“Sure thing. I start my internship next month, but while I’m still here, stop by if you need anything.” The third-year waited for Matthew to leave, and then nodded to me. “That goes for you too, first-year, assuming you can keep your ass out of trouble.”
“Have to get it out of trouble first before I can worry about keeping it out,” I pointed out.
“True enough.” He shook his head. “Baron Boner. What is this world coming to?”
Looking back, I probably should’ve taken WarChild up on his offer. A third-year who didn’t automatically hate me? It was like finding a diamond in the Bakersfield mud. But part of me saw the offer as some kind of trap, and part of me saw it as nothing but pity, and I wasn’t going to risk either possibility.
Wasn’t the first time I screwed myself over out of pride. Wouldn’t be the last either.
•—•—•
A few other people piled into the laundry room as I was waiting for my load to finish, but I don’t think any were Capes-in-training… or, if they were, they didn’t know who I was. I did recognize one of them from Amos’ History of Powers class. Pretty damn cute too, or she might have been if she weren’t wrapped around some guy, trying to send her tongue down his throat.
Anyway, nobody paid me much attention, but I got out as soon as my laundry was done, tossing the clothes back into the basket without bothering to fold them. It was a quick trip back to the dorm to dump the clothes on my bed, and then I was back out the door with my Glass, headed to the cafeteria for breakfast before the next round of tutoring and the one meeting I was really dreading.
Almost time to meet my counselor. The person tasked with making sure I stayed sane. Assuming I wasn’t already nuts. Assuming he didn’t hate me on sight and conspire to get my ass thrown out from the start.
So much potential for things to go to hell in a hurry.
But that’s life in a nutshell, isn’t it?
CHAPTER 24
Do you remember those Junior Cape vids they used to air for children? Not the good ones, like Paladin’s fight with the Demonsouled or Tempest and the pirates… I’m talking about the early-morning vids, all fake and cheesy, starring made-up Capes in mock battles with absurdly incompetent Black Hats. Pretty sure I’ve mentioned them before. They only ran for a few years before they were replaced. Turned out the public wasn’t buying the candy-colored, saccharine bullshit being peddled.
Anyway, after every episode, the Junior Cape of the day would look straight at the camera and offer some sort of lame fortune-cookie wisdom that had nothing to do with the plot of the actual vid. You know the sort: “An apple a day keeps Professor Inferno away”, or “The early bird knows better than to stay out after dark”, or my personal favorite: “What you don’t know could possibly hurt you.”
I don’t think they ever had one about the danger of expectations. Maybe they should have.
After Mom’s death, the government sent me to speak with a shrink… because that’s the sort of thing a five-year old orphan should have to deal with. He was ancient; probably thirty or older, stuffed like a package of synth-meat into a threadbare suit and smelling vaguely of alcohol and moldy cheese. We went around in circles for a grand total of three sessions—slightly less than a month—before he pronounced me healthy, sane, and well on the way to recovery from my tragic event. I remember that phrase in particular; tragic event. Guess it beats intentional de-parentification.
Thirteen years and one ever-cheerful ghost later, I was more open to the idea of counseling, but I still went in expecting something similar to that guy from Bakersfield. Hopefully without the cheese smell, and maybe a bit younger—although at eighteen, thirty didn’t seem quite so old anymore—but otherwise a white, wrinkled fucker, with wire-framed glasses and a protruding belly full of gin and superiority.
Expectations. They’ll fuck with you every chance they get.
Kind of like people, I guess.
After a brief wait in a sitting room similar to the one outside Bard’s office—minus Agnes and her weapon-grade death stare—I was called in. A low couch, wide enough to lie on, faced a wooden desk. A bronze nameplate on that desk read Dr. Gibbings, and a handful of degrees dotted one wall, with a landscape in pastels occupying another. Thick curtains covered the windows behind the desk, but the free-standing lamps that ringed the room gave it a homey feel.
All of that more or less fit what I remembered from Bakersfield though. Higher quality stuff, sure, but mostly the same.
It was the doctor herself who was different.
She sat behind the desk, quiet and tall, her pale skin the only thing about her that wasn’t black. Black hair, black eyes, a crisp black blouse and—I was willing to believe, even if the desk made it impossible to know for sure—black pants and black shoes. Even the bracelet around one wrist was a circlet of black, unpolished stones.
“Who died?”
She cocked her head, like one of those seagulls Los Angeles was famous for. Her voice was slow and smooth, like caramelized sugar. “Most recently?”
I coughed. “It was a joke. Your clothes…”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Bard didn’t say you had a sense of humor. That’s a good sign.”
“It is?”
“I’d like to think so. People who can’t laugh at life… well, you just know those fuckers are going nuts.”
I blinked and double-checked the diplomas on the wall. The doctor watched me do so, her smile a simple twist of the lips, gone before it had even fully formed.
“My name is Alexa, and as you’re no doubt aware, I’m your school-appointed counselor. Given the number of years you spent in the system, I assume I’m not the first psychologist you’ve seen?”
“Second,” I admitted.
“Then I’ll start by telling you what I won’t be doing
