“Wish she would stop,” I mutter under my breath, fumbling to get my things together. I haven’t seen her since the first day I arrived, but I’m immediately reminded of the way she looked at me then. I didn’t like the careful scrutiny of her gaze then, and I certainly don’t like it now.
The professor claps his hands to get the class’s attention, and the buzz of conversation dies immediately. He looks around the room at us briefly.
“We have a guest in the classroom today,” he says. “Please welcome Headmistress Robin.”
“Dean Robin,” she corrects him, her gaze sweeping across the classroom before landing, again, on me. I look away.
“Sure. Anyway, she’ll just be walking around and observing. Be respectful, please. And now turn to chapter twelve in your textbooks. We’ll be diving back into the American Revolution.”
Throughout class, I do my best to keep my eyes on the professor or my textbook, but Dean Robin always finds a way to meet my gaze. I can’t look up at all without her hovering somewhere in my peripheral vision.
What the hell does she want? I hate the way she looks at me, looks through me.
“Can anyone tell me about the reasoning behind France’s involvement in the revolution?” the professor asks.
No one answers, but nearly all eyes swivel over to me—the American. I’m not the only one, but it often feels like I am.
I raise my hand reluctantly, doing my best to keep my gaze away from Dean Robin, even though she’s walking slowly around the classroom and getting nearer to my own desk.
“Yes, Alex?”
“It was about weakening Britain,” I say, trying to keep my voice deep. “They’d lost in the Seven Years War and wanted revenge.”
“Correct,” the professo
r replies, now looking at me seriously. We haven’t talked about the Seven Years War or France in class yet, but there was a reason I got into this school on a scholarship after all. Stuff like this just sticks in my head. “And can you tell me how they sent aid?”
I shrink a little in my seat, waiting for someone else to come up with a reply. They don’t, so I continue even though I wish I could just turn invisible instead.
“At first it was smuggling supplies through some sort of shell company. Mainly gunpowder,” I say, wracking my brain for details. “Eventually some French volunteers joined the American army and fought with them.”
Silence rings out in the classroom. I shrink a little bit in my seat.
Dean Robin breaks the silence. “Has France’s role in American politics been discussed in this class before, Professor?”
“No,” he admits.
Dean Robin looks at me, and this time, I meet her gaze. “You’re from America, aren’t you, young man?”
I bristle at the way she says young man. It sounds like it’s dripping with sarcasm. “Yes, ma’am,” I reply through my teeth. As if she didn’t know that already.
“There’s a historical conference taking place over break. You should look into going. You could probably get special admission, being a student from Bleakwood. Or I could get in touch with them for you.”
I grit my teeth. “Thank you, but that’s okay,” I tell her, my hands clenching my desk.
I wish she would stop looking at me that way. It makes me want to disappear under my desk entirely.
“I insist,” she replies smoothly, heading over to me, her kitten heels clacking on the floor. “It’s no trouble at all.”
“Well, I—” I look around. Everyone in class is looking at me, including The Brotherhood. My knuckles grow white. “I’m not going home for break, ma’am. But thank you.”
“Not going home?” she asks, surprised. “What do you mean?”
I work my jaw. “The tickets home are expensive,” I mumble.
Silence. I wish someone would just say something. Everyone’s staring at me, the poor kid, who can’t afford to go home. The prospect never really bothered me before … but there’s nothing quite like a dozen sets of eyes staring at you with pity to make me wonder if maybe it should have.
Finally, someone scoffs.