I dart forward a step, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
“Wait, please,” I plead, eyeing her nameplate on the desk before glancing back to her. “I know I missed the deadline, Ms. Tomlinson, but isn’t there anything–”
A huff puffs over her parted lips as she regards me. The creases at her eyes deepen as something akin to pity builds in her face. “Do I look like I can procure a spot for you out of thin air? I’ve been doing this for twenty years, dear. There’s late and then there’s impossible. You’re the latter.”
Heat flushes the back of my neck with the embarrassment I feel putting myself out there like this. Her irritation scrapesagainst my already-frayed nerves. For a moment I think I should just leave this poor woman alone, but then I remember.The program.The one thing that had set my heart pounding when I read about it.
“The exchange program,” I blurt out as she pushes by me.
Instantly her feet stop and she turns back to look at me. “What?”
Curiosity reflects back at me now, and I let it spur me on.
“The exchange program,” I repeat, more certain now, “for magical applicants. You’re taking magical students, right? For the first time?”
It’s like an internal switch is flipped within her at the mention of it. The exhaustion drains out of her posture as she perks up, eyes suddenly sharp.
“You’re magical?”
I nod, slow at first, then firmer when her eyes widen. “Yes. I’m–” I hesitate on how much to tell her about who and what I am. “Well, I’m not human.”
The weariness that had draped her like a blanket vanishes, replaced by an energy so sharp it practically buzzes in the air between us as she rushes back to her desk. She throws her purse on the ground and flips her laptop back open. My own excitement and hope begins to slowly grow as she grabs a pen from the counter and clicks it with rapid-fire urgency, her hands trembling as she snatches a pad of sticky notes.
“You have no idea,” she gushes, almost to herself, “how long we’ve been waiting for this. Not a single application. Not one. Do you know how embarrassing that is when we’ve been given full funding for the first magical program in the entire country and nothing to show for it despite our focus on outreach?”
I blink, caught between disbelief and relief as she looks at the bright screen illuminating her face and taps her fingers along the keys.
“What’s your focus? What program?” she demands quickly.
“Uh, fine arts,” I hedge, heart racing as her gaze pins me. “Studio art, specifically.”
Her whole face lights up like I’ve just personally presented her with a million dollars. “Oh, this is perfect.” She’s already typing away before the printer comes to life. “Steinhardt needs this. This is it. This is the story.”
“The story?” I echo, slowly sinking into the chair in front of her desk, as if proximity will help me catch up.
“First magical student here and in the fine arts program, no less. A success story that proves our exchange program has value.” She spins in her chair, suddenly grinning at me like we’re coconspirators instead of strangers. “Dear, if this goes through, you’re looking at a full ride. Tuition, housing, materials. Anything you need, all covered.”
The words sink in slowly. Full ride. My heart stutters and then kicks into a gallop, my whole body buzzing with a fragile, giddy hope. It’s almost hard to believe, given the stark difference to the beginning of this conversation.
She slaps a freshly printed packet onto the desk. “Fill this out. Every line. I’ll talk to the dean in the morning and see what strings we can pull. If you meet me back here at two o’clock tomorrow, I should know by then.”
My fingers hover over the application as if it might vanish. The black ink shines under the fluorescent lights. “You mean this is really possible?”
“Yes,” she answers, nodding her head while gesturing at the application. “Now fill it out. I’ll wait.”
It feels like the universe is finally tilting in my favor.
But as her earlier words process through my mind as I glance down at the blank lines waiting for me to answer, my stomach twists.Success story.That’s what she called it.
A story means attention. A headline. The kind of spotlight I’ve been desperate to slip out of my entire life. All it would take is one photo attached to some university announcement and all hunters would know exactly where I am. There would be no blending in with my fellow classmates either.
The smile stretching my lips falters for half a second before I force it back into place. She doesn’t need to know why the thought of being paraded around like a poster child makes my skin crawl.
I press my palms flat against the counter, willing my pulse to steady. This is what I came here for. A chance to build a life that belongs only to me. If that means playing their little game, smiling for their cameras, I’ll just have to be careful. Maybe I can make a deal that they can run a story on me when I graduate. I’ll give them all the details they could want, then, to make the story shine.
“Thank you,” I murmur, meaning it. Despite the dangers, she’s still giving me a chance at my dream.
My fingers tremble slightly as I take the pen she offers. Name. Birthdate. High school GPA. ACT and SAT tests results. It’s obvious they haven’t had a magical applicant, given so much of this only applies to humans.
