The Fake Heart (Time Alchemist Series) (9 page)

Every
night?
Was she kidding?!

Then again, I really didn’t have much of a choice, did I? I kept my mouth shut.

“I’d suggest you research the concept of alchemy. It will probably be easier to see it through your own eyes than having me try and explain it to you.”

Great.
More homework.
Just what I needed.
Shoot! I just remembered that horrible, completely unfair detention sentence I received from this morning (or afternoon? I’m not sure).
God, what a work load for the start of a school year.

Would I even be able to manage all of this? Not to mention being on guard in case my stupid fake heart decided to just stop and caput in the middle of science lab or a date?

Dove jumped off the bed with the grace of a deer and headed towards the window, “Then I wi
ll see you tomorrow night…Emery.
” she said, sliding the window open, letting a blast of hot summer air filter through the room. She was half way out the window (was she seriously going
to jump?) before she turned to face me, “And just a warning: if you see
him
again, you must stay away. You need to stay far, far away from him at all costs. You aren’t in any state to take him on. I’m certain you will be safe here in this school—he wouldn’t dare attack you in broad daylight, but just…keep caution whenever you are alone.”

And before I could even ask who “he” was, Dove leapt from the window.
I gave a startled yelp of surprise and raced to the open window just in time to see her climbing down with much ease and swiftness…on the vines that curled around the old walls of the dorm. A couple more feet down, and Dove jumped, landing gracefully on the grass and darted into the woods. Her shimmery blonde hair gleamed a pale white in the moonlight, making her look like a fairy or some sort of goddess.

It took me a while, long after I had shut and locked the window, pulled the drapes, changed into my night clothes and had settled into the lumpy bed before I realized who she was referring to.

The man with the black
sword
.

The same man who had killed me.

If Dove was so worried about him, then I knew that he was an alchemist too.

And considering how Dove had no powers
anymore, that made him the strongest—and most dangerous—alchemist
here at St. Mary’s.

This had to be the worst way to start a school year.
Ever.

CHAPTER 8

Despite the shock of the first (unofficial) Monday at St. Mary’s, the
official
-official first day of classes seemed to be like a long lost dream that ached within me. It was almost as if everything that had happened yesterday didn’t even occur.

Ha.
I wish. If it wasn’t for this bizarre tattoo, I probably could have spent the rest of my…frozen time…in perfect and utter Denial with a capital D.

Everywhere I looked, I saw prim and proper students, dressed in wrinkle free crimson jackets, deep black skirts or pants pressed to perfection; and in
stead of dirty footballs or fashion
magazines or makeup kits, every one carried…books.
Books, bags, and lots of paper.
And they actually talked about
school
instead of bad football games or lame arcade game scores or the latest scandals of the previous weekend.

It was as if, once St. Mary’s had officially started, all the rich party goers had snapped to attention faster than new recruits at
a military
boot camp.

I was in an ocean of crimson and black, wealth, and education. It was
way
different from my old school.

Schedules had been sent out to the students a week before school had actually started, but because I had missed orientation (to which I would oh so love to remind the Headmistress that it w
asn’t my fault
) I had missed any introductions with all my professors (the professors that could very well guide me in the right path—or crush me with the soles of their perfectly polished heels), as well as which room my classes were being held in.

I had been pretty ecstatic when I had found the crisp white envelope in my personal student mailbox with my name written in the most beautiful flowing cursive, as if its mere presence allowed me to brag, “Yes, yes I
am
a student of
this
Academy, thank you for asking!”  Every student had their own mailbox—sort of like a P.O. Box—(unless you were mega rich and had your mail delivered to your room personally) and we had a school e-mail account, but I didn’t really use it much except to keep in touch with my friends. I wish I could send my Dad daily emails instead of weekly phone calls, but he had no access to a computer. It was rough, and the conversations hardly lasted five or ten minutes because of the charge, but any
way I could hear his voice was good enough for me. (
It
was a comforting needle in this alchemic haystack of misery).

When I had opened the schedule some time ago, I had expected to be stuck in whatever class that had an open spot (courtesy of being a last minute fill in), but the courses I had where way more advanced than I could imagine!
Composition II, Biology, Economics, Gym (referred here as Physical Education), and History III.
Call me crazy, but these classes made my old school pale in comparison!

St. Mary’s wasn’t a typical 8-3:30 kind of school. Sure, all classes started bright and early but it was pretty much like a pre-college kind of school, with classes only an hour long, but the schedules were never overlapping or right next to each other (so you don’t have to dash from the English hall all the way to Gym which was across the campus in five minutes flat).

I was pretty fortunate to get many hour long g
aps between most of my classes.
Maybe it was karma’s way of saying I had suffered enough (what, with the whole near death experience and stuff), but I went the entire day finding the right classrooms and lucking up with brilliant and
(somewhat)
friendly teachers. Heck, even my classmates actually
cared
about their education, unlike the sad lot back at my old school in
New York.

Surrounded by the crisp smell of newly cracked textbooks and dusty chalk, I remembered why I had thrived to come here in the first place. I temporarily forgot all about Dove and alchemy and the Elixir and just escaped into my studies. If there was one thing I was confident about it was doing perfect in my school work.

Because that was the one thing
I
could finally control.

◊◊◊◊◊

I slid in the last remaining seat of History III just as the warning bell rang. My bag fell in a heavy thump on the floor, filled with the required textbooks and giant load of homework. I was exhausted, and it didn’t help I hardly slept a wink last night. I had been too busy tossing and turning, playing Dove’s words over and over in my brain.

“Good afternoon, class,” a tall man said, walking up to the front. His hair was shaggy and black and his chin had a hint of stubble. Behind his thick
,
framed glasses, his eyes twinkled in excitement. Judging from his posture and his broad smile, I had a feeling I would really like him, unlike my stern Economics professor Mr. Wesley, who immediately kicked out two students for
coming in right as the bell rang. Instead, they were forced to wait in the hall the entire hour as he lectured about our first assignments.

But I loved history, so I was pretty sure, mean teacher or not, that I would have a blast either way.

“Welcome one, welcome all,” he said, writing his name in big, bold letters on the chalkboard. “I am Mr. Hogan. No, you may not call me Mr.
Hoggie
or Mr. Ho, you kids and your
hip
slang.” A ripple of light laughter came from the students, and even the ones who pretended to be bored had their lips curled in a smile.
             

“Ready for a pop quiz?”

Instantly the laughter disappeared, replaced by a chorus of groans. Mr. Hogan lifted his hands up, “Hey, it was just a simple question, no need to get so eager! And no, there is no pop quiz, but at least I know how I can get on your good sides.”

I laughed with the class as he passed out papers on what we would be learning and information about the clubs he ran. The class rushed by in a blur, and it turned out that Mr. Hogan was a favorite amongst my peers. He was light hearted and an occasional prankster, but he really put his foot down when somebody was misbehaving, unlike the professors that issued Detention cards or where too scared to anger their students.

Mr. Hogan respected his kids, and it was returned. I liked that about him.

As the final bell for the day rang, everybody sprang from their seats and rushed out the doors, gym bags and purses flapping against their uniforms. I wandered up to the
chalk
board, eyeing the assortment of papers that read “Join the Presidential Club!”
, “The Debate Club Needs
You
!”,
or “Classic and Historical Literature Club.”
Until my eyes caught a list with large, childish handwriting.
“Come Join the Humanities Club!” it read:

Like History? So Do we!

Like Mythology? This is The Place to Be!

Don’t
Really
Like Either but Want Some Free Food? Then Come to the Library Room 206 on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays After School at 4:30 pm! Don’t miss out! If You Have any Questions, Ask the
Hoganator
or Mrs. Clarke for Information! Or Contact Miss President Karin Foster at [email protected]!


I giggled at the term “
Hoganator
” and “Miss President”. There were colorful swirls and smiley faces all over the paper that looked playful and inviting. It seemed like a good
, fun
club to be part of, and one that didn’t look too time-consuming either.

Mr. Hogan came up behind me and laughed also, “I keep telling that girl to stop calling me the
Hoganator
, but after she found out my love of Arnold Schwarzenegger movies she just hasn’t let it go!”

I laughed along, pulling the sleeves of my coat down over my hands from the chilly air conditioned room. “It sounds interested. I think I’ll give it a try.”

“Ah, you’re Emery Miller, aren’t you?” he asked, “I saw you in the back of the classroom.
Very attentive.
I think you’re going to make a fine student here, Miss Miller.”

I beamed, bidding him a goodbye as I pushed through the door. My heart thudded excitedly against my ribcage, and for a brief second I felt that I had not a care in the world.

◊◊◊◊◊

The first day rush came in an exciting spurt and died out when night fell. I had just finished a roughly ten to twelve page outline of Macbeth when I heard the sound of something sharp hitting my window. My desk was exactly right of the window, and even with the drapes pulled apart and the blinds up I could see, even from this angle, the magnificent view of the outside.

And the rocks thrumming against the windowpane, shining against the dusk light.

I knew it was Dove coming for our “training”. I sighed, looking at t
he clock. It was way after eight
o’clock, with just enough light left outside to make your way through the patch of woods.

My legs were still throbbing from the one mile lap we had to do in gym, and my hand wa
s cramping already from copying pages and pages of biology terms
and writing that
Literature
outline. I had already spent the remainder of the afternoon hanging out where the Humanities club visits (and then spent the rest of my time lounging around the library to catch up on this overload of studies) and finished most of my homework as well.

Karin Foster was indeed as eccentric as the piece of poster board she had advertised on. A junior just like Jack, she said she started the Humanities Club to bring history lovers and haters together. And there was indeed free food and drinks, with light hearted talk about what the club
does. She said there weren’t many members,
since St. Mary’s was more of an academics school; after that most of the attention went to the sports or arts
, so clubs like the Humanities Club had to struggle to find members on their own. From what I heard, there were less
than ten actual members and three
or so (including
myself
) that seemed interested in joining. We exchanged emails, promising to give me the latest updates of the clubs activities.