The Essence by Kimberly Derting Page A

overstuffed book bags from class to class. They had supplies like paper, pens, ink, paints, and canvases. They had instruments for their music units, and all manner of equipment for games and sport. The desks, too, were unmarred by years of use and disrepair, and all were perfectly matched and aligned in neat rows. The walls were freshly painted, clean and pristine.
    Everything sparkled. Everything shone as if it were new. As if the school had been fashioned from the very wallets of prosperity.
    But the greatest difference of all had nothing to do with the building or the trappings of wealth, it had to do with time—the changes made since Sabara no longer ruled.
    Now, there was no daily pledge. No formal recitation made to honor the queen.
    To honor me.
    It was strange, the void its absence created at the beginning of the school day, and we all—even the instructor of the class I sat in on—awkwardly traversed that space as if, at any moment, the city’s loudspeakers might crackle to life once more, filling the hallways and the streets outside with the ominously familiar words. I could feel the students’ curious eyes falling upon me more times than I could count. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice, but it was impossible to ignore entirely. It weighed on me, and I hoped that soon the strangeness of it would pass. That soon the people would find that normalcy I so wanted for them.
    I turned my gaze to Sydney, whose class this was, and I smiled.
    It will be okay , I told myself, acting as if I didn’t see Zafir looming in my periphery. As if I didn’t know Brook was right behind me, guarding my back rather than taking notes as other kids her age were.

     
    I’d expected to be swarmed the moment I’d stepped into the Academy, to be overwhelmed by questions and eager admiration, even if I didn’t necessarily want that sort of attention. So it had been sort of strange, the bubble that formed around us instead. Either because of who I was, or because of Zafir’s intimidating scowl, most of the students made an effort to steer clear of us, giving us an unnecessarily wide berth. Even going so far as to avoid making eye-contact with me altogether.
    I was something of a pariah. Like an exile who’d been banished to her own personal version of the Scablands.
    But there were a few students who went out of their way to try to make me feel welcome, to make me feel . . . special. In particular, one determined girl called Delta, younger than me by only a year or two. She’d been assigned to escort my entourage between each class hour, asking if we needed anything, if I knew where I was to go next, if I was enjoying myself.
    Zafir jumped a little each time she appeared, as if startled by her enthusiasm. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him so unnerved.
    “I don’t trust her,” he warned between clenched teeth when she scurried away through the lunchtime crowd to get me an apple I’d never actually requested. I’d simply commented that hers looked delicious. I was certain she would have offered it to me if she hadn’t already taken a bite.
    “She’s harmless, Zafir. Just trying to be helpful. It’s sweet, really.”
    “Don’t confuse sweet with cloying. The latter can be difficult to swallow.”
    Brook sat down beside me, carrying a tray overfilled with two bowls of stew and a plate of steamed potatoes. Since Zafir and I already had our food, I assumed it was all for her. She skewered one of the potatoes with her fork and dunked it into the stew. “The girl?” she asked. When Zafir nodded, she said, “I don’t trust her,” she announced, right before stuffing the entire potato in her mouth.
    Sydney joined us then, her own plate filled with fresh vegetables and a strip of herbed whitefish. That was another thing different about the Academy; they served food here, prepared to order.
    Brook curled her lip at Sydney’s light fare but held her comments, probably because her mouth was too full.
    “So? How do you