The Girl With Green Scales: A Gen M Novel

Chapter 3: BOOM!

Half-an-hour after exposing Caitlin as a fraud, I'm sitting in class with my fellow students. Anaya sits next to me.

"Your hair looks nice," she says, trying to suck up after the embarrassment of falling for Caitlin's pathetic ruse.

"Too little, too late. And this mess," I gesture at her coif, "is enough to make me vomit. Lose the bobby pins." She dutifully starts pulling the blue butterflies from her red hair.

The door opens, and Caitlin enters. Behind her is a testing official in an orange hazmat suit bearing the insignia of six lightning bolts in the shape of a star. Caitlin's skin is scrubbed raw, more red than blue—except for the bruises on her arms and cheek. I wonder if the injuries are from the testing or are punishment for her trickery; it could be both. Our teacher, Mrs. Cranberry, glares. Caitlin grimaces as she takes her seat. Another student is called and leaves with the tester.

"You're back," I say to Caitlin with overdone shock. "Better luck Manifesting next year, Puddle Pants."

"Thanks," she says despondently, lacking the decency to catch my sarcasm.

Her shoulders hunch. She looks ready to cry. Good, I think.

My satisfaction fails to last.

Caitlin picks up a pamphlet from her desk. TESTING DAY: What it means for you! it says. There's an image of a smiling boy and girl on the front flap. The girl shoots lasers from her eyes. The boy has angel wings. An identical pamphlet sits in front of me.

For a moment, I forget to hate Caitlin. Her nose is grotesquely puffy and caked with dry blood. Did they break it? My stomach clenches. The testers won't be any gentler on me. Alphabetically, I will be tested last, which gives more time for my nerves to wind tighter and tighter. Depending on how things go, I might not get tested until well into the evening. I almost wish Caitlin would do something annoying to distract me.

A bead of sweat drops from my forehead and soaks into my Manifestation pamphlet. Anaya notices and raises her brow. Whatever she's thinking—that I'm weak, scared, needy—it stops now. It's time to make good on my promise to Amma. I open my sparkly purse and pull out Grandmother's brush. Anaya's eyes widen as she sees the priceless heirloom. I raise my arm overhead and point the brush toward the ceiling as if it were a torch in the darkness. My classmates stare at the pink mother of pearl and veins of silver catching the light.

Finally, I'm the center of attention.

I pull free one of the golden elastics holding a rosebud of hair to my scalp. I sing a soft lullaby and brush the recently released strands of hair. I undo another rosebud. Everyone stares, mesmerized by the hypnotic flow of my movements and the soothing sound of my song. Caitlin dabs at her bloody nose with a tissue, but our classmates focus on me, making me feel warm inside. I comb out rosebud after rosebud. In calming myself, I'm calming them. By providing a distraction, I'm the solution to their fear, a role that none of us are used to me playing. The plan I sold to Amma is working; she'll be pleased when I tell her. I untie the last of the rosebuds, brush it, and tie my hair back with one of the golden bands.

I set the brush down and drink in my triumph—until someone shifts in a chair. Another person coughs. The spell is breaking. The effect of my performance is more transient than I expected.

What is wrong with you people? I want to shout. I was perfect!

A mousy girl wearing a beret—Claret—bursts into tears. I fight the urge to slap her like I slapped Caitlin. If I give in, I'll have failed in my effort to prove I can be a socialista.