Black Mist: Budding [on hiatus]

3. Shattered Glass

Alastair had survived the first week in Arts, barely. Cowdrey was sharp and highly Conscious, and he knew that she would detect his intoxication. But he didn't want to skip that class. It didn't feel right to cut Cowdrey's class. So he went, but he kept his head down as scribbled and scrabbled pages of his Amp-induced madness darkly across the pages. Perhaps she was too busy with the new fifth graders, or perhaps she just left him alone because she trusted him. Either way, it was starting to bother Alastair that no one saw how completely lost he was. Whitley had just let him skate for being late and missing government. Cowdrey hardly even spoke to him. It's not that he wanted someone to stop him, or catch him, or bust him. He didn't want to be in trouble. But he did want to feel like he actually mattered. That he existed. That he was not invisible. But no one noticed him sinking.

Until someone did. As he was heading into arts the next Monday, Rose was heading out. She smiled as she tried to catch his eye, but he turned away, shaking his head. At the door, he cut sharply to the right and descended the stairs instead of continuing into class. So much for not cutting. At the first floor, he flopped into a large leather chair in the boys' dorm lounge, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

The faint click of the door closing jolted him upright. Rose was across the room in two long strides, reaching her hands toward him.

He flinched away, hiding behind the chair. "Don't touch me!" He didn't want her to heal him, to steal his precious Amp, if she even could. She stepped closer anyway, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder. He was surprised to see how tall she was, relieved she didn't take his intoxication, comforted by her embrace. Without really meaning to, he relaxed against her and allowed the contact, resting his cheek against her hair and folding his arms around her back. When they finally pulled apart, he frowned, "You're not supposed to be in here."

Do you want to go somewhere and talk? She wrote daintily in the small notebook she always carried.

He intended to say no, but his voice, like his body, had a mind of its own. "Yeah," he croaked. She slipped her soft, warm hand into his, and he led her to the auditorium. They sat on the edge of the stage, looking out at the sea of empty seats.

Are you okay?

He remembered Bennett's funeral, his mother's stubborn silence, his grandfather's watch, and the summer's sweat-soaked thieving. "Not really," he answered. Alastair took a deep breath and decided how much to share. In the end, he told her about the strain between him and his mom. "I've tried my whole life to be perfect. And I've failed. Completely," he shook his head as he finished.

Rose wished so desperately she could speak to him, to tell him how much he had helped her. How he hadn't failed her. She noticed his spindly fingers, like an insect's legs, rubbing together nervously, a trickle of charcoal mist escaping. Alastair was not okay, and she needed him to be okay. Her face flushed, frustrated that her words had become stuck in her throat again. She rested her hand on his knee.

Of course you failed. Nobody's perfect. She prodded the pen to move with Object Manipulation, leaving her hand on his leg.

"But I have to be."

No, you don't. What would be the point of life if you were perfect?

"So perfect people should just kill themselves or something?"

She shook her head. There are no perfect people. Life is about making mistakes, learning from them. Growing. We can't be perfect but we can do better. We can be better.

The bell rang to end last period, and Alastair stood and walked away without a word. Or even a glance back. He was in trouble, she was sure of it. But he didn't seem to want her help. She considered alerting the dean, but that felt like a betrayal, and he had kept her secrets last year. She decided to keep quiet, and now she would have to figure out how to avoid getting in trouble for ditching Grant's class.