Enjoy life from Reid's perspective, and may you one day love him as much as I do.
Chapter Two: Reid's Dilemma
My Teacher is glaring at me, attempting to drive home the importance of her point with her eyes. I'd never thought that hazel eyes could look angry until I'd met her. Green and blue have a special force lent to them by their color, but other shades have always seemed unconvincing to me. Maybe that is why I always underestimate her. When we met, Caroline had struck me as a perfectly passive woman, who believed more in education through compassion than coercion. Then she'd discovered I thought she was weak, and the veneer had dropped. A year later, I have to commend the Fleet on their ability to pair Teachers with empathic students. They're always dead on in finding a combination that can handle one another. Unfortunately, they are somewhat less adept at finding a combination that can stand one another. Our meetings always leave us both frustrated and miserable, and the fact that we both know it is largely our own faults only makes the sensation worse. Today is proving to be no different.
“Look, Reid,” she says, eyes backlit with rage, “There's no getting around it! I have to send the Fleet reports once a month concerning your progress, and they're starting to notice that you're not making any.” She's standing at the front of our conference room, pacing back and forth. One of her favorite awkward habits. Her low heels make a decisive clicking sound as they hit the blue-tiled floor, and their reflection in its high polish makes her seem much taller than she really is. A slight breeze coming from the wall-spanning arched entryway onto the campus grounds ruffles the hem of her matching skirt. Her accessories and outfits are always perfectly coordinated, always the same thick fabrics like the hair of a draft animal, which feels coarse to both the fingers and the eyes . She likes order, she likes neatness, and I am sorry to say she gets neither from me. I keep waiting for her to pounce on me, rip off my shirt, and iron it herself. I often wonder just how she sees me, given how different her personality is from mine, but I am not intrigued enough to drop my guard. As soon as I go traipsing about in other people's minds, every other empath at the University will be doing the same to me. They can't help it.
“So lie,” I say shortly. My apathetic tone is unintentional, but the effect proves amusing. Her pale, freckled skin flushes, and her nasal Oceanan accent surfaces as her words gain fervor. When she gets angry at me, her nostrils flare, and she reminds me of a dappled horse my sister once had. Maybe that's why I really dislike Caroline. I left Newearth to forget my sister, and am being taught by a woman who resembles her favorite pet. It is not what I would call an ideal situation.
“You're not worth losing my job over. If one of us is going to be expelled, it will be you.” She points at me for emphasis, and the afternoon sun glints off well-manicured nails that I know from experience are as sharp as they look.
“I don't understand what the big deal is. You people teach Type Threes to suppress their abilities all the time, and get commended for it.”
“That's an entirely different problem. You're nowhere powerful enough to need to suppress your abilities, and you know it.”
My mind flashes back to the blue-eyed girl from yesterday. She'd been covered in dirt, and there were rings of exhaustion under her eyes. Neither detail spoke of power. If anything, her abilities were destroying her, and they seemed to be taking that long-haired boy with her. No, I had never envied the Type Threes, who were so open to the thoughts and emotions of others they actually had to be taught how to be themselves. The Type Twos have it best because they can still read thoughts if they try, but aren't bombarded by other people's opinions any time they walk out into a crowd. And me? All my kind can do is sense emotion. Any idiot with a set of eyes and a knowledge of body language can do that, which is a large part of why I don't bother with it at all.
I pluck idly at a stain at the wrist of my left sleeve which she has been staring at incessantly since I walked in. “You're right. I'm not that powerful. Do you think that's why they gave me to you?”
Her pacing stops. I've hit a nerve, but know better than to feel smug. Caroline will most likely return the favor before the end of our session, and she usually wins. It is my dearest wish to actually shut her up one day. Maybe even with words.
“Look, Reid, it's in your contract. If you don't train, don't progress, you don't graduate, and you get deported. As I understand it, the last place you want to go is back to your father's.”
And there she goes. I've gotten better at stopping my spine from stiffening when I am annoyed, but it is not completely under control just yet, so she grins as she sees her point has hit home. It is not a friendly expression.
“They won't deport me,” I retort, mostly to find out whether or not they would.
She laughs at me and resumes her nervous pacing at the head of the room, again reminding me of my sister's horse in the exercise ring. Her movements are graceful enough; it is her mannerisms that make her seem awkward. She needs to stop wearing those shoes and finally admit to being short, for one. When she isn't pacing, she can even be sexy. Over the past year, she'd tried every way she could think of to get me to open up to her, and as a result I had ended up experiencing the full force of her sex appeal. Had I been a virgin, it probably would have worked. That was a large part of what made our meetings so intolerable now. When I see the freckles on her cheeks, I invariably think about the ones dotting her stomach that I once tried to count with my tongue. Glaring eyes conjure hazy eyes that were always open, always watching my every move and loving what I was doing to her. Once or twice, after a particularly trying day, I had considered reporting her, but in the end I decided it wasn't worth it. In all honesty, I respect her for the lengths she is willing to go to achieve her ends. I just find it pathetic that she couldn't make it work.
“Reid, they'd deport you in a heartbeat.” She looks at me and gives a long sigh, rapping her fingers on the dark wood of the table between us. One day she is going to leave gouges in the finish. “They're not going to pay for you to be useless, and you can be replaced, you know. We got a lot of promising talent in today.”
“I know.” My mind leaps back to the Type Three girl and our awkward conversation. She was infuriating because she humiliated me without effort, so of course it is impossible to keep her out of my thoughts for long. I like people who react well, and our little spat had been a lot of fun, even if its memory makes me cold with shame. She probably won't even remember it. Anyway, I could have been talking to the boy, for all I know. I'd have to get her alone to find out if she has a personality of her own, and something about his manner makes me think the chances of that happening are quite slim. Is he a brother, or a lover? It's disturbing how hard it can be to tell sometimes.
Caroline is smiling at me. She saw me tense; she knows me too well. “Ah, did you meet the girl from Old Earth, then? Everyone's talking about her. Most promising talent we've seen in years.”
“Yes, I saw her.” I keep my voice level and my body still, attempting to keep her from gleaning any more information. Caroline is staring at me intently, and I wonder if she would be jealous if she knew what I had already fantasized about doing to that girl in revenge. Her hair in particular kept snatching my attention. I'd never seen hair that long that looked that healthy, and I can't even imagine how it must look loose, spilling around her hips and obscuring her dark, bare shoulders from view. No one on Kiran wore off-the-shoulder shirts, and based on the stares she was getting from the crowd I am not the only one who finds this trend regrettable.
“And?”
“She's nothing special,” I lie. At some point I should probably figure out her name.
Caroline snorts and grins at me, genuinely amused. “Knowing you, that means she's smart, pretty, and made a total arse out of you in front of the other first-years. What did you do, proposition her? I hear those Natives take chastity rather seriously.”
“Unlike some.”
She turns quickly to the archways, pretending she does not understand the implications of these words. I know she is worried someone might be walking by and overhear, but I had checked myself before I spoke. Better the evil you know.
“She's a half-breed,” I add shortly. Blue eyes like that just didn't happen. Old Earth Natives were brown, brown, brown, from their clothes to their hair to their skin. Her hair had been a shade lighter than usual, too, though it had been as plentiful as would be normal. That braid had been as thick as my wrist. Whoever fathered her had been dark-complexioned, but he was not their kind.
Caroline gives a few rapid blinks and rocks back on her heels slightly, another mannerism I am all too familiar with. She is upset at this news, which I did not expect, and turns completely away from me for a moment, thinking. The day is warm and the back of her white shirt has wrinkled. I want to ask her why this news bothers her so much, but before I can she spins about on her heel with a low scraping noise and changes the subject back to me with a finesse someone unfamiliar with her would not have found unusual.
“Look. Either you use your abilities with me, at least, or I recommend that you get deported. That's it. I'm not going to lie, but I'm not going to make you change. I can understand why you'd want to shut everyone out.” She meets my eyes and gives me what is clearly intended to be a look of compassion. I've never quite gotten over my urge to find her psychology professor and give him a good smack.
It's my turn to snort. “With all due respect, Caroline, I highly doubt that. But thanks for letting me walk all over you anyway.”
She doesn't glare this time. I don't know what to make of that. “Keep this up, Reid, and I'll stop letting you.” The last time she'd said something in that tone, we'd stopped having sex. I'd then learned she's not one for idle threats, especially since she has the power to make good on what she says. My face grows hot, and I have the sudden, almost uncontrollable urge to punch the nearby wall. Ironically, this surge of anger makes me angry. My Teacher chooses this moment to laugh at me again, and I make the mistake of speaking without thinking.
“I hate you.” It occurs to me that I say this a lot, and not just to her. I suddenly feel very childish. Caroline's conversations elicit this sort of reaction frequently, which is yet another of the reasons why I detest her. She grins merrily, her perfect, white teeth standing out in sharp contrast from her freckles and dark-rimmed glasses. “I'm glad you hate me. That means you'll pay attention when I talk. Now can we please start the lesson at some point in the near future?” A chunk of her wavy, reddish hair has come loose from its twist and is springing about near her left ear. I am exhausting her.
“Fine. Fine,” My eyes ache and I look back out the archways into the sunlight as Caroline takes a few moments to prepare herself for a strategic invasion of her mind. I should probably tell her one day that I admire her for her ability to do what she does. I would be utterly incapable of doing her job; I value privacy too much. The trees outside tell me the wind is picking up. It has been a stormy fall, and I can only assume we're in for another few days of rain. I can't stand the rain, and not just because the thought of being shut up with my idiotic roommate makes me want to claw at the walls.
“Reid.” I turn to her. She seems calmer. Her breathing is slow, and her eyes are shut. This is what our Teachers call blanking the slate. For stronger empaths, this would be step one in training them to transmit emotions, but I am a mere receiver.
“I am thinking of a memory. Tell me what it is as clearly as you can.”
I haven't used my abilities in months, and I seem to have gotten a bit rusty, because it is far harder to drop my guard and slide into her mind than it has been in the past. The sensation is awkwardly intimate. Her eyes are open, and she is looking at me, inspecting me as we make eye contact. What comes next is pure confusion; she is thinking of a memory, and I am being bombarded by a string of sensations. My skin feels clammy, and I am soon left utterly frustrated. She knows better than this. I am nowhere near powerful enough to make sense of what is pouring through her head.
“How the hell am I supposed to read you if you're giving me that?”
“Reid, be sensible. Can you tell how the memory makes me feel?”
Oh. “Yes.”
“And?” A flicker of annoyance taints her remembrance, but I know to ignore it.
“It makes you sad. Depressed.”
“Can you tell how old the memory is?”
“I can guess. Based on the strength of the emotion, it's old.”
“Excellent. Anything else?”
I relax and comb through her head some more. “I know how it is making you feel now.”
“And why is that important?”
“It gives me a better idea of the topic of the memory itself, since chances are the two
thoughts are linked.”
“Correct.” That part of the exercise over, her mind instantly becomes a jumble. She's pleased at how well I am doing, and it makes me feel guilty for being so grumpy.
Wait. That's her guilt, not mine. That wasn't my emotion.
That right there? That is why I hate being empathic. My mind snaps shut, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I regain control of myself. It's suddenly chilly. No, actually. I'm just covered in sweat.
Caroline wrinkles her nose. “It would be less of a nightmare if you didn't fight me the entire time.”
“No, it wouldn't.”
She ignores me and smooths her hair back away from her forehead. “Tell me about the memory.”
“Didn't I already?”
“No.”
“Well, I told you what I could, then. I'm sorry it's not good enough.”
“I am too. Do it again, and try harder, or I'm writing a poor report.”
My eyes dart back out toward the trees, and I have the sudden urge to bolt. But I can't. She has me trapped here. My wristband tells me I have an hour left before she can dismiss me. I could probably make her angry enough to storm off within the next few minutes, but at this point that seems less than wise.
“It's going to be a long day,” I mutter, running my hands through my hair. My father's lined face appears in my memory, green eyes staring. Do it again, he yells. You're worthless. Do it again and prove to me you're not worthless. Sometimes in my nightmares I tell him no, and just accept my uselessness. It's never that easy when I'm awake.
Moments like this are why I am glad the Teachers are not empathic. Part of what makes training tolerable is the knowledge that no matter how far they make you dig into them, they can't dig back. The Fleet says it helps build trust, and also forces the stronger empaths to interact normally in a social situation. It says a lot about them that they can so effectively teach something they can't do themselves. And maybe that's why they're so effective, actually. We're supposed to be learning how to blend in, to become “normal.” The Consortium wants us all to have the opportunity to live our lives just like any other citizen, and yet they force practicing empaths to change their names so that we're guaranteed to stand out. I've yet to select my new name because I have every intention of being the first non-practicing empath to graduate from this school. The last time I told this to Caroline, she almost broke a nail in rage.
“Reid,” she repeats.
I sigh and push my hair away from my eyes. “Fine. I'll try again.”
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