GIFTED
Chapter 1: No Use Crying Over Twinkles and Toes
Purple shouldn’t be annoying. But the piercing purple glint blinking on the edge of Alima’s vision is like a sick game of peek-a-boo she didn’t agree to play.
Blink.
The taunting twinkle follows each set of headlights that roll through the circle intersection of Market Street and the River Road into central Follin.
Blink.
She wants to swat at it. She won’t, of course. She isn’t going to assault some poor Gifted person just because their Identifier is irritating.
Blink.
The Gift Identifiers always catch light, and their winks trail Alima around town. Usually, she can ignore them; she’s probably the only person in Mirn who even notices them. But after waking up thirty minutes early to style her thick hair into glossy mahogany waves for the first day of school, she has no patience for taunting twinkles.
Blink.
Especially purple ones.
She jiggles her right knee, giving her energy somewhere to go, and keeps her gaze forward across the intersection. To the right, past the Bazaar, cherry trees in University Square decorate her familiar shortcut to school. Straight ahead, headlights and brake lights fill the space between Market Street’s many shops, restaurants, and businesses. The hazy trail of white and red stings Alima’s tired eyes.
Blink.
Blaze tugs her right hand. Her siblings' little hands are soft and cool against her own warm, sticky grip.
“Lima, when can we go?” He draws out every vowel of his question.
“We have to wait for the cars.” Mallie leans around Alima to scold her twin. “We can’t walk into traffic.”
Blaze pouts and scuffs his shoe against the sidewalk. He nods to Alima’s left, at the twinkle’s owner. “He could make them stop.”
Alima wiggles his hand. “He’s not allowed. That’s not how Gifts work, buddy. We have to be patient.”
Blaze produces an impressively dramatic groan.
Blink.
Her brain can’t take it anymore. She glances to her left.
An older man in a brown suit notices her and offers a sluggish smile. Alima returns it, then drops her gaze to the silver chain around his neck and confronts the twinkle: a purple, jeweled pendant engraved with three silver waves, classifying the man as a Mover.
Eight years ago, Alima’s Level Three teacher caught her trying to Move her pencil across her desk. She can’t remember much of her teacher’s attempts to ease her embarrassment, only snippets about how Alima shouldn’t feel disappointed, that being a Middling is nothing to be ashamed of. She does remember receiving her GDD test results at the end of that year — No detected Gift activity — and her teacher’s final piece of advice: Focus on what you can control and let go of what you can’t. It was well-meant, intended to comfort her.
That didn’t make it easier to swallow.
She can’t control the twinkle, but she doesn’t have to indulge the stupid thing. She focuses back on the intersection. Traffic is breaking up, and the circle clears.
She tugs the twins’ hands. “Let’s go, Mac and Cheese.”
Mallie grins at the nickname. Blaze releases another dramatic huff. “Finally!”
The old man starts into the crosswalk at a lethargic pace. Despite Alima’s pause to check once more that the road is clear, she and the twins quickly pass him.
Then a lone car speeds around the circle.
Alima shoves the twins back to the curb. Her blood freezes. Time freezes. The car seems to crawl like a predator stalking its prey. In another instant, her broken body will be thrown back. Her mother will face another call from Public Safety, but this time without Alima to support her.
Someone needs to cover the twins' eyes. Don’t let them see.
In her periphery, the old man throws up his hands toward the car, sending his Movement against the vehicle’s speed and weight. Alima lifts her own hands, but without a Gift, they are a useless shield.
The tires screech against the man’s Movement, then with the stinging smell of hot rubber, they stop, the front one crunching against Alima’s left little toe. Heat from the engine grazes her leg below her knee-length tan shorts.
She’s alive. She’s safe.
She steps back and rejects the urge to crumple into sobs of relief, but the slight weight on her left foot makes her bite down a wail of pain. She limps from the road and drops to her knees beside the wide-eyed, trembling twins and scans their bodies, expecting blood and bruises. They both appear unhurt.
She hugs them close. “Are you alright?”
Mallie is stiff, and her long, dark hair is a frenzied mess from her fall, but she nods. Blaze stares at the frozen car, all evidence of his previous pouting replaced by shock.
The old man is screaming curses at the driver, slamming his palm on the solar panels lining the hood of the vehicle. His Identifier necklace swings and jerks with each blow.
“This is one of the busiest intersections in Follin and you think you can blow through? There were kids in the road!”
The driver wiggles his steering wheel, but the car stays put, still under the old man’s control. The driver rolls down his window and leans out. “Lift your Gift, dammit! They’re fine and I’m in a hurry!”
“Maybe you’ll slow down if I implode your tires? If you can’t operate that thing safely, you shouldn’t be driving it!”
The old man continues to rant on Alima’s behalf. Her body tingles with fear, but another emotion rises over her panic response: anger. The driver isn’t acting at all remorseful for almost killing her. What if the old man hadn’t been here? Without his Gift, Alima would have been powerless to save herself. She hugs the twins tighter, and their frightened expressions make her clamp down on her own feelings. She forces brightness into her tone.
“Cripes, that was crazy! Good thing that nice Mover was nearby.”
Blaze blinks from the car to Alima. “It hit your foot.” His voice is small and tender. He looks younger than his seven years.
Alima waves a hand. “Just my toe. Who cares about a toe? I have nine more, right?”
“Does it hurt?” Mallie asks. Her voice is stronger, but shaky.
Alima shrugs, ignoring a twinge of pain in her foot. “A little. But I must be alright, because I can still…tickle you!” She scatters her fingers over the twins’ torsos, drawing a laugh from Blaze. But Mallie smacks Alima’s hand away.
“It’s not funny, Lima! You could have got killed! Like Pabbi!”
Alima swallows. “Mallie, I’m alright. I promise.”
A voice yells from somewhere for Public Safety.
Blaze puts a comforting arm around his twin. “Mallie, Lima isn’t hurt. See?”
Mallie’s olive-toned cheeks redden. She shoves against Alima. “You shouldn’t joke about it!”
“You’re right, Mallie. I’m sorry” Alima keeps her voice low. Passersby are slowing to watch them, and the drivers creeping around the traffic circle are craning their necks in curiosity.
The drivers...
Her mother will be leaving for work soon. If she spots Alima and twins on the side of the road in this crowd, with Mallie crying, Alima hurt, and Public Safety…
They need to get to school.
Tears trickle from Mallie’s eyes and her lower lip trembles, eliciting pained expressions from the crowd around the circle. “I don’t want you to get killed!”
“Mallie, stop.” Alima has never wanted to be a Sensor so badly. She spots a few Whisperers and several Movers nearby, but most of the onlookers are Middlings. As creepy as Sensing is, being able to calm her little sister’s emotions would be immensely convenient right now. She tries to stand, but stops when an ache shoots through her foot. Mallie will go ballistic if she realizes Alima actually is hurt.
Further down the sidewalk, the crowd parts for two Public Safety Officers in pale orange uniforms with bright blue Sensing
Identifiers. The first PSO approaches the two men, who are still arguing, and holds up her hands. Both men’s expressions soften, their fury fading as the Sensing takes effect. Her partner, a middle-aged man with deep brown skin and kind eyes, kneels beside Alima and the twins.
“I’m PSO Dahrenn.” He dips his head and offers Mallie a patient smile. “May I help you feel better?” He taps his Sensing Identifier, a blue jeweled pendant with a silver engraving of a human body surrounded by rippling waves.
Mallie chokes back her sobs and looks at Alima. Alima nods her encouragement, hoping neither of the twins mentions her toe. An official injury will require more time at the accident site and, since Alima is underage, parent contact. Alima won’t worry her mother over a toe.
Mallie sniffles and nods to PSO Dahrenn.
He focuses on her. Within seconds, the tension in Mallie’s body eases, her expression softens, then she giggles at Alima. “That was scary, Lima!”
PSO Dahrenn’s smile is sympathetic. “Yes, it was.” He looks at Alima. “How are you feeling? Do you want me to…” He taps his Identifier.
Alima shakes her head. “I’m fine, thank you.” Sensing is as creepy as it is convenient, though not as creepy as Sight. Fortunately, in Mirn at least, Sight is the rarest of the five Gifts.
Alima pats Blaze’s shoulder. “How about you, buddy? How are you feeling?”
Blaze’s expression is rattled, but steady. “I’m good.”
PSO Dahrenn stands up and pulls a small notebook from his pocket. “I need some information about what happened.”
Alima shifts her weight off her now burning toe to stand, and glances at her wristwatch. She answers his questions quickly, corrects his pronunciation of their family name — Eed-VAN-ee — and tries to keep impatience out of her tone.
When he finishes, PSO Dahrenn slips his notes back into his pocket. “Let’s get you to school.” He lowers his voice and leans toward Alima. “I’ll walk you to the Academy. That should be long enough for her true feelings to fade before I lift the Sensing.”
“Thank you. I just need one minute.” Alima leads Blaze and Mallie toward the other PSO and the two men. She hovers a few paces away until the PSO gives her a side glance.
Alima steps toward the old man. “Thank you for your help.” She ignores the driver. Addressing him will only make her lose her temper or cry, and neither reaction would be helpful. The PSOs don’t need a reason to Sense her and suspect her injury.
The old man’s expression is bright and relaxed. “I’m glad I could help against such irresponsible driving.” His tone and words bump against each other; the Sensing is still in effect.
“It wasn’t intentional. The intersection looked clear from my angle. Walkers need to be more careful.” The driver offers an easy smile, but Alima doesn’t respond. He’s Sensed; any kindness doesn’t count.
“Thank you for helping Lima, Mister Mover!” Mallie chirps. She beams at the driver. “You should drive safer so you don’t kill people!”
Alima tugs her siblings across the intersection. She starts toward their regular short-cut through Uni Square, but PSO Dahrenn heads down Market Street, which is a terrible idea. Follin is a mid-sized city and easily walkable, but the trek to the Academy can still take twenty minutes or more on the wrong route. Market Street is technically a shorter distance, but the dozens of shops and restaurants lining the street attract crowds.
But Alima isn’t about to argue that with a Public Safety Officer. She grips the twins’ hands and focuses on steadying her pace despite the shooting pains in her foot as they weave around pedestrians.
“We’re starting Level Two,” Blaze tells PSO Dahrenn.
“I see that.” He points to Blaze and Mallie’s cinnamon brown collared uniform shirts, the Academy logo of three intertwined circles stitched in white on the top left side. He nods at Alima’s shirt, a larger version of the twins’ except hers is indigo. “And Level Eleven! Only two years left. You’ll have to figure out your apprenticeship this year. I put off my plans so late, my parents almost tossed me out on the streets. Lucky for me, the Public Safety office always needs Sensors.”
Alima offers a reserved smile but no response, wondering if everyone who sees her new grade level color will feel the need to remind her about the dreaded post-graduation career search. The only people more stressed than the Level Elevens about starting the apprenticeship selection process are the Level Twelve pending graduates who are preparing to finish it.
Not that Alima needs to stress about it, or even think about it. Her apprenticeship is already set, and has been for a year. She should want to share about her secure future, but the subject makes her energy wheeze, and she doesn’t feel up to pretending it doesn’t right now.
Besides, the PSO doesn’t need to know all that. At the moment, walking is more important than talking. She needs to take the twins to class and stop at the Healing Center for her toe, which feels more broken than bruised. She shifts her weight to the opposite side of her foot, evening her steps, gritting her teeth against the pain, and holding a neutral expression.
They turn the corner of Academy Avenue and the Follin Academy campus appears. The morning sun is hazy gold against the red brick outer wall that extends the length of the blocks, and glints off the blue and gray mosaic tiles inlaid in a pattern resembling the waves of the Litci River. The green panel rooftops of the towering academic buildings gleam behind the high wall. Balloons and streamers frame the huge main doors, propped open for students and teachers to bustle through.
PSO Dahrenn squats in front of Mallie. “I have to go back to work now. After I leave, you might feel a little strange, but it will go away soon, so don’t let it worry you.”
“Thank you for your help,” Alima says. She and the twins join the pack of people through the entrance arch into the main quad, the Yard. Students lounge on the grass and edges of the two stone fountains set at either end of the quad, the various colors of their Level uniforms dotting the quad like a writhing rainbow. Alima trudges with the twins along the crowded stone path that encircles the immense, open space. Snippets of animated conversation float by on a river of noise: students reconnecting with friends, administrators calling out directions, professors rushing to classrooms in the halls that rise four stories over the Yard.
“Excuse me,” Alima grumbles every time someone jostles her and she stumbles on her toe.
A wiry Middling boy dodges around Alima and crashes against her shoulder. She gets a mouthful of his messy black curls as she and Mallie trip and Blaze topples off the path into the garden.
“Watch it!” An Academy gardener whips out his hand to steady Blaze. Blaze lifts his foot, revealing snapped stems of three red lilies.
Alima glares at the culprit. “Sam! Watch where you’re going!”
Blaze raises unsteady eyes to the gardener. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
The gardener pats Blaze’s shoulder. “No worries, little man.” He leans forward and his green pendant, engraved with the Whispering symbol of a tree, bird, and dog, dangles as he trails his fingers across the flowers. They rise, straighten, and their stems stitch back together.
Sam squats, rests his on his knees, and offers Blaze his hand. “Sorry, kid. Your big sister is so jumpy.”
“You ran into me,” Alima snaps.
Sam simpers up at her, the grin accentuating his naturally pink cheeks. Despite his deep bronze skin, his cheeks have always had a rosy tint reminiscent of a mythical cherub. The coloring is totally out of place on him. There is nothing angelic about Sam Opari.
“You really need to relax,” he says.
“You need to show some consideration for other people.”
“You both need to shut up.” The gardener points a finger at Sam. “And you settle down, Opari. It’s too crowded out here for — Hey! Knock it off!” The gardener steps around Blaze and waves a finger behind them, sending an ivy vine off the brick wall to slap the hand of an older girl who is picking blue daisies.
Alima tugs Blaze and Mallie down the path. Sam Opari falls into step behind them. “Why are you limping, Ali?”
“Go away.”
“I didn’t hit you that hard. Are your feet uptight too?”
She whirls on him. “I am not—”
“It was a joke.” His tone inflates with teasing. “I know fun makes you uncomfortable, but you’ve got to learn to face your fears.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “Hilarious.”
“I am. Charming too.” He bats his eyelashes.
“Don’t bother. I’m immune.” Alima turns away from his familiar attempt to distract her with his eyes. To be fair, they are beautiful — bright green flecked with gold that glows against his bronze skin — a fact Sam frequently attempts to use to his advantage.
She manages to lose him in the Level Two hall when she drops off Mallie and Blaze. The Healing Center entrance waits back on the far side or the packed Yard.
“Level Eleven is off to a fabulous start,” she mutters. She checks her watch and hobbles back out into the throng of people as quickly as her foot will allow.
“Want me to carry you?”
Alima jumps at Sam’s voice. “Will you please go away?” Sharp pain pierces her foot, but she increases her pace. Interactions with Sam Opari should be avoided or at least minimized, in case his cocky immaturity is contagious. But his manic attention periodically works around to her, as if he has an annual quota of torment to meet. Obviously, he has chosen today for her dose of dimwit.
Sam stretches his bronze, toned arms, flexing the muscles against the capped sleeves of his collared, indigo shirt. “It’s really no trouble.”
“If you try to touch me, I will bite you.”
“I’m trying to be chivalrous. I injured your dainty feet, so–”
“No, you didn’t.” The Healing Center’s glass doors gleam like an oasis ahead of her. “I hurt my foot walking to school.”
“What’d you do? Kick some kittens on the way in?”
Alima grabs the long, metal door handle, then pauses to stare straight into Sam’s glowing green-gold eyes. “I got hit by a car, you demented twit. Now leave me alone.”
She lets the door shut in his stunned face. She’ll have to see him again for Morning Meeting, but hopefully something shiny will distract him by then and he’ll forget about her and her foot. Though today’s episode was relatively harmless on Sam’s scale. Her first exposure to Sam Opari was in Level Eight, when he hung one of her art projects from the top of the Academy main gate. She has no idea how he got up there without being seen, but he must be well-informed of the Academy campus’s inner workings since he is one of the few students who boards at the school. His family lives too far from Follin to handle daily commutes, so he stays in the school dorms, a fact that only makes him more dangerous; who knows what insanity he gets up to after hours?
The gleaming, white-tiled Healing Center is mostly empty; one other student is seated on an examination table, being treated for a bruise on his forehead. The other nine beds and exam tables are bare.
Nice. No wait.
One of the Academy healari approaches Alima. A red pendant with a hand over a heart hangs around her neck, the same Identifier worn by all Healers whether they train to become healari or not.
Alima explains about the accident as the healari leads her to an exam table. “He didn’t run over my foot. The Mover stopped him in time, but it hit the side.”
“Take off your shoe and sock.” The healari pulls a stool in front of Alima and sits. She hovers her hands on either side of Alima’s bare foot, but the swelling and bruising in her toe is obvious without the Healing Gift.
The healari sits back. “The bad news is, it’s broken. The good news is, the bones are small so the Healing won’t take long. It’s going to hurt though. Our staff Sensors are helping with first-day jitters, so it’ll take a few minutes for one of them to come.”
How long is a few minutes? Alima shakes her head. “That’s alright. Just do it.”
The healari’s eyebrows hit her hairline. “Excuse me?”
“I’ll be fine. I don’t want to be late on my first day.”
“Sweetheart, a bone Healing hurts. Even a little one like this is still surgically repairing the bones. A Sensor can numb all that, and I’ll write you a tardy pass—”
Even with a pass, Alima would have to give up lunch on her first day to catch up on anything she misses. Staying after school is out because she has work today. As long as the Healing isn’t too long, she can suck it up to save her precious free time.
She grips the sides of the exam table and puts on a relaxed smile. “I have a really high pain tolerance. Trust me.”
The healari’s wary expression suggests she does not trust Alima at all, which is valid given that anxiety is vibrating through Alima’s limbs. “Your choice…”
She repositions her hands around Alima’s foot. The lopsided toe turns pink, then red, then a deep glowing crimson as the Healing begins.
Unfortunately, so does the pain.
The sensation across the edge of her foot is like a blade slicing her flesh into filets. She digs her fingernails into the squishy exam table cushion, hisses a deep inhale and blows it out with determined force. She can do this; the healari promised it would be quick. She continues the controlled breathing with every sharp, piercing pang that means her bones are correcting themselves. Her swollen toe gradually shrinks and straightens, fades back to pink, then returns to its normal olive color.
“Well done!” the healari says. The relief and shock on her face are palpable. “I’ve never seen anyone sit through a bone Healing without Sensing support.”
Alima puts her sock and shoe back on with shaky fingers. She eases off the table and leans on her foot. There is only a minor ache now.
The healari hands her a small piece of wrapped candy. “Healing is complete, so you get a treat!”
Alima manages a weak smile at the familiar rhyme used to coax hesitant children to their Healing appointments. She unwraps the candy and pops it into her mouth, letting the sweetness overshadow her memories of the pain. She thanks the healari, then checks her watch; the Healing took seven minutes. Nita and Helena might still be in the Atrium.
Sam is nowhere in sight back on the Yard, but Alima keeps her eyes peeled along the path to the two Upper School quads at the back. She dodges an Academy Maintenance Mover who is cleaning a puddle of what appears to be coffee off the tiled floor of the wide stone arch that leads into the Atrium. His hands hover over the brown liquid, guiding a steady stream into his waiting bucket, but a small amount has already trickled away and transformed into a colorful puddle.
Even though she has seen it every day of her years in the Upper School, Alima is still struck with momentary awe in the Atrium. The early morning sun shines through the stained glass dome, designed to resemble stacks of colorful books, decorating the white walls and gray-tiled hallways of the four-story quad with hazy colors. Glittering light shimmers over the large, circular fountain in the center, tinting the trickling water and cloaking the fountain’s six gray turtle statues in a thin multicolored veil.
“Excuse me. Excuse me.” Alima shuffles around chairs and small tables crowded with students, scanning the sea of faces for Nita and Helena. She steps up onto the fountain’s ledge, allowing her a clear vantage of the room, and spots a familiar head of strawberry blond hair in one of the secluded seating areas at the edge of the quad.
Nita is curled up in a plush chair, wearing the same indigo shirt and knee-length tan shorts, and no Identifier. Her electric blue eyes widen at Alima. “What happened to you? You look like you got hit by a bus.”
“Not quite.” Alima plops into the chair beside Nita and runs her hands over her dark hair. The glossy waves that had taken her so long to tame feel frizzy from morning humidity and her brush with death. She should have put it up in its usual ponytail. It’s pretty when she lets it hang loose and long down her back, but not particularly cooperative about staying in a desired style. “Does my hair look alright?”
“Do this.” Nita combs her fingers through her own hair, guiding Alima like a living mirror to smooth her hair into submission. “You’re good. So, what happened?”
A bright, full tone sounds three times through the Atrium intercom, signaling for students to report to their Morning Meeting rooms. Alima and Nita follow the other Upper School students to the fourth floor, and Alima recounts the events of the morning.
“What an ass!” Nita’s voice reaches an unusual volume for her. “I hope the Mover ruined his tires.”
“He wanted to. Have you seen Helena yet?”
“Not yet. She’s probably cuddling with Daylan somewhere.”
Professor Leindri greets them at their Meeting classroom door. “Alima Edevani…” He skims through his stack of schedule cards to find hers, then pulls a second card. “And Nita Bellem.”
“We have Environmental Bio together!” Nita points at their cards as they settle at an empty table. Sure enough, the science class is set in their first Block for the A-Day elective courses that meet three days per week. Alima skims the B-Day skills courses that meet on the two alternate days, checking for Psychology of Behavior and Mood. The required conflict resolution course has been a source of unease all summer.
She and Nita aren’t in the same section.
“Crap,” Alima says. “I hoped we’d have PBM together. I’ve heard horror stories about that class.”
“I’ve heard it’s awkward,” Nita says. “Maybe Helena will be in your section.”
“Maybe.”
Floppy black curls bounce as Sam Opari plops into the seat across from her. “How’s your foot, Ali?” He looks at Nita. “Ali got hit by a car!”
Alima tightens her jaw. “I’m fine.”
Sam settles back in the seat. “Good to hear. Your moods are bad enough when you’re healthy.”
It would be so satisfying if she had Movement and could send his chair sailing out from under him. “Actually, my broken toe was a pip compared to dealing with you.”
He chuckles and flips his pretty eyes to Nita. “Fine, I’ll talk to Nita. She’s nice to me.”
Which he promptly does, though his tone softens a bit as he asks Nita about her break and what classes she’s taking, and responds to her hesitant, flushed answers with a patient, attentive smile. Alima studies her own schedule card, trying and failing to block out his friendly chatter. Of course, Sam Opari would be sweet to Nita. He doesn’t even have the decency to be easily dislikeable.
He leans forward and drums his palms on the table. “What’d you do over break, Ali?”
“I worked at the bookstore, as usual.” She squints at his hands. “Can you stop?”
“I could.” He continues drumming. Alima holds his taunting gaze, funneling her irritation into her face. Sam pounds out a final flourish, then rests his hands on the table top.
“What did you do during break?” Alima asks. “You obviously managed to not get arrested yet.”
Sam’s laugh is full and pure and delighted, without any hint of her intended offense. He snatches their schedule cards off the table. “Hey, we have Bio together next period!” He raises his hand to Nita, who returns his high five. He offers it to Alima. She folds her arms across her chest.
Sam eases the schedule cards back on the table and leans toward Nita. “I think I hit her fun limit for today.”
Nita’s shy smile widens. “I don’t think that’s the limit you hit.”
He chuckles and stands up. “Time for a dramatic getaway.” He ruffles Alima’s hair.
“Sam!” she shrieks, and swats at him.
He raises his hands innocently. “It looks better that way. You can’t be perfect all the time, Ali.”
Professor Leindri walks up behind him, looking more tired than annoyed. “Sam, sit down and be quiet.”
Sam winks at Alima and walks away.
Alima combs her fingers through her hair, desperate for a ponytail tie. “He’s so obnoxious. You’d think after eleven years of me never once initiating a conversation with him, he would take the hint.”
Nita retrieves their schedule cards and stows hers in her bag. “He teases everyone like that. And he is kind of cute.” Alima gives her a dirty look, but Professor Leindri calls for attention.
Alima slumps in her seat. Sam slouches in his against the far wall, his legs extended wide in front of him, his jovial expression barely focused on their professor. Nita is wrong; he isn’t cute. Sure, his eyes are pretty, and he’s a few inches taller than her. But with his messy hair, the new fuzz on his face that he’s either too vain or too lazy to shave, and his apparent immunity to basic socially acceptable behavior, he looks like chaos personified. There is nothing cute about it.
Professor Leindri drops sets of worksheets on each of the tables. “This week we’ll be exploring which apprenticeships line up with your goals and skills. I want you to fill this in with your interests and goals. You won’t choose your apprenticeship until next semester, but you should start thinking about it now. I’ve had too many students procrastinate and end up placed at a job they don’t want after graduation.”
Alima glances over the worksheet. It’s a typical chart that her professors love so much: three basic columns for skills, goals, and dreams. She scribbles into the skills column about her organization and responsibility, her ability to work well with others, and how the expectations at the bookstore are known and manageable. In the goals column, she writes that her position at Novel Ideas helps her support her family, which was the point of working there in the first place.
She shoves the paper away without any dreams. Her dreams are too far-fetched to warrant attention; that’s why they’re dreams.
Professor Leindri glances over Nita’s shoulder at her worksheet. “Nursing?” His tone is impressed, but skeptical. “That will be difficult. You’ll be competing with a lot of Healers for those jobs.”
Nita nods. “I know, but I’ve always wanted to be a nurse. I’ve taken most of the pre-med electives and my grades are good.”
Professor Leindri smiles. “I like your determination. Your Mimma and Pabbi must be very proud of you.”
Nita’s smile barely slips, but Alima stiffens. How is it that after seven years some professors still don’t know about Nita’s mother? Can’t someone on staff mention that she left and cut off contact when Nita was ten, so don’t bring it up?
Nita glances at Alima with a small, steady smile and a miniscule shake of her head. Alima sighs, but stands down. She and Helena always urge Nita to correct her teachers, but she only ever responds, “They don’t mean any harm, and I’m not made of glass.”
Professor Leindri looks over Alima’s completed worksheet. “Oh, Alima, you don’t have to choose a specific job now. Just brainstorm ideas.”
She hands him her paper. “I’m all set for a sales position at Novel Ideas bookstore.”
He studies her written response. “You’ve been working there for three years? You must love it. What do you enjoy most?”
Alima tightens her polite expression. She does love Novel Ideas, but as a place, not a position. She loves books, not selling them. Loves her coworkers, not the job. But it meets a need, just as it did two years after her father died, when the bills started piling up and the offers of sympathy and support from family friends started to dwindle. Alima’s grandparents were long dead, and her mother had no siblings, so they were alone in their grief. Even at thirteen, Alima could detect the subtle signs of her mother’s fears and burdens. Novel Ideas let her ease a tiny part of that burden.
But Professor Leindri doesn’t need to know all that.
“My boss is nice. The hours and workload are manageable. I love books.”
“Are you interested in any other positions? It never hurts to look.”
Why start over when she already has a perfect job? Most Middlings end up in some kind of service or sales position anyway, where Gifts don’t matter. The bookstore job fits, whether Alima loves it or not.
Professor Leindri is still watching her, waiting for an answer, but she can’t tell what answer he wants.
“Novel Ideas is fine,” she says.
“Skills and interests can change a lot between ages thirteen and sixteen. You have plenty of time to explore. I would hate for you to short-change yourself.” He offers the paper back.
His tone is gentle, but his comments suggest criticism. Most Level Eleven students deliberately avoid the apprenticeship search for as long as possible then have to be prodded or dragged through the process. Her mother had been ecstatic last year when Alima shared that her apprenticeship was settled. Yet Professor Leindri seems disappointed rather than impressed.
Alima holds her smile in place but doesn’t take the worksheet. “There’s nothing else that interests me.” She pauses. “Is there anything wrong with keeping the bookstore job?”
His expression lightens. “Absolutely not. It’s an excellent position. As long as you’re sure that’s what you want.”
When has she ever been able to have what she wants?
“I am.”