Then it hits me like the convertible going east on a westbound street.

It’s there when I bust through my door and toss my bag to the side. The only book I’ve seen while here, besides Mr. Crowe’s busy novel. I pick up my academy handbook. Matthew had said that it would be my most important resource here at the academy. He should have said it’d be my only resource on campus.

I slip out of my shoes and settle in with the book on my lap. No speed reading or skipping ahead this time.