This one was so much fun to write! With the word student, it seemed an automatic response to write something about Sam and his time a collage. But then I got to thinking about Jo. How she never 'fitted in there,' how she was the 'freak with the knife collection' and then this was born.
Don't own anything. Don't profit.
9. Student.
Hunters, for all their tenacity and fluid identity, were not inconspicuous people. And the children of hunters marked no exception to the precedent, whether they part-took of the life or not, for within them, nestled dormant, a predisposition for prejudice. There was something about that life, about that duty which changed a person, and all those who associated with them – reshaped their most integral elements, and the alternation was irreversible, permanent. Knowledge was sometimes a dangerous and devastating craft to pursue.
So, when Jo graduated high-school with favourable grades, logically the next step was collage, or would have been, given commonplace circumstances, but normalcy had long since disowned the Harvelle's.
As it happened, confrontation had ensured; the dreams and vicarious duties of a daughter pitted against the fierce protection and resistance of a mother, who knew already the poignant labours and hardship of the broken road. And in turn, each were mollified by the indifferent perception of a genius.
A year later, Jo had enrolled and taken it upon herself to excel at classes she didn't really care for, too afraid of disappointing to follow the destination of her heart.
Strong willed she may have been, but not foolish, and certainly not cruel. She knew the dangers hunting presented, she had lived with the consequences for the past fourteen years. So how, after so much heart-ache, so much anguish, did she muster up the courage to make her mother understand that she was honour-bound to follow in his footsteps? Simply put, she didn't. As infrequent as the occasion was, she had complied with her mothers painted vision of the future, which found her here; stifled.
Surprisingly, the hardest part of collage was not the work, but the people; the conversation, the monotony, the self-absorption. It was infuriating.
Demonstrating no concern toward her current tardiness, Jo meticulously cleared away the papers she had been pouring over the previous night. As was her wont, she neglected the responsibility of assignments in favour of research compilation, which sounded studious enough when failing to mention the decidedly obscure subject matter she pursued: the supernatural.
If there was one thing she had learned from the hunters who frequented their family saloon, it was how to put together a file. As time progressed, each hunter developed their own individual traditions and means, but those basic frameworks were derived only from experiences voice. It was a practice Ellen had monitored with stern attention, and one which she was now free to pursue at leisure.
If her conjectures were accurate, and she was certain they were, then a house two towns east was rampant with poltergeist activity, and away to the north, a string of brutal and bloody deaths showed every sign of turning into a werewolf case, though the jury was still out on that one, pending further evidence. When she returned home, she would circulate her findings and see if they generated any interest. If they did, then she would accordingly hand over the case, as she had done so many times previous.
Collage made her feel disconnected from the world in which she had grown up; a vessel cast adrift, lacking both a rudder and a sail. This gave her a purpose again, allowed her to hold onto who she was. What Ellen didn't know couldn't hurt her, or so the working theory went, anyway.
She deposited the unassuming file in the lowest drawer of her desk, taking care to conceal its existence beneath various less incriminating papers.
Then, combing her fingers through he hair, she quickly ascertained that not other oddment of questionable origin tarried in the open, before picking up her worn satchel and journeying belatedly to class.
She took care not to dislodge the welcome mat on her way out, which concealed beneath its girth a salt line.
Removed and somewhat ostracised (in her mind at least) she was just as likely to become the hunted as the hunter; vulnerable and alone. But one thing Jo Harvelle was not, was helpless. She had taken certain … precautions, there were safeguards which she had observed. Not least of which was an extensive knife collection which would credit any seasoned hunter with a cause for envy, fastened to the rear inside of her wardrobe. Really it was a blessing in disguise that no-one ever dared to enter her humble abode.
Misogyny was wishful ignorance. Women could do the job.
She walked down the empty corridor with veteran malcontent. Every day the same halls, same faces, same insignificant problems; it was a ritualistic drag.
She had been raised on adventure, on heroism – wilfully exaggerated – on tales of strange and horrific beasts and the eternal unrest of those who nurtured evil intentions. Delighted in such gory accounts, even when Ellen maintained she was too young to hear them. Therefore, she couldn't find it within herself to care whose traitorous best friend had bought the same dress out of spite, which apparently perfect boyfriend was cheating behind his petite blondes back, or who made out with who in a night of drunken marauding. They were driven by consumerism, and yet she was the freak.
Between her lecturers and herself, an understanding had been reached; they didn't ask and she didn't tell. So when she walked into US history – the only class she cared about to some extent – fifteen minutes late, her professor (whose name she had never even strained herself to learn) didn't spare her a second glance, just proffered a sheet, which she accepted wordlessly.
In a sea of students she was visibly invisible.
A pop quiz. Jo's spirits lifted momentarily. She possessed a particular knack for remembering dates which proved indispensable given any similar task. And if nothing else then at least it would while away half an hour in relative interest.
She took the only remaining seat to the right of Carmen Jade, who expressed her opinions of Jo with particular articulation, ignoring the disparaging glances her untimely entrance earned.
The instant she sat, Carmen, without preamble pulled her chair to the extreme left of the desk, widening the interceding distance between them to its limit.
Jo rolled her eyes at the childishness of the gesture, before extracting two pens and turning her attention toward the task with the closest relation to eagerness she had felt in a week. She understood. She was different, beyond their means of identification, and that was what intimidated them.
While she considered, she turned the second of the pair or writing implements over and over again in her left hand. Poor substitute as it was; it permitted her a clarity of ordered thought that the absence of any such tool denied; a habit which had began in emulation, and now endured in earnest. It had been a quirk of her fathers, subconscious, so it seemed.
Each night, he would pour over a series of hand written papers, spread liberally across the dining table, twisting and tossing a dagger in his left hand as he perused. Even while reading, he did not miss a beat.
Then, one night, she had taken to had a crayon, and climbing upon his lap, sat and watched enraptured, before attempting the same series of motions herself. He had gave up his work simply to watch her, smiling all the while. After many nights of practice, she finally mastered it. And then, two months later, he had never came back. The dagger passed to her, and later she had it engraved; three initial. His.
It was for this cold shape that her fingers longed. Some girls religiously carried make-up purses in their bags, Jo carried a weaponry relic, steeped in sentimentality. Different values, worlds apart. But despite idle musing, she could not extract the harmless instrument without widespread pandemonium and melodrama, and possibly expulsion … On second thought, however, maybe she was being overhasty in her discretion.
Carmen's hand, as harsh as biting winter, came out of no-where and pinned Jo's wrist roughly against the table, forcing the second of her Biro's to cartwheel into the air, coming to land five feet away.
"Stop it!" the brunette hissed acidly.
Rather than engaging in open retaliation, Jo opted for subtlety. Smiling sweetly as Carmen returned her attention to her own quiz, she began to tap her foot in a persistent rhythm against the floor, just loud enough for her tempestuous fellow, solely, to hear. Her efforts were rewarded instantly. So maybe today wasn't a total waste of time after all.
Noon found her sitting alone beneath the shadows of an Elm tree, watching the world go by with regret. The last thing she pretended to need was companionship, but in an isolated reality where vapid popularity was tantamount to currency, she found herself an eternal pauper. She was unhappy, but the toll was worth it so see her mother smile. Though, she knew one day, that wouldn't be enough to prevent her.
In her experiences of collage, she generally found the guys to be less judgemental; more accommodating, and so she gravitated toward the comedians. For, after all, she had been raised in a world for the most part populated and governed by men.
Meanwhile, those of her own gender seemed daily to take offence at her limited sartorial wear. They regarded her jeans and high-sleeve tee's with not only indignation, but derision, outrage and aghast. She was not naive enough to concern herself over their unreasoned prejudice, but that didn't mean that their constant hostile appraisal didn't make her feel somewhat self-conscious, and certainly defensive.
Three months worth of plaintive endurance was punctuated with single, insignificant interactions, which lent nothing to friendship or familiarity. She was on the outside, looking in.
Each faced that passed turned away from her direction, held a memory, even if only acknowledged by one of its confidants, an unspecified period of shared existence, a moment of meaning, but yet everyone of their patrons ignored her. Because she was different, and people instinctively mistrusted that which they didn't understand.
She could name all of them who passed:
Isabell Monteegh – the girl who had poured out her heart to the world in their first week away from home. Moved by the intensity of her grief and equally afflicted by homesickness, Jo had sat all night with her on the steps of their high rise apartment building, offering condolence and comfort.
Dwight Edwards – she had hustled him out of $50 in a Polka game that was rigged from the start. Ash had taught her to count cards as soon as she was old enough to count, and the reciprocal dishonesty was worth the satisfaction of seeing a serial cheater bested in his own game of choice.
Chelsea and Michael Greeves – computer hacker extraordinaire's, whose inflated self worth and assurance would have humbled even Ash. The former of whom managed to get the three of them locked in the I.T suite for six hours during a fire drill. Apparently in their world, genius left little room for common sense. She had never learned more about a person, nor disliked them quite so rapidly, than she did in that temporary incarceration.
Andrew Chambers – who had been foolish enough to make a pass at her while drunk … Okay, maybe she understood his now determined aversion, she had injured his pride, and in more ways than one. Without doubt, walking must have been a painful venture for him in the next several days proceeding.
Ivy Green – who she had been partnered with recently in chemistry, and who among the iridescent vapours had confessed to a stranger the details of her brothers long standing illness, which just that week had suffered an abrupt decline. Just needing to tell somebody.
To these people, she remained nothing more than an acquaintance once met, while, conversely, each of them had in turn, touched her life for better or worse.
She had tried, honestly she had albeit, more for Ellen's sake than her own. But the reality was undeniable, inescapable; she did not belong here in their world, just as they would never belong in hers. The two would never conform, never run parallel, never meet. They were as opposed as the sun and the moon.
That night when she phoned home, she feigned optimism and cheer, as she did every other.
Her mom had convinced her to go to school in the hopes that it would turn her head from hunting. But her perfect vision had rendered quite the adverse effect, because now Jo was only more certain than ever before. Except, she couldn't find the words to tell her. A lie was still a lie, even when told to protect someone, but maybe, at least, it was a righteous one?
They had agreed; six months – a trial period. She could have told them after a week that it was never going to work.
Thank you for reading :)
- One Wish Magic.