Contemporary Spellcraft: Nexus, #1

By Christian Andreo

When a boy's decaying soul is up for grabs, two budding witches turn high school into a minefield of betrayal and vicious retribution.

 

Dark witch December Bowen is supposed to be taking her powers to the next level. On her first day of class, the formerly homeschooled teen is pressured to reap the boy she loves to fuel her emergence from obscurity. But unable to doom him to a shadowy half-life, she vows instead to keep him safe.

 

Rival caster Charlotte Solvnik will do anything to climb out of a garbage life. When new classmate December reveals her unique abilities, Charlotte will infiltrate December's life to claim the boy she needs to jumpstart her own magic. She will even cast a dangerous, ancient spell to bind the boy to her… a decision that will haunt her for the rest of her life.

 

As December agrees to a perilous ritual in exchange for help, she begins training with the slimmest hope of surviving. Until Charlotte reveals December's biggest secret to the one person that could destroy them all…

 

The question is no longer who will win. It's who will survive?

 

Contemporary Spellcraft is the enthralling first book in the Nexus urban fantasy series. More George R.R. Martin than J.K. Roweling, fans of mature YA, rigid magic systems, and visceral storytelling will love Christian Andreo's gritty drama.

 

★★★★★ '…considerable originality and freshness'

★★★★★ '…superb world-building, great writing-style…'

★★★★★ '…feels like Neil Gaiman wrote a contemporary version of Harry Potter!'

★★★★★ '…one of the best books I have read in a long time…'

 

Which side of darkness are you on? Buy Contemporary Spellcraft today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Andreo
• Release date: Jan 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201711771

Christian Andreo

My stories are influenced by almost everything I think is interesting. Which is most things. I read about one book a week, watch too much anime, maintain both professional and amateur interests in the sciences. My science fiction (of which I've released extremely little due to my hard science perfectionism in that camp) is heavily influence by my bill-paying career. (Spoiler, most of us have day jobs). ​I direct a research and development group. We study and implement everything from webcams to augmented reality. When does one find the time to write books? Without the support of my wife and children, there would be no time. But they know crafting stories is as much a part of me as my piano fingers, so their tolerance is much appreciated.​ My choice of writing genre certainly has a backstory. I'm a huge fan of strong heroines. I studied the works of the great Joss Whedon (in real time, before there was stream binging) and haven't ever been able to escape the shadow of Buffy the Vampire Slayer - not that I'd want to. Add this predilection to the fact that some of my favorite heroines have come from Young Adult stories, and it was inevitable that I would find myself writing YA urban fantasy, paranormal, and science fiction stories. YA tends to be emotionally driven and include a lot of discovery and change, and I find this happens within smaller boundaries than in popular adult fiction, which makes high context clues and nuances more natural to write. In short? I'm a sucker for a good romance. But to be fair, anyone that says they don't love love is either a liar or a sociopath. But you can't be a good writer (maybe just okay, in my case - you be the judge) without being a good reader first... I lean into fantasy and science fiction, mysteries, young adult romances (even if they're not very good), and anything by Bill Bryson. My favorite books include: Ender's Game, The Dragonlance Chronicles, Against the Fall of Night, The Chronocar, November Tales, The Wheel of Time novels, The Gentleman Bastards novels, the Sprawl Trilogy, The Night Circus, To All the Boys I've Love Before, Attachments, The Dream Engine, The Kingkiller Chronicles, Eleanor and Park, The Dragon Prince novels, The Square Root of Summer, Kill the Boy Band, Snow Crash, and The Gods Themselves.

Book preview

Part I

Glyph representing December Bowen

1

When I first realized that I had the ability to sense human desire, I had become so distracted merely sitting on the subway that I missed my station by three stops. I spent that time breathing deeply to clear the flush of my skin, and every stranger’s sigh or licked lip in line of sight sent gentle shivers through me. After I realized that I wasn’t turning nymphotic, I started to get the sense that the man and woman seated behind me were up to something beneath the long coat they shared upon their laps.

I vowed that day to never allow the desires of others to overtake me again. So for the last nine months, I’ve been probing everyone, looking for triggers, anything that can hone my ability. My thinking is, if I know for certain that a particular desire isn’t mine, then I can filter it out.

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your perspective, the occasion on the train has proven the exception. Most desires aren’t strong enough to reveal themselves unless I really concentrate. But once revealed, the simple desires are easy enough to interpret. I’m peckish when someone desires food. I feel an anxious fluttering in my chest if someone desires security, the urge to caffeinate when someone wars with sleep.

When I tried probing James as he returned from school that late-August afternoon, my curiosity flagged immediately. I can’t ever remember feeling so alone, so utterly worthless. I didn’t even have the motivation to cry, sinking down a nearby wall as he collected his mail. The feeling left when he did, but of course, I had to know what was happening to him. A curiosity I now regret.

You see, he’s starting to… turn. It comes to me in muted tones of dissonance, an acrid slightly gamey scent, his less-than-luminous spirit fraying at the edges. And when a soul starts to turn, it’s usually a cause for rejoicing. We thrive on rotting souls. But this is James. My James.

All those years ago and not two hours after unlocking the door of our new flat, he bounded uninvited into our living room. Hair of an Irish rover, the smile of a Hollywood A-lister, and an accent so Bostonian that I’d believed there was nothing in the new world but rugged charm. In the same day, he rescued me from the drudges of unpacking, scared off a rat the size of a Labrador, and introduced me to the delights of dropping chewed gum from the interstate overpass. I’ve been in love ever since. I don’t mean the puppy dog kind. I mean that he is the knight I would prick my finger and sleep ages for. I mean that every day I get up at dawn to catch him by the postboxes as he leaves for school. And every evening I sit on the steps, even if it’s raining buckets, just to catch him on his way in.

Just look at him getting out of that sedan. One of his basketball mates dropping him off, probably. Even his walk is graceful and powerful. The red scruff on his angled jaw, and the tight cords of his milky white neck. Doesn’t it just make him even more attractive that he doesn’t know how beautiful he is? Normally I would follow him inside, but I’m waiting for one of Mother’s clients.

As James approaches, I shift a bit on the concrete block next to the apartment stairs, lift my hand in what I hope is a neighborly way. He ignores me and presses on through the door. Sigh.

I thought, if only I could feel his desires, understand him so intimately, perhaps he could be coaxed back on course. But I have no leverage. He wants nothing. Nothing. Not even sex, and all teenage boys want sex. It’s as if he’s already given up his soul.

I’ve studied soul rot. I’d like to say my heart aches for them all, but really, I don’t know them. Ending their tragedies would be my gain. It will get easier with every reaping, my mother says. But this isn’t just anyone. This is James. James that made me a birthday cupcake using salt instead of sugar. James that showed me how to sneak into the Cheri Street theater through the unlockable door. James that held me in his arms and played with the folds of my new blue dress and kissed me on the grass of the Common and ruined everything.

These are my idle thoughts as Mother’s only appointment for the day appears, exiting the cab. No hat. Wouldn’t want to skew her bouncing blonde streaks with a bout of static, but never mind her ears falling off in the cold. It takes me a moment to filter out the spiritual pallor and acrid scent. It will be a love potion for her. Mother will warn her that love is no substitute for compatibility, but she won’t listen. By the time people like that get to my mother, they’re past listening.

Amber Gregson, I say. Her name is sour in my mouth, sharp. She’s further along than my James. I can feel it twenty feet away.

Yes? she says, carefully placing her heeled boots on the salty crust at the center of the walk. They clop, not unlike hooves.

Amelia Bowen is my mother, I say. Come along inside.

With a thumb, I press the door code, and an electric buzz thanks me. The heat of the hallway seems to rise from the shabby maroon carpet like desert thermals. There’s practically an ocean mirage at the end of the corridor.

How old are you? asks Amber, removing her thick wool coat. It matches her lipstick, dark and red. I’m surprised she can tolerate the clash with the corridor carpet. Her sweater is white, downy. Her skirt is black, tight.

I walk down the hall and straight past the lift. It’s broken, I say. Please mind your footing on the steps. We’re just down a floor.

I don’t really believe in this, you know, she says.

No one ever does.

But in my line of work, you have to be open to the more eccentric things in life, she says. Have you done any acting before?

No.

You carry yourself a certain way. This time it’s a vomit green that I feel, carrying tinkling notes of wistfulness and the faint scent of blood. Envy of a complex variety, most likely. It disappears as quickly as it came on.

Is that often a marker of talent? I ask.

She hums a response, placing one foot carefully ahead of another as she navigates the narrow, spiraling staircase. Her voice echoes off the thick cream paint. I run an agency. Film and television, mostly. Some theater, but also some modeling. Any interest?

I have a forgetful face, I say.

She laughs. That’s complete bullshit, right there. Maybe runway?

We reach the bottom and she’s still talking. You must be nearly 18. Am I right?

She stops and rifles through her purse, hands me a card.

My social medias are on there. Follow me, and I’ll look through your selfies, she says, pressing the card into my hand. If they’re any good, we can schedule a read.

I shove it into my pocket.

It’s dark down here, says Amber, the lights dimming at our approach. Just a little something to get clients in the mood. Mother said I could be creative, but I’ve found simple things to go a long way.

We’re just at the end of the hallway, I say, pulling out my phone. Touching my thumb to the home button and tapping the security app, I whisper.

Let pass of want,

To witches’ font.

Harm none or haunt,

Intent benign.

I draw the runes on the screen, tendrils of spirit swishing between my fingers and the glass, the program pushing against the underpinnings of the barrier construct. I feel the heat leave my body ever so slightly. The silver dust parts before the front door like a curtain.

I reach in front of Amber and twist the knob. Incense as thick as any Roman Catholic funeral drafts into the corridor. Mother will see you in the kitchen. Straight through. The doorframe flickers in the candlelight. The fine lines at the corners of Amber’s eyes are obscured by shadow, and the woman looks ten years younger. Maybe she should ask my mother for a spell to make her nocturnal.

It’s just, she says, I have this friend that had a streak of luck after visiting your mom. I know it was probably all coincidence, but if doing this helps to get me motivated then what could it hurt, right? Positive thoughts lead to positive outcomes.

Straight through, I say, pointing past our ensconced living/dining room toward the kitchen.

Amber says, Benedict isn’t really susceptible to this kind of thing either, but if a little hocus pocus distracts him from his adventures for a little while, I’ll entertain the idea.

Closing the door behind us, I slip through the living/dining room and into my bedroom off to one side. Amber’s footfalls clop along the worn hardwood.

My thumbs fly as I text.

Me: Insecure (beauty/age), prideful, malicious. You were right about her S.O.

Mother: Thx

Mother and I are lucky enough to have the only two-bedroom on the bottom floor, but the walls don’t make our rooms private. I can hear my mother inviting Amber to sit down as I dip onto my bed.

Streaks of floating color lag the small, furry form that hops up onto the bed next to me. Akane’s little nose finds the small gap between my jeans and my sweater, a chilly, damp nose nuzzles against my skin. I giggle as she climbs inside and crawls up and out of my collar. Her downy tails sweep beneath my chin, one, two, three, four, and tail number five, as she settles on my shoulder.

Dropping against my headboard, to Akane’s mewl of irritation, I kick my feet up and watch the stars on my ceiling twinkle. Akane readjusts herself. Within the subtle glow above me, there’s a star going nova in the Andromeda galaxy. Through the air return just above my head, I can hear that the master has begun her work.

Bit theatrical, don’t you think? says Amber, a smile in her voice. All the candles and incense?

My mother’s misty voice falls through the grate, her British accent practically courtly. I find it relaxing. Boston apartments are so very odd smelling. I prefer to mask it entirely, but if you’re put off, I can gladly snuff a few and bring up the lights.

It’s not a big a deal, says Amber to the sound of clothing rustling. So how do we do this? Do you read my palm first or something?

This is the part where my mother leans back in her simple kitchen chair and watches Amber silently. I’m to understand it builds tension.

I’m sorry, is there a problem? says Amber in record time.

Isn’t that why you’re here? says Mother.

Oh, I see, says Amber. This is the part where you goad me into revealing too much and claim it’s a revelation.

Were you looking for a fortune teller? Mother asks. The Tremont Psychics are just up the road.

Sorry, says Amber. Look I’m just not swayed by theatrics. It’s my industry. I wasn’t trying to be offensive or anything.

Then you should try shutting your mouth, says Mother sharply.

Excuse me? says Amber, indignantly.

Love potions aren’t cheap, and they cause more problems than they solve. Wouldn’t you prefer that Benedict just get a job with less travel?

There is silence for a moment. Did Eva put you up to this? She called you, didn’t she? That sneaky bitch.

But it’s too late. Amber is impressed. By Mother’s directness, by her confidence, by her sharp tongue and refined charisma. The ambience helps, too, the light, the large leather-bound volume on the table between them. And I listen to the proceedings as I always do, Mother owning her medium like a master artiste.

A thundering bang bang bang sounds from the front door. Miss Bowen! A muted voice from the corridor. Miss Bowen, please! God, please be home! Miss Bowen! Bang bang bang.

We’ve been waiting for this one. Rough timing, though.

I jump out of bed, Akane spilling from my shoulder, and scramble toward the door. Mother is already herding Amber down the hallway. Just think about it, she’s saying.

But you said I’d have the potion today, says Amber, her person somewhat less orderly as she attempts to resist.

Bang bang bang bang bang. Miss Bowen, please! I take it back! I take it all back!

So, you shall, says Mother, calmly despite her firm, driving gestures. A personal delivery this very afternoon. She glares at me.

Uh, yes. I thumb into my phone, swipe through, and select an app. I whisper into my phone.

Suharruru

Be unheard

Etu

Be unseen

As Amber steps back into the afternoon cold, she entreats me once again to join her legion of vanity. I politely agree to give the matter serious consideration, and then she is away to ruin her life and poor Benedict’s. I make my way back down the stairs. Mother has already collected Natalie Orenthal, the woman that stood like a zombie, quietly blending into the wallpaper as I escorted Amber out. Natalie sits now upon our couch.

Take it back, Natalie weeps. Please. You have to. She clutches a teacup to her chest as I close the front door. Mother sits beside her, rubbing her back.

What did I say? Mother’s voice is soothing and touched with sadness. I told you. I warned you. Magic this specific is very unforgiving. The price has to be paid.

I lean against the doorframe of my bedroom, fold my arms and watch. Sometimes Mother needs me for this part. Best to be ready.

Natalie’s eyes are huge, dark saucers, pink and puffy and glistening. As are her cheeks. Her mouth is stretched, the skin puckered abnormally. The woman’s mousy hair is frizzing in all directions, and she seems considerably grayer than when we saw her three months ago. Things were already going south then.

There has to be something you can do, says Natalie, lowering her forehead dangerously to her cup of hot tea.

Mother pulls the cup from the woman’s fingers and places it on the coffee table. The spell is irreversible, she says. Natalie lets out a sob. But… there is one thing I can do to take the pain away. And this too is irreversible. Do you understand?

Yes! says Natalie, gasping. Yes something! Anything! I’ll pay anything! Just do it. Just make it all go away.

Those are more or less the words we are looking for. In less than fifteen minutes, Natalie is walking out of the building with a tranquil smile. Her memory is whole, the things she did, the hurt she caused with her selfish desires, all still there. But they’ve disassociated, as if nothing more than the actions of a character in a television drama. Natalie Orenthal, 42 years of age, ex-schoolteacher, and newly registered sex offender will probably live a very long time. She will live only in the moment. She will do and say only the most harmonious things. Create no drama, create no waves, do nothing terrible or amazing, change no one’s life. She will coast through the rest of her monotone existence, never to hate, never to love. Because that is what it means to live without a soul.

You didn’t try very hard, I say once Mother and I have retired to the kitchen. With that Amber person, I mean. You usually give them more of a fighting chance. I drop Amber’s business card in the waste bin. The smell of incense is already fading away into the woodwork.

Mother unpins her long dark hair from atop her head, and it falls in waves over her cream linen top. Her skin is still humming with newly harvested energy. It hangs in the air, lingers on my tongue like fizzy pop. She was never going to be convinced, says Mother, mid-stretch.

She’s definitely rotting, I say. Early stages.

What do you mean, early stages? says Mother. Since when can you…

I’m just getting better, I say, shrugging.

Mother shakes her head, and I can’t read her expression. Anxiety, pride, disappointment, could be anything or nothing. It’s not an ability I received from her, this sensitivity, that much is clear, and that’s probably the problem. She flips her fingers in the air, and the kitchen lights brighten. Did you hear her attempts to stay in control?

She did better than so many others. Remember when Miss Orenthal first showed up?

Mother blows air from her nose in response.

But Amber Gregson does run a successful business, I say, pulling the sunshine yellow kettle from the back burner. Akane spirals down my arm and jumps from my wrist to the countertop. She circles once next to the fridge and settles on a dishtowel with a tiny yawn.

She books one job in a hundred, says Mother, pulling a pipe from the drawer. Only her ability to spin bullshit has kept her in Louboutin. God knows her boyfriend hasn’t.

Uh-huh. That’s rather insightful given I didn’t include that information in her file. Been learning how to use the Internet lately? I ask.

Though a half-grin, she says, I did have Nintendo when I was girl. She packs tobacco into the pipe’s obsidian bowl. You should have included that information.

I was trying to consolidate your reading, but yes, I see that you’re correct. I’ll be more thorough, I say, letting the water run for a moment until the rusty color clears while Mother strikes her match. There’s no point saying anything about the pipe smoke. She won’t quit, no matter how I lecture. Do you think I could do it? Be one of those girls?

What’s that, darling?

Do I have a face for the big screen? I ask, flaring my fingers with a breathy gasp. Mother raises a brow, and I drop the dramatics. I’m a bit serious, here. A bit.

December, she says seriously. You know very well…

Yes, yes, I say. But you’re missing the point. Do you think I’m pretty?

Does it matter if no one remembers one way or the other? says Mother.

Leaning against the counter, I look at my soft snow boots. Fashionable, I suppose. A little on the pricey side versus our monthly income. Clearly my mother is not above indulgences, and yet. I guess it would just be nice to know. It had to matter to you at some point.

Brains are better than beauty. Honestly, once I started working, I never really thought about it. You should experience the same, darling.

The scent of sulfur stings my nostrils - real sulfur, not spiritual - and I lower my own match to the burner. Blue flame chases the gas around the ring. The kettle clanks into place, and I drop in seven mesh teabags. We’ve gone organic, you see.

So, you didn’t want to look beautiful for Daddy?

She frowns. I didn’t need to, she says. It wasn’t part of our dynamic, and I’ll thank you to stop bringing him up.

Will I never be old enough to hear of your sordid romance?

It’s not a joke. There’s a reason I put an ocean between us and him, December, says Mother, drawing on her pipe. The sweet scent of Cavendish mixes with spice of incense and the lingering match smoke. I don’t know why you insist so.

I’m tired of all of the mysteries. So many pieces of a picture flipped or missing, and I feel like I don’t have a place in the final image. Don’t I deserve a place? I’m ready for that, certainly.

You’ve been watching too many teen dramas. There are dangers…

God forbid you ever go off script! Won’t I be more apt to cope if I know what they are?

This is typically the bit where her anger swells, and she shuts me down. She looks hard at the pipe in her hand. I’ve been thinking about that, she says. I do think it’s time for you to begin your Practice.

That’s not what I meant.

She studies me for a moment. You know there is no better choice.

No. No, no, no.

December, he’s sick, she says, clutching her pipe in both hands. You understand, darling. It is a kindness.

It’s not time yet. I need more time.

He’s not getting better, and you can end his pain, she says.

But he could get better. He might. You don’t know. You can’t know. You don’t know!

I’ve enrolled you at Ripley, she says, standing. You start on Monday. She steps in front of me, reaches over my shoulder and lifts the whistling kettle from the burner. And when it’s done, and you understand this thing that we do, you will have peace. And so will your dear James. I promise.

I stand still in the void of our little kitchen. Time passes. The kettle goes cold.

2

Ripley Preparatory Academy is an amalgamation of everything I’ve ever seen on television, only more. Oh, I don’t mean like the California high schools with their outdoor walkways and chain restaurant cafeterias. I mean the normal high schools. The bigger, louder, cram it all inside for warmth high schools. More exciting. More terrifying. More. It may have hardwood floors and varnished door frames, but the walls are just as gray as any metropolitan high school, and the corridors just as packed.

Who? says the small, shaky woman at the attendance desk, so designated by a tidy printed tent card.

December Bowen, I say. I’ve transferred. I scribble my name on the nearest scrap paper and push it across the counter.

The woman looks down at her screen, her index fingers finding the keys one at a time. After a moment, she looks up. Yes? Can I help you?

You were looking up my schedule, I say, tapping the top of her display. This is a bit more tedious than expected and possibly unnecessary altogether. I could probably attend any class I want, any time I want, and no one would be the wiser.

Oh! Sorry dear, she says. My mind these days.

Quite all right, I say. The printer next to the woman shushes out a sheet of paper. She takes the paper and sets it on the counter.

When she looks up, she says, Hello, can I help you with something?

No, thank you, I say with a smile and relieve the counter of my schedule. Have a nice day.

You too, dear, she creaks as I step out the office doors and into the river of bodies.

Along the hallways, I take in the widely varied individuals. They’re all wearing school uniforms, but somehow, they’ve managed to look so different. I’ve been in the mall loads of times, and I’ve been in crowds in the city or on the T, but all these people are my age. Or close to it. I could be friends with any one of them. Well, no, I couldn’t, but if things were different, I might be chatting with that group of girls. Or I might be holding hands with my boyfriend – that would be James Quinn, for anyone paying attention. Or I might be lunging to retrieve my textbook from a pair of assholes tossing it over my head, like that boy over there.

He’s lanky, with too-large front teeth and thick glasses riding on a cocked nose. One might think he’d broken it a time or two, but the bridge is clean and broad. His skin is the color of cloves, the curl of his black hair loose. I’ve got my filter on as I often do in crowds, deflecting the foreign desires accosting me, but his desires are viciously strong.

He is pine on the wind, smoky and translucent, notes of pepper and nutmeg and clay and iron. He is blank, small, shrinking. He is the dull ache of fevered skin, and a scream from the bottom of a well.

The spark ignites in my chest, as my brows knit together tightly. I don’t like bullies. Never have. The mirth on the faces of the two assholes is enough to drive my fingernails through the skin of my palms. I can feel spirit flowing and crackling about my balled fists as I walk by. But walk by I do. The lanky boy will survive without magical intervention. Most humans do.

They’re counting attendance when I locate my first class, but no one seems to notice as I slip into an empty plastic chair at the back of the classroom. That is until my name is called straight off.

Bowen, December, says the gray-bearded instructor at the head of the room.

Present, I say, lowering my backpack to the floor.

Ah, says the man, his voice high and nasally. You’re new then. And you’re behind. Frankly I’m not sure how you got into this class. I don’t suspect you’ll pass, unless your last school had a very rigorous curriculum for object-oriented languages?

There is intensity in his voice, despite the skeletal figure arching out of his back, trailing his contours. Bone white and misty, the specter of this man’s spirit is more than half detached, and from the look of him, it has been this way for years. Something is keeping him here, but I don’t suppose that’s my problem.

He waits.

Uh, yes, I say. Ruby, Python, C#, Swift, Prolog…

The man clears his throat as two bushy eyebrows go together. We’ll see. We’ll see. He looks back over the rows. Chevy, Arleen. A girl raises her hand. Speak up, Arleen. You’re not Waldo.

I sigh. It’s bad enough going to the supermarket. I only engage the employees once or twice per transaction, and they usually don’t look away long enough to forget I’m there. Restaurants are so awful that Mother and I have sworn them off save for special occasions. But once each week I’m going to have to speak to this man. Mr. Reiner, so says my printout. And all the other teachers. The new girl. Every day.

My mother is such a bitch, sometimes.

You’re hot shit, huh? says a soft, deep voice next to me.

Her long straight hair is ebony, her skin alabaster. Dark eye shadow swells around icy blue eyes and burnt mahogany lipstick glistens from a natural pout. Her features are precise, her clothes dark and draping. There are stickers all over her laptop, some bands I’ve heard of, some I haven’t. The ones I’ve heard of are all loud and angry. The display is framed in black nail polish, and her desktop background is an image of a girl screaming amidst a maelstrom of glass shards.

I’m sorry, I say. Were you addressing me?

No, the idiot next to you, she says. She leans forward to look at the kid sitting next to me. Yes, offense.

Mr. Reiner says, Solvnik, Charlotte.

Yup, says the girl, loudly.

The instructor sighs heavily, muttering. Why they think new students can just waltz into my class…

I ask, You’re new, also?

Charlotte laughs under her breath.

What’s so funny?

She shakes her head and picks at her flaking nail polish. I’m not having this conversation with you.

What conversation? I ask.

Exactly. Through a snort, she says, I usually get a solid five minutes.

Her sentiment aches with familiarity, but my thought is interrupted. Loudly, Mr. Reiner asks, Is this a private conversation?

We’re good, says Charlotte, waving. Go ahead. Do your thing or whatever.

You have my gratitude, says the gray man through a withered growl. Perhaps we should all have our computers out. Now would be an appropriate time. He stares pointedly at me, and I notice all the other laptops on all the other desks. Except mine.

I look at Charlotte and say, I should…

Charlotte doesn’t give me a second look as her eyes are already on her screen.

Fishing the school-assigned laptop from my backpack, I plug it into the power strip at the back of the tabletop. My personal laptop is way