Man, I should’ve dragged Persie along. She called me the social butterfly of our outfit, but it was looking more like I was the mangy moth that nobody wanted fluttering around them. My classmates had rebuffed all my previous charm offensives over the last five days, but I hoped tonight would mark a shift in dynamics. I’d never really felt out of place before. I knew everyone at the SDC, and they knew me. More to the point, they liked me. Still, I wouldn’t be beaten. No siree. This moth was determined to get some flames to at least give me a friendly smile.
Sipping my hot chocolate as if it were high-dollar champagne, I unfurled my social butterfly wings and drifted over to a table with a few familiar faces, about ten classmates in all. They didn’t even look up at me. And, judging by the oh-so-stony silence, I’d just interrupted a volley of banter.
“Anyone know what the movie is tonight?” I hid my nerves, smooth as anything.
Mr. Bike-Pump Biceps shrugged. “No.”
I really need to learn their real names. I tried to sift through my brain for them: Brian? No, that wasn’t it. Xerxes? Definitely not. I knew I should’ve pleaded for name tags at orientation, not that I had that kind of say. The best way to get someone on your side was to call them by their name; every psychologist worth their salt knew that. First rule of negotiations—keep saying someone’s name to get a rapport going.
“Can I get anyone a refill on the hot chocolate?” I powered on. “It’s good, right? Usually, you get that powdered stuff that tastes like diluted mud, but this might actually have some real chocolate in it.”
Ponytail #1 took a pointed sip from her mug. “We’re fine.”
“Sorry, I’m not very good with names. I’m Genie.” I sat on an empty part of the bench. They looked at me as if I’d just suggested we go and drown some kittens.
“We know,” Ponytail #2 snarked.
“Right, but I’m saying I don’t know your names.” I resisted the urge to give her the evil eye. “They go in one ear and out the other, so why don’t you tell me, and I’ll remember for next time?” I glanced at a round-faced girl with equally round glasses. Her name came back to me like a boomerang. “You’re Colette, right? Any French ancestry, or did your parents just like it?”
She puckered her lips until they looked like… well, it wouldn’t be polite to say. “French-Canadian.”
“Ah, les Quebecois. Do you follow ice hockey, or is that a stereotype?” I smiled to show I meant no harm. Only chimps grinned when they meant to do some damage. A warning first, a bite later. And I’d promised Victoria I’d sheathe these gnashers, not that I’d ever actually bitten anyone. Not since I was a kid, anyway.
“What do you think?” she replied coolly.
A long-haired guy, who might’ve been called Adrian, snorted. “Yeah, it’d be like her asking if you ride seahorses.”
“Have you seen a seahorse? They’re tiny. What, you think Atlanteans have massive seahorses hidden away? Unless you’re talking about Kelpies, but they’re not the same thing. Sea horses, with a space, not seahorses.” I kept my tone breezy, despite the cold front blasting off these guys. Discomfort wriggled into my stomach, destroying all the cozy work the hot chocolate had done.
A girl with a severe blonde bob blew hair out of her eyes. “Who knows what goes on in Atlantis.”
“It’s not like they let people in to see,” said the guy beside her, a stunningly good-looking dude with ebony skin who was putting on the most aggressive chip-chewing display I’d ever seen. He was probably picturing those fried slices of potato as Atlantean necks. Charming. “Right, Ayperi?” He looked at another classmate, an overeager, shaky kind of girl who needed to ease off on the energy drinks. She had buzzed hair, a Middle Eastern complexion, and big dark eyes highlighted by winged eyeliner—super beautiful and edgy.
She managed a jittery nod. “I hear they’re building weapons.”
I laughed it off. “You shouldn’t believe everything you read online. Propaganda is alive and well, unfortunately. King Apollo is a decent guy, and he doesn’t go in for the whole weaponry thing. He’s more likely to bore people into submission by holding endless summits about trade deals.”
“Says you.” Ponytail #1 smoothed a palm over her plasticky hair. So lacquered, you could probably bounce a penny off it.
I’d have felt more welcome at an anti-Atlantean rally— I’d never seen one, but I’d heard they happened now and again. At least those protestors didn’t use sarcasm and sourness to sugarcoat the way they felt about my people. They just spewed outright hatred. Worse, sure, but more honest. This awkward jelly-feeling in my chest—no, that didn’t suit me at all. I wasn’t one for bottling things up in the face of underhanded nastiness.
I set down my mug, cool as a cucumber. “So, is someone going to come out and tell me what the smacked-ass faces are about, or are you just hoping I’ll give up and run away with my tail between my legs? If it’s the latter, you’ll be waiting until after graduation.” Possibly not the best approach to making pals, but I wouldn’t grovel or kiss ass or whimper like a puppy for the sake of integrating. If I stayed silent, they got to chalk up another win against “people like me.” Not just Atlanteans, but people like Kes, whose differences rubbed folks the wrong way. Society’s targets, magical and otherwise. No way was I about to let them do that.
Colette stared down into her hot chocolate, all talk until it came to confrontation. “We didn’t invite you to our table.”
“Oh, excuse me, I didn’t see names carved into the wood. Now, why don’t you give me the real reason? You’ve clearly got
