Chương 30: Chapter 29 - Reisig's Class

The next morning, Conrad and I were on our way to the dining hall when someone called my name. I turned and saw Aaron Reisig coming toward us. When he got closer, he nodded, uneasily, to Conrad.

"Good morning." Conrad nodded back. Reisig said to me.

"I understand that Mr. Vasil isn't here today?"

"No, he needed to look into a few things." I felt ending it there would be inadequate, so I dusted off my mask of professionalism and added, "Can I help you with something?"

"It's not for me, exactly. I thought, as a representative of the Torr, you might want to sit in on my classes. Since it's Friday, I'll be meeting with all my psychics. The first session is for those with influencer abilities, the second is for the perceptive abilities." I had no idea if that's what I wanted to do, but I figured that telling Reisig I had to text Darius to ask for instructions wouldn't look professional.

"I'll be there," I said.

"Thank you for letting me know." He nodded and left. Neither Conrad nor I moved as we watched him go.

"Did I make the right call?" I asked under my breath. Conrad shrugged.

"Reisig's one of our main suspects. Watching him and the psychics will probably be more useful than walking around the school and finding nothing."

"Are you going to come?" He put his hands in his pockets.

"I better not."

"Why not?"

"Come on, zombie-girl." Conrad started off toward the dining room.

"Will you be okay without me?" I made a pfff sound and threw my hands over my head.

"How should I know? I've made a hobby of collapsing for no reason!" I moved my hands to my hips.

"I'm such a hero."

"Osborn's the pyrokinetic, right?"

"Yeah."

"Stay with him until you get to Reisig's class. Pyrokinesis is an influencer ability. He'll be in the first hour."

"You trust him?" I heard a soft chuff that could have been a laugh or a scoff.

"He was ready to fight a lycanthrope because he thought I was stalking you. I would have preferred a smarter guardian, but I trust he'll look after you." I smiled and purposefully bumped into him as we walked.

"Come eat breakfast with us."

"Sorry, Mera. Not today. You talk to the boys. I'll talk to Wuller."

"Oh, fine." Osborn got me to Reisig's class, no problem, but then he was called away by the other students. I stayed by the door and texted Darius to let him know what was going on and ask if there was anything he wanted me to look for. His less than useful answer was Anything strange. I was in a room full of psychics, looking for "anything strange." There was at least one strange thing that caught my attention: one of the boys kept glancing at me.

I'd been at the school for three days—the novelty factor should have worn off. The kid was weirding me out, not only because of how often and how concentrated his glances were, but also because he looked so familiar to me. Then I realized who he was. When he saw my smile of recognition, he left the group he'd been hovering around, came over, and leaned back on the wall next to me.

"Hi," I said.

"Hey," he said.

"Emerra Cole." I put my hand out.

"I don't know if you remember me." As we shook, he said, "I remember you. I'm Taylor Jolie."

"Yeah, I know. It just took me a minute to figure it out. You looked a lot paler the last time I saw you."

"Huh. So did you." When I laughed, a smile flickered over his face. He went on, "I've seen you before though. You're always hanging out with Osborn and Reed." I nodded across the room to where Wes was holding court with his peasants.

"When he isn't too busy being popular."

"Do they know about your power?" My smile faded.

"No. It would be hard to explain."

"But you are one of us, right?" My mind went blank. I watched him, waiting for sense to arrive.

"A psychic?" he said. Wuller had said I was a medium, which I knew was a kind of psychic, but Jacky had always referred to me as a seer. I had no idea what the difference was—if there was one. I made a mental note to look into it and offered Jolie the only answer I could: a shrug. Jolie let his gaze drift over the room—the students crowded around the mats, the misaligned rows of chair-desks that had been set up in the middle of the floor—but I got the feeling that he wasn't paying attention to any of it.

"I'm glad you're here." Jolie's tone was casual, but there was some depth to his words that wasn't there a moment before.

"I wasn't sure there were any other psychics. Like maybe this school was some kind of bad dream."

"A bad dream?"

"You go out for the weekend, and everything's normal. You start to wonder if any of it's real, or if it's only real here. You wonder if we're the only psychics in the world. It can feel kind of lonely." He nodded to the circle of pyros and telekinetics.

"Maybe it's different for them." Wes was laughing so hard, his bright eyes scrunched up until they almost disappeared. He was always so unrestrained, so open. Except when it came to his powers.

"Maybe it's not as different as you think," I said.

"At least they can show people their talent. I'm supposed to be the most advanced psychic here. The only astral projectionist. Bloody useless ability." There was something about the way he spoke. I knew that attitude: you don't care because caring hurts, and you stay detached because it's safer. It resonated with the part of me that tried to deaden out all the painful thoughts that haunted my brain. I wanted to offer him some light, some spark of happiness—anything other than his dull, heavy indifference.

"What?" I said.

"No girl's locker room?" Jolie looked at me, his eyes wide and disbelieving. I offered him a sly smile. When he saw it, he burst out laughing. After his laughter faded, he shook his head.

"I never thought you'd be joking about that." Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"But I bet I'm not the first."

"More like the millionth."

"That's what I figured."

"I never would though."

"Sure," I said, my voice drenched with sarcasm.

"That's what they all say."

"But it's true," he protested.

"I never would. I'm too scared to leave my body."

"How many times have you"—I tried to pick a word that didn't sound stupid—"projected?" He held up four fingers, then put his arm back behind him.

"And it's still scary?" I asked. His hands were trapped between him and the wall. He used his fingers to bounce himself forward before rocking back to do it again.

"Miss Cole, what happens to me if I wake up while I'm away?" I felt a cold uncertainty, like a thread of ice, curl around my spine. Jolie's face was calm, but when his eyes darted over to me, I could see the same uncertainty curling through him—only it'd had more time to dig in.

"I'm sorry, Taylor," I said.

"I don't know." He frowned, but he also nodded.

"That's fair. Just thought I'd ask."

"Have you talked to Reisig? He's an astral projectionist." The boy's lip lifted in a sneer.

"It's always, 'it depends,' with him. Depends on the person. Depends on the circumstances. There's never a straight answer." Reisig had come through the door as I spoke his name. Since Jolie was looking at me, he didn't see his teacher. Reisig came up behind him in time to hear the accusation.

"We're psychics, Mr. Jolie," he said.

"There are no straight answers." Jolie stood up and turned.

"Good morning, Mr. Reisig."

"Good morning. I'm sorry to interrupt your conversation, but it's time to start class." Jolie went off to claim one of the chair-desks. Reisig called to the other students. They all sat down. I went over to the edge of the bleachers to stay out of the way. Reisig wheeled out an ancient chalkboard, already covered with a well-structured outline, and started delivering a fast-paced lecture on how psychics were defined and categorized. He wasn't a bad teacher.

He had enough respect for his students that he didn't dumb down any of the material, but he never made it any more complicated than it needed to be, and he paused at the end of each section to ask them "what questions do you have?" which, in my admittedly limited experience, always got more of a response than "do you have any questions."

I already knew most of the information he was presenting from reading Iset's notes, but I did learn why Jolie was in the influencer class: astral projectionists were supposed to be manipulating their own soul. Perceptive psychic talents didn't manipulate things, they only witnessed them. While the boys were taking a quiz, Reisig joined me on the bleachers, and I had the chance to ask him about it.

"It's hard for Jolie and the levitators," he said.

"Since their talents are involuntary, they can't practice using them. I've been meaning to talk to Wuller about changing the setup from influencer and perceptive, to voluntary and involuntary. The original division would seem natural to someone who studied the talents, but I could have told them—it's different when you're using them."

"You didn't set up the classes?"

"No. That was my predecessor." My mind scurried over everything I'd learned—the firings and hirings, all the people coming in and out. Had I missed something?

"I didn't know they had a teacher before you," I said.

"Rightly said, they didn't. They had a temporary stand-in." Alex Miller stepped through the door and scanned the room. Reisig leaned back and grumbled under his breath, "And here he is." Miller noticed me and Reisig and came toward us, but he was spotted in turn.

"It's our pillar Miller!" Wes cried. The other psychics looked up from their quizzes.

"Hail the fearless hero!" another boy cried. Four boys stood up. Wes and the second worshiper were among them. Eight arms were raised high.

"Hail!" they cried in unison. Miller's cheeks instantly flushed red. The poor guy really was too much fun to tease.

"You'll get back to those tests, boys," he said.

"Osborn, have you even started?" Wes grinned.

"Very nearly, sir."

"Oh? Then you might very nearly pass." He turned back to me and Reisig. When he saw my smile, the red of his cheeks deepened by another shade. I should have been ashamed of myself. I, as a fellow blusher, knew the pain of our condition. At least now I could empathize with my torturers.

"Good morning, Miss Cole," Miller said.

"I'm sorry, Reisig. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You never do," Reisig said. There was a strained silence. Miller took another step forward and raised the hanging folder he was holding.

"I came here to see if you had a moment to go over some of your notes"—his eyes darted over to me, then returned to Reisig—"but if you'd rather go over them later…?"

"Is there a problem with them?" Reisig's voice had the same quiet, angry stubbornness that I'd first heard when he was talking to Darius. Miller gave me another uneasy glance before he answered.

"I had a few questions."

"I didn't know it was your job to criticize my work."

"It's my job to compile your notes when they're asked for. Mr. Vasil comes back tomorrow, and he wants to see them." Oh. That was why all the glances at me.

"Did you want me to leave so you can talk?" I asked. I cursed myself the moment the words were out of my mouth. It might have been the polite thing to do, but there was zero doubt in my mind that Darius would have only excused himself from the conversation because he could listen in from across the room. Miller opened his mouth, but before he could answer, Reisig said, "No, Miss Cole. You can stay. If you want to learn about the psychics of Setlan on Lee, this is part of it." He nodded to the assistant.

"Go on Miller, what's the problem?"

"It's about several of the boys with perceptive talents."

"Let me guess. Mitchell, Tamm, and Black?"

"Yes." Miller was frowning. I'd never seen him look so serious. He stood taller too. There was no nervousness in his manner, no hesitation, no unconscious bending toward others. If I had to guess, I'd say that Miller was, at least for that moment, unconscious of the people around him.

"Go on," Reisig said. When Miller spoke, he kept his voice low enough the boys couldn't hear.

"I wonder if you were…as thorough…as you should have been when evaluating their claims."

"Huh. You know, it seems right that you're compiling those notes for Mr. Vasil. You sound exactly like him."

"If that's supposed to be a criticism, Mr. Reisig, I'm afraid I don't follow it."

"You never worked with those boys, Miller. Why are you so sure they're making it up?"

"I never said they were. My concern is with all the information that you've omitted. The process—""That 'process,' as you call it, takes a half hour per student and teaches you nothing—""Nothing!" Miller's face turned red again, but this time, it wasn't from embarrassment.

"Nothing," Reisig said.

"For all the information we've gathered, I doubt you could ever prove they're lying." Miller's jaw worked for a second. It's possible he was chewing back a few things he wanted to say. Judging from his expression, they were bitter. When he spoke, his tone reminded me of a really polite knife.

"With what little information you've given us, I doubt we'll ever be able to prove they aren't." Oh, gosh. Was this a British fight? Gloves off, gentlemen! Let's brawl. Too bad I didn't have a little Union Jack flag to wave around as I cheered. On the other hand, I wasn't sure who I was supposed to be cheering for. Reisig said, "Put together the notes, Miller. If Wuller or Vasil have any questions for me, I'll answer them." What a devious little word: them.

It could have been "them," the questions, but I got the feeling it was more like "them," not you. Miller pressed his lips together until they disappeared. When he turned his head, he caught sight of the boys. A few of them were watching.

"If that's what you want, Mr. Reisig," he said. Miller bowed and left without another word. When the door closed behind Miller, Reisig shouted, "Five more minutes, boys!" The students who were still staring returned their attention to their work. Reisig said, only for me to hear, "Thank you for staying."

"You're thanking me?" I said.

"I like to have someone around when I'm dealing with Miller."

"Why?"

"In case it ever turns into a I-said, he-said situation." An unsettled feeling wriggled around my chest. All of my experience with Miller led me to believe that he was an up-front kind of guy. The idea that Reisig didn't trust him bothered me.

"That process he mentioned," I said—well, baited, really. I was baiting Reisig.

"He created a pseudo-scientific questionnaire I'm supposed to fill out every time a perceptive psychic's power manifests. He says it's about standards."

"The questions don't help at all?"

"Subjective experiences, Miss Cole. You can't prove a subjective experience. But the way Miller pushes it, I wonder if it's more about discrediting me than about his standards." Reisig put his elbows on his knees, let his hands rest between his legs, and interlaced his fingers.

"I guess it's better than him challenging the boys directly."

"Why would Miller want to discredit you?"

"Did you know that he applied for my job?" I hadn't. And I'm sure the surprise showed on my face. He looked over his students.

"Have you ever felt like someone you work with is out to get you?" It was alarming how quickly my mind turned to Olivia.

"Kind of," I said.

"What do you do with them?" he asked. My stomach sank as I thought about it. I had listened to her. Despite the fact I knew she didn't like me, I had allowed her to convince me that I was a problem. Of course, to her, I was a problem.

"I usually give them the benefit of the doubt," I admitted, my voice full of all the uncertainty I felt.

"Why?" Reisig asked.

"Because sometimes it's the people who don't like you that are the most likely to be honest."

"That's not honesty, Miss Cole. That's prejudice." I shook my head.

"Not always. The ones who don't like you don't care about your feelings. They can tell you all the hard truths. People hide things from the people they like. They don't want to risk hurting their feelings."

"That sounds like abandonment talking." There I was, running a hundred miles an hour— smack! — into a wall of clear ice. I didn't see it coming, it left me feeling cold and stunned, and geez, did it hurt.

"What?" I blurted out my response in a whisper. Considering how I felt, I was impressed it was actually English.

"It sounds like you don't trust your friends will stay with you if you tell them the truth," Reisig said.

"That kind of fear comes from abandonment."" I didn't say it was me." Reisig put up a hand to shush me. I looked around. Some of the boys were staring. I turned back when Reisig said, "In my experience, when people say 'people do this,' they're usually talking about themselves."

"You mean like you just did?"

"Exactly like that. And people do it all the time." Reisig stood up and called for the boys to put down their pens. I stayed on the bleachers and glowered at his back. What a jerk. What an absolute jerk of a human being. Did he think he was a psychic or something? I smiled at my own bad joke and tried glowering at the mats instead. If I was that angry, it meant he'd hit a nerve, and in my experience, there were few things I hated more than when people were right about me.

I spent the rest of the class session watching the boys practice their psychic abilities and trying not to think about how pathetic it was that I was a twenty-year-old woman who still felt like a sad little girl.