Ordinary Magic (11 page)

Cook Bella looked me over, her expression bland. “Ords don’t follow spells. And everyone needs to get back to work,” she added, moving off to check the dishes and the dessert.

I caught Nate watching me. “You’d better like washing dishes.”

“Most fun I’ve had in my life.” My back was starting to ache.

Noise came from the dining hall, the strings and horns and drumbeats of a band tuning up. Kids perked up, and Cook Bella started barking orders about almond cream and raspberries.

By the time I rinsed out the last cup and shut off the faucet, my fingers were prunes and my hair was falling out. (Falling out of its tie, that is; I wasn’t going bald.) Nate tossed me a towel, and we got the last of the dishes dry and put away. By that time, the music was in full swing, and Cook Bella was setting plates out on the island. The kitchen kids gathered around, and Nate inched over and said something to Cook Bella. She looked at me and shook her head, murmuring something about “not one of us yet.”

So while the rest of the kids bellied up to the island and dove into raspberry tarts, I headed toward the door.

“Work’s not over yet,” Cook Bella called in a carrying voice. “There’s still dishes to be washed when dessert’s done.”

I stopped and glanced around. The kids were still sitting at the island, focused on their food, studiously
not
paying attention to me. I had said I would help, so I went back and stood by the sink.

In between the clink of spoons and
mmm
s, there were snatches of talk. One kid mentioned she had “Macartney first thing tomorrow morning.” It set off a round of sympathetic murmurs.

“It’s best to get it over and done with right away,” one of the kids replied around a mouthful. “Like pulling off a bandage, you know? Then you’re not freaking out for the rest of the day.”

Cook Bella clapped her hands and immediately the room quieted down. The sounds from the dining hall continued to filter in—a bouncing song and a singer with a rough voice, plus feet stomping and laughter and people shouting above the music. “All right, servers, dessert out. Dinner dishes back in. Do it quick and do it right, and then we’ll have a bit of fun.”

I made sure my hair was tied back and sleeves rolled up and apron secure before starting in on the dinner dishes. The music thrummed through the floor and up my legs. I made myself go steady, check that each dish was really clean before handing it to Nate. After a while, there was only me
and Nate left, and Cook Bella standing in the doorway, listening to the music.

When we finally finished, Nate raced for the exit.

“Make sure you’re back here for the dessert dishes,” Cook Bella said, holding the door open.

The dining room was hot and loud. Most of the kids were up at the front dancing. A band played away in a corner. The kids still in their seats laughed and shouted at one another and dove into their plates of fruity wonderfulness. Up front they’d pushed chairs aside and tables back until the space had doubled. How could there only be fifty kids here? It seemed like hundreds, thousands, everywhere at once. Everywhere except at our table; for some reason the other kids were giving us a wide berth.

I slid into my seat as one song ended. The music started again right away, and there was a race to find partners and places. Alexa asked Peter to dance; he got up and followed her without a word. Fred glanced at me and Frances, then straightened up (I think his heels even clicked together) and held out a hand. “Would either of you, I mean, would you like to …” He cleared his throat and nodded at the dancers.

Fran threw a nervous glance at the dancers and shook her head. “No. No, I
don’t know this dance.
”

“Neither do I,” I said. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“I could teach you,” Fred offered, but Fran shook her head and started playing with her fingernails. “Fran—”

“I
said no.
”

“Okay, okay. Maybe the next one?” I suggested, but Fran was just staring at the floor as if she wanted to burrow into it. “You.” I turned to Fred, who still had that blank, stunned look of retreat, and held out my arm; he grinned and hooked his arm through mine. “Let’s do this thing.” I tugged him toward the dance floor.

The tune was bright and lively, the kind that pricked up every cord of your body until it was clamoring to move. Fred took my hands and swung me into the dance. Hop—Skip—Clap—Twirl. Fred was good, or at least he was good at pretending he knew what to do.

Twirl—Skip—Skip—Change partners. I had no idea what I was doing, and it didn’t seem to matter much. The steps kept repeating, but my new partner made up half of it, twirling and turning me out of sequence.

Skip—Skip—Skip—Clap—Change partners. The air was hot and heavy and clear. My new partner nudged me into the right place with a smile. Twirl—Turn. The girl next to me winked and said, “No, the other way.” Clap—Change partners again.

Peter was my partner this time, face flushed, eyes bright as we messed up each other’s moves. I stepped on his foot, he limped (or faked it) through the next steps. I laughed an apology. Clap—Skip—Spin—Spin. And I leaned back, giving in to the momentum.

It wasn’t until we heard the students clapping that we realized the dance was over. We smashed into each other, trying to stop, and Peter was smiling—actually smiling—and I couldn’t
breathe for laughing. The musicians waved off the applause and started right up again. Faster.

I grinned. “Go again?”

He took my hands.

Nate didn’t lie. They did feed us well. Breakfast was as impressive as dinner. For the first time ever, the scrambled eggs didn’t need salt. They didn’t need anything; they were savory, and so smooth they were like custard. There was a plate of thickly sliced bacon, still sizzling, and a basketful of golden, pillowy biscuits with little pots of butter and jam. Kids at the other tables kept their servers running as they cleared their plates and asked for more. At our table, the only ones who managed to eat were Peter and the thin boy (whose name, I learned, was Cesar—and I had to ask Becky for it). I forced down a couple of bites—it was so tasty, it seemed a shame to not eat it—but my stomach was so busy twisting and churning with nerves, there wasn’t any room for food.

“What do you think they’re going to teach us?” Fred had just about reduced his biscuit to crumbs, smearing and resmearing it with strawberry preserves, until Peter reached over and pried the jam pot out of his hands.

“This is a school, right. So school stuff,” I said, trying to convince myself.

“Isn’t your sister … Doesn’t she run this school? Didn’t she tell you anything?” Fred asked.

“No. She just said this was a school for ords.” And I hadn’t asked her about anything else, I hadn’t
cared,
because I thought if Alexa was in charge, then nothing bad could happen. Now I wished I had. “We’ll learn ord stuff, I guess. Like …” What did ords do, besides get kidnapped by adventurers? “Camping.”

“Or how to escape from a camp,” Fred joked.

And Peter suggested, “The proper way to get captured.”

On the other side of the table, Cesar’s eyes flicked up briefly from his plate, and then he went back to shoving bacon in his mouth.

“
Maybe this is just a normal school
,” Frances whispered, barely loud enough for us to hear over the breakfast buzz. “
Maybe the only thing different about here is that they let ords in.
”

I turned to the Majid sisters. They were seated at the far side of the table, chairs edged together and heads bowed. They’d been chatting to themselves and ignoring us since we sat down. I asked, “What do you guys think?” And then I felt silly, because what if they didn’t even speak Westren?

They stopped talking and stared me down. After an endless moment one said, “They will teach us what we need to know.”

“That’s really helpful,” Peter remarked.

“What
you
need to know,” the other said. “We have no reason to be here. Maj take care of our own,” she finished imperiously.

Peter snorted and said what we were all thinking. “Even ords?”

“Maj take care of family. All family. It is their duty.”

“Then why are you here?” he demanded.

Before they could answer, there was a chime and the servers raced through, snatching our plates off the table, even if there was still food on them. Cesar grabbed the last three biscuits out of the basket—so fast you’d miss it if you blinked—and stuffed them in his pockets.

Mr. O’Hara appeared next to our table as the rest of the students began to file out. “Good morning. I hope you ate well. It’s going to be a long day.”

Fran was right; it was just a normal school. Sort of. At first.

We were prepared for weird. You can’t be an ord headed to an ord school without expecting weird, especially after a summer of people telling you “you are different” and that your life is never going to be the same. Which is why it was so unnerving at first, because our morning classes weren’t weird at all. It was the stuff everybody learns—you know, math and history and reading (which Mr. O’Hara called literature). Stuff you would learn in any school, no matter what kind of kid you were. In those classes, things almost seemed normal.

First period was Mr. O’Hara’s literature class. He led us up the stairs and down a hall to a fresh-scrubbed classroom with desks and chairs that had to be pulled out by hand—no magic here—and a wall of windows that overlooked the courtyard. We sat in uneasy silence as he tried to get us talking about the
last thing we had learned in our other schools, and when had we gotten kicked out, and what books we liked, and what we “expected to get out of this class.” Nobody said anything, but he just kept asking questions, long after other teachers would have broken down and started lecturing about what
they
expected us to get out of class to save everyone the trouble of answering. After ten minutes of keeping silent, I finally raised my hand and told Mr. O’Hara I loved Miranda Blythe’s romance novels, and I decided I liked him immediately when he didn’t laugh or reassure me that we’d be reading
real
books. Like Mrs. Andrews had last year.

He did say, “I’m afraid Ms. Blythe is not on the curriculum this semester. We’ll be starting your education here with the epic poets—boring, I know, but necessary building blocks. However, an extra-credit book report is always welcome, and you’re free to choose whatever topic you like.”

Then Mr. O’Hara added, “I think Ms. Blythe’s works would be a particularly interesting topic for a report. In fact, if you want an example of the archetypal hero journey—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Fred raised his hand. “You read romance novels?”

“My dear boy,” Mr. O’Hara replied, “I read everything.”

We stayed in the same classroom for languages. That class was a little weird, I’ll admit. I mean, a couple of language classes are required at every school. I don’t know why; you usually don’t learn more than how to say “Where is the bathroom?” and “I’d like a cheeseburger.” (Or, in Olivia’s case, “Oh my, a button has popped off!”) Olivia and Gil said if I had a choice, I should take
Astrin, which is supposed to be the easiest because it’s so close to Westren, and Jeremy insisted it’d look better on my transcript if I took Svar, because it’s the hardest. But they all agreed that language is usually two semesters, over and done with. It’s a token class.

That was not the case at the Margaret Green School. Here it was required. We were going to learn a different language each year, and in order to graduate to the next grade we’d have to be what Mr. O’Hara called “functionally fluent.”

“Why? So we’re ready to be bought and sold?” Peter muttered under his breath.

“In case you’re bought and sold,” Mr. O’Hara answered so everyone could hear. “I think you’ll find escape much easier if you know the local language.” And then he spent the rest of the class introducing us to Astrin and teaching us the tourist basics, like
hello, good-bye, please, thank you,
and
help, I’m being kidnapped!

Every now and again I’d glance out the large windows and watch Becky holding her class down in the courtyard. I wasn’t sure what she was doing, but it looked like she had the older students and was making them run around a lot and dig into the ground.

Midmorning was Ms. Macartney for math and history. Unlike Mr. O’Hara, Ms. Macartney didn’t seem interested in what we’d done in our other schools or in getting us to talk. She barely talked herself. She took roll by waiting for everyone to sit down and stop talking (something about her calm, watchful expression made it a short wait) and then checked our names off
a list. She walked up and down the rows, handing out quizzes, and took a seat behind her desk as we spent the better part of the class filling them out. The quiz was basic math—adding, subtracting, multiplication, some division, and a little geometry. I guess to figure out how much we knew. The instructions said to try every problem, even if we didn’t know the answer, and to show our work.

Class was almost over by the time we finished; Ms. Macartney stood and gathered the papers herself, though it would have been easier to just poof them over to her desk.