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“VICTORIA IBARRA,” she said, disdain seeping through her words as she fought the urge to spit at the cop.
From under a mess of choppy brown hair, he examined her as he looked up from the paper on the clipboard. “Age?”
She sighed. “Twenty-four.”
The guy focused on his paperwork, checked a box, and flipped a page. She was barely a person to him.
Twisting one blond dread between her fingers, she glanced at the bank of loss prevention monitors in front of them, all displaying the various goods the department store offered. If you had the money for it.
Vix did not, in fact, have the money for it. Otherwise she wouldn't have been caught with a ball of socks stuffed in her pocket and bags of corn nuts down her bra. A cup to C cup in two seconds, but so much sodium.
“Can you tell me what you were doing here today?” His pen stilled, waiting for her excuse. Something about his hairline was . . . weird. A W shape instead of a V. What a freak. Wait.
“I think I went to school with you,” she said, laughing a little. “Peter Gallion?”
His baby blues flashed open and met her amber ones. The brown hair, those eyes, the crooked nose which begged to go left.
She grinned and bobbed her head. “Oh yeah, that's you.”
“My personal affiliation with you in the past doesn't change the fact that I stopped you in the parking lot with store merchandise you didn't pay for,” he said, tone flat, matter of fact.
She crossed her arms. “Can't prove anything.”
“Strips of beef jerky are hanging out of your pant leg.”
Was he right? Yeah. Did she have a defense beyond hunger or compulsion? Not really.
Although she wanted to run away embarrassed, instead Vix stared at him even harder. What if he forgot everything? What if he just gave up, wiped the record clean, and walked away? What if he let her leave empty-handed and called it even?
In her peripheral vision the officer's pen started swishing back and forth across the paper. A deep, inky blue cavern ripped across her name and gouged into the page.
He stopped. Blinked a few times. Yanking the document from the clipboard, Gallion folded it twice, and stuffed it into his pocket.
Excitement danced across her belly. Holy sh—.
“Miss Ibarra, I'm going to need you to come with me.”
Damn.
Slapping her knees as she rose, Vix shook out the last of the jerky. “Am I getting an award?”
His lips pursed. “You and I both know the answer to that.”
Following him down the long back corridor of the mall which reeked of hot pretzels gone bad, Vix squinted at the sun as they exited into the parking lot. The heat of late summer assaulted her after being in the air conditioning for so long. Whatever happened to a slap on the wrist? A I-better-not-see-you-around-here-again?
“Unlike last time, this won't be a slap on the wrist.”
Odd. “Took the words right out of my mouth, Officer Gallion.”
Truth was, as he cupped her head and eased her into the back of his patrol car, she was scared. The quick attitude and sharp tongue served her well under normal circumstances, but matters of the law were a different story, and she had no ground to stand on to convince anyone of anything.
After tucking her in safe and sound, Gallion rounded the vehicle, got in the driver’s, and started the engine. A fresh gust of cool air quickly washed over her.
“I'm sure if we brainstormed this together,” she reasoned, desperation hollowing out her chest, “we could work something out.” Please.
“Miss Ibarra, let's not talk right now.”
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THE POLICE STATION was as dank as Vix remembered it being. She hadn't been there in three years. Not that she hadn't lifted in three years, but that was the last time she'd been caught.
Gallion led her back to a small office with white walls on top and wood paneling below the windows which looked out into the hallway where a water cooler dripped into a shallow tray. She took a seat in a vinyl green chair set at an angle to what was clearly his beige metal desk.
“Want a water? Coffee?”
Vix smiled, but not a polite smile. More like a why-be-nice-to-me-now smile. “Nah, I'm good.” Absolutely, she was starving, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of helping her.
“Be right back.” Gallion left, shutting the door behind him.
Tossing her head back, Vix stared at the speckled ceiling tile. “God, Victoria. What the hell are you doing, girl?”
For five minutes she had the chance to analyze her life. Barely got through high school. Lived in the apartment she used to share with her boyfriend until he cheated. Now, she was pushing twenty-five with no plan for life and a diner job which didn't pay enough to afford said apartment. What was this going to cost her? A big repayment? Weekend jail? Hell, it was corn nuts for God's sake.
A light knock and Officer Gallion re-entered his own office and placed a Styrofoam cup of water in front of her.
“Thanks?” She grabbed the cup and took a sip.
Gallion propped himself on the corner of his desk. “Miss Ibarra, the road you're on isn't going to serve you well. It's become clear to me you would benefit from some, uh, specialized courses.”
She laughed through closed lips, unintentionally making choppy noises through her nose. “Like what? Life skills? How to make a million dollars in one day and never suffer again? Thanks, but no thanks.” She waved him off, incredulous he’d suggest such a thing. He was naïve.
Unamused, his brows sunk together above his nose. “While the choice is ultimately yours, I want to be perfectly clear: you take these courses and turn your life around, or we push forward the store's claim of shoplifting.” He handed her a business card. “It's a night school, so it shouldn't interfere with your job.”
She examined the card. Pent College. 'Manifesting a better tomorrow.'
“Victoria,” he said, tone somber. “It's time for you to become a proper citizen.”
Damn, he was serious. It didn't take long for Vix to weigh the options. Legal repercussions versus a few hours burned in some boring class and then get on with her life. Yet, why hadn’t any of the cops suggested this out before?
“Great,” she said, pocketing the business card. “Where do I sign up?”
“No need. I’ve already spoken to them. They'll call you.”
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VIX TOSSED HER PURSE onto the couch as soon as she entered her apartment, and then fought the bum lock in the door to wrangle her keys back out of it. Keys retrieved, she pitched those onto the couch as well.
She hadn't eaten since breakfast and the pickings were slim. A dollar frozen pizza, a few six packs of beer, or an un-popped tube of biscuit dough. Hence the corn nut and jerky incident.
After peeling the wrapper from the pizza, she slid it into the cold oven, pressed a few buttons, and waited while her stomach growled.
Gracie, her sleek gray tabby trotted from the bedroom, sat in the middle of the kitchen floor, and meowed at her.
Vix was such a jerk.
“I'm sorry, Gracie.” She knelt to pet the cat and give a good shoulder scratch. “I'll give you some of my pepperoni. Promise.”
Gracie swirled between her feet, figure-eighting her way around Vix's ankles.
“Tomorrow’s payday, baby. I'll get you something good.”
Oh wait. She laughed out loud. She'd already forgotten she had “school” to go to tomorrow. What a joke. Honestly, she did need to stop lifting, for Gracie’s sake, but taking citizen classes wasn't exactly what she wanted to do instead of illegal hobbies.
Slipping the business card out of her pocket, Vix’s thumb stroked over the embossed logo of Pent College: a maroon shield with some kind of female figure on one side and a guy on the other. A star behind it all. “Manifesting a better tomorrow.” The huskiness of her voice dragged out a dramatic groan.
“You know what?” she addressed the cat, “I don’t even care. I don’t have to go to this place. Maybe I’d rather serve my time in jail, and then get on with my life.” Vix glanced around, taking in the pile of dirty laundry in the corner of the living room, the overflowing trashcan in the kitchen, and the claw-shredded arm chair, courtesy Gracie. “Or lack thereof.”
Gracie jumped up to the counter and headbutt her shoulder, a roll of purrs coming with her. Vix returned the affection. Anymore, her damn cat was all she had to keep her company. Kind of sad, actually, considering she’d started out in a decent family. But somewhere after her parents’ divorce and her tenth birthday, between all the moves and new schools, Victoria Ibarra just kind of . . . detached. From everything and everyone. If parents didn’t stay, then how could she expect friends to?
Crossing the living room, she grabbed a lighter and lit a stick of sandalwood incense followed by a few candles before cutting off the overhead light. Already her eyes thanked her. She always felt calmer in low light. Maybe she’d gone through a few too many winters without electricity. Or, when the TV was out of service she remembered being able to get her parent’s attention. Didn’t matter why. The fire eased her mind a bit, as if each flame was a person there to keep her company. Each candle, a friend.
Her phone buzzed inside her purse and she dug in the darkness until she found the illuminated screen. Unknown number. That was most calls.
“Hello?” Vix brought the phone to her ear as she kicked off her shoes.
“Is Victoria Ibarra there?”
Ouch. Full name. Probably a bill collector. “Speaking. Who’s this?”
A slight shuffling on the other end of the line. “This is Adare Wallstone, Dean of Pent College, calling to confirm your registration with us.”
A smirk spread across her lips. “Yeah, I uh, can’t wait. So happy to get to become a real boy after all this donkey island business.”
“Victoria, don’t lie to me. With sarcasm or otherwise.” The woman’s voice twisted abrasive. Her words sharp and barbed. “I’m not someone you, or anyone else, should toy with.”
She leaned against the counter. “Lady, you really want to start—”
“—You are registered with Pent, and you will be expected to attend tomorrow night. Six o’clock sharp, if not before.”
A deep pause between them hung thick around Vix’s neck. Blindsided didn’t begin to describe her shock. She sucked for air and a response. “Look chicka,—”
“Dean Wallstone.”
“Dean,” Vix drew out the word. “I get that maybe you’re trying to meet a quota, or prove some kind of rehabilitation percentage to keep your little school going, but I will not be yelled at, by you or anyone.”
“I did not yell. I am being clear and direct, and establishing a firm boundary for my own protection. Six o’clock. 45th and Wellsboro.”
Protection? “So you want me to bring some notebooks? Number two pencils? Maybe cookies for the class?”
“Tread lightly, Victoria. You’re one of the lucky ones; we found you. Don’t make us regret it.”
Instantly the line was dead. Blood raced hot up her neck and across her ears from the confrontation. Still reeling, Vix scrolled backward on her phone to flag the number as Dean Psycho, but the call didn’t appear in the phone’s history.
What the shit was going on?
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PENT COLLEGE COVERED the entire block from 44th Street to 45th with a pair of brown double doors facing Wellsboro Avenue. Not so much a Gothic structure as brickwork trying to look older than it was. Vix swore she’d been down Wellsboro a million times and never paid attention to the place, but, as she parked her fifteen-year-old Jetta, she couldn’t fathom how someone would miss a building like that.
To either side of the doors, three-foot gargoyles perched on concrete spheres. Definitely two, maybe three stories max, the building was impressive, but not particularly overwhelming.
A hand-written sign hung taped to the inside glass of one door:
All new students report to Room 406. -DW
Just inside the empty hallway, the scent of rain, like a coming thunderstorm clouded Vix’s senses. The place featured sconces spaced regularly down the length of the hall with closed doors between each pair. Finding the stairs, Vix climbed to each new level with a higher up view of the city outside until she reached the fourth floor.
To her left, a long blue hallway, no doors, no windows, no sconces. On the right, a singular door—the only door up there really—with a singular plaque: Room 406.
Vix tugged at her “Feed me tacos and tell me I’m beautiful” tank top to smooth it and made a quick pass with her hand to ensure her zipper was up.
“Alright, big girl. On with the shit show,” she pep-talked to herself, and walked into the dim room.
Long rows of lab benches with thin metal stools filled the over-sized space. A group of three people huddled near one end of the room, two guys and a girl, while the other three in the room sat spaced out, college-dork style.
Although it was front row, Vix snagged the seat closest to the door. When they were done, she wanted out. Aside from that, she hated not having an exit, or feeling like she couldn’t leave a place whenever she wanted. Not claustrophobia exactly, because the size of the space didn’t matter, but feeling trapped did.
“First day?” the girl two seats over asked.
Vix offered a smug grin, a how’d-you-guess-you-freaking-genius smile. The girl, well, woman was probably late twenties, smooth brown hair, bangs, clean make-up, a tidy blouse with a bow just below the neck. “You?”
She nodded. “I’d never even heard of Pent College until last week.”
“That so? A whole week?” Vix had less than twenty four hours.
Grabbing up her stuff, the chick left her stool and scooted onto the one beside Vix. A coppery metal scent wafted over her as she set all of her belongs back down.
“I’m Opera, by the way.” The woman stuck out her hand.
She returned the gesture only to be polite. “Vix.”
While holding her hand, Vix happened to glance down and caught the faintest shimmer of a dozen scar lines running over Opera’s forearm. She could relate.
It seemed odd that this woman would even introduce herself to Vix considering that she usually wore enough dark makeup and piss-poor attitudes to keep the masses at bay. Something was . . . off about this place.
Another woman walked in, this one clearly an “adult education” seeker. The type who realized in their forties that life was going nowhere after two kids and a cheating husband, and only majoring in art history would fix it.
The newcomer swished behind them and spun into the seat on the other side of Opera. They both stared at her until she finally looked up.
“I’m sorry. Am I late? Is there a roster?”
“You’re fine,” Opera chimed in. “Nothing’s happened.”
The woman’s eyes rolled as she teased at her maroon hair. “Oh, thank god. I thought for sure I wasn’t going to get here on time and they’d kick me to the curb. You know?”
Geez, calm down. “No, you’re cool,” Vix said.
She shimmied out of her leather jacket, folded it twice, and set it on top of her over-sized purse turned carry-on luggage. Only after that display did Vix notice the woman’s perfectly manicured nails, painted silver with a black skull on the thumb.
A massive slam of the door jerked her attention to the front of the room where a thin woman stood center stage. Tight black skirt with matching dress jacket, black hose, and black five-inch heels.
“I am Professor Anastasia LaRiche. You can call me Ana, or you can call me Professor LaRiche.” She dramatically pointed toward the door. “When this is shut, no one comes in and absolutely no one goes out. Understood?”
The powerhouse of a woman didn’t wait for a response but instead dug a stack of papers out from her briefcase and walked around the classroom passing a page to each person. First Vix, then Opera, then—
“Ijemma,” Professor LaRiche said to skull nails. “Good to see you made it.”
As the teacher moved on, Vix flipped the paper over and started at the top.
Pentagram College of Arts and Sciences
Semester One: Applied Empathy, Energy Manipulation, Foundations of Elemental Control
The sheet dropped from Vix’s shaking hands. Her eyes darted around the room at all of the other students taking the syllabus from LaRiche and settling in—comfortable, prepared.
Most definitely not unsure what the hell was going on.
