Page 12 of Flickerstate

“My mother, constantly. You know Mirabel?”

Candace nods. “My stepbrother—”

“Guys,” Bree interrupts. “We’ve got to start walking. We’re falling behind.”

***

Mirabel leads us across the main quad to the cafeteria, an aesthetically dubious riot of flying buttresses and gargoyles leering from the roof. When we stream inside, I realize why the pretentious Academy kids call it a “dining hall.” Dark wooden arches support its high white ceiling. Along one wall, Gothic windows display the quad; along the other, the basketball courts and the forest beyond. Under each window stands a bar top. Lower wooden tables march left and right into the middle distance, with a runway of empty floor between them. The runway ends in a cornucopia, foods shining under heat lamps like flowers in a greenhouse, students flitting from pasta bar to salad bar to soda fountain like hummingbirds.

Scattered among the tables are kids holding signs with transfers’ names:Peyton Pengin pink bubble letters,Austin McKeighwith gold stars dotting theI’s,Daisy Sultaninside an actual daisy chain hot-glued to the posterboard.

Mirabel halts before the tables. “Here we are.”

“Thank you,” I call from the back of the pack. So far I’m ambivalent about Mirabel—she shakes hands like she’s imitating a distant, high-powered father with a specially humidified room for his cigars, if you know what I mean—but Mom taught me to saythank youlike she taught me to look both ways before crossing the street. You always do it, no matter what.

The other transfers chorus, “Thank you.” Bree starts a brief smatter of applause.

Mirabel scans the crowd and locates me as the origin of the appreciation outburst. A microscowl torques her mouth. “Thankyou. Your mentor should be carrying a sign with your name, but I’m going to read their names to you as well, so you’re not at a disadvantage when you meet them.”

Mirabel pulls a phone from her pocket and reads out pairs, clear and crisp. Bree’s the first transfer called. Her mentor, Antoine, is a cute guy with a high-top fade who’s written Bree’s name in the style of theSpongeBob SquarePantstitle card.

Mirabel reads fast. Soon she’s announcing, “Norah Sullivan, your mentor is Vikram Souza.”

I scrutinize the dining hall. I don’t see my name on any sign. Transfers are vanishing into the mass of Academy kids. Nearlyeveryone is paired by now, and I’m just hovering, hesitating, looking stupid as I search for Vikram Souza, whoever that is.

In the far corner, on the crowd’s outskirts, a guy sits with his head bent over a book. I can’t see his face, just thick black hair and a faded shirt that reads VERMONT. He has a sign tucked under his arm.

I make a beeline for him. At least I look like I know where I’m going. And if he isn’t my mentor, he can point out wherever the real Vikram Souza is hiding.

Behind me, Mirabel announces, “Candace, you’re with me.”

I reach the guy with the book. He keeps reading. I stand quietly for about ten seconds, wondering whether his apparent obliviousness is actually hazing, and then I step sideways into his light. When my shadow falls across the page, he looks up. His irises are so dark that at first I can’t distinguish his pupils. Then he straightens, the light hits his face, and gold filaments radiate from his pupils’ absolute black like an eclipse flare.

Oh my. He’s fine.

Also…familiar. It’s not just the shocking eyes—it’s the cut-glass cheekbones, the strong jaw, the firm mouth. No way I could forget that face.

“Hi,” I say. “We, uh, met before.”

His expression shuts down. It’s like hearing a door lock as you pass by. “Last spring. In Admissions.”

I feel thrown. I’m never the prettiest girl at a big party, but I’m pretty enough that most guys are pleased to meet me. And here thisguy reacts like I’m canvasing for his least favorite politician. “Can I see your sign?”

“Sure,” he says coolly, pulling it from under his arm. No decoration, just letters printed with a typewriter’s precision:Norah Sullivan.

“That’s me. You’re Vikram? My peer mentor?”

He doesn’t quite meet my eyes, staring at my earlobe or maybe over my shoulder. “People call me Vik.”

“Okay, Vik. What now? Are you going to mentor me?” As the words leave my mouth, I realize that to some people, they’d sound suggestive. Thank God I never blush.

Vik blinks once. “If you need mentoring. I mean, I’ll answer any questions you want.”

I am beginning to suspect that, perfect cheekbones aside, Vik is a standoffish jerk. What could he mean exceptif you need mentoring, you’re weak—don’t bother me? I bite out, “I have a series of specific questions, in fact.”

He looks almost relieved. Maybe he was scared I’d want emotional support. “Okay,” he says, bending to slide his book into a backpack propped at his feet.

I spot the title,Philosophy of Navigation. “Is that for class?”