The Test

Three

A month later

"Come on, Ana, it won't hurt that much," Vi says as she eases the knife into the skin beneath my ID chip. It's been numbed a little with ice before-hand, but I'm still expecting pain. So when Lucas bends down to meet my eyes-I'm strapped to a chair, so I'm not at my full height- and grabs my hand, I flinch almost immediately from the electric shock that has just passed between our fingers. He scowls and rubs his hand, a wounded look crossing his face. "What? Did I give you an electric shock or something?"

"Yes," I reply, hoping it was just that and not what I really do not want it to be: chemistry. "Anyway, why were you holding my hand?" I ask. "Mentors don't hold their students' hands."

"Oh." he looks embarrassed. "It was just so you'd have something to hold on to-you know, for moral support." His eyes collide with mine and I know we're both remembering what happened last night at the Wake, a ceremony held to honour the dead - in this case, two of Lucas's friends who died on a raid after police stormed the place when they heard of the break-in. I spent most of it on the sidelines, acutely aware of the fact that I had no place in this new world I'd found myself plunged into.

Everyone around me had someone to talk to, someone to call their friend. And I guess I had Viola, but even she had people to talk to that I didn't know, and had easily slipped away from as she got drawn into a conversation.

So I find myself out in the courtyard, curled up on one of the benches in a large knitted sweater and someone else's jeans, a fluffy red throw -worn and stained with beer-wrapped around my legs.

I hear footsteps echo on the flagstones behind me and turn around, pushing my annoyingly-wavy hair out of my face.

"Hey." his quiet voice stirs me from my stupor of almost-sleep.

"Oh. Hey." I move up on the bench, tugging the throw tighter around myself to keep warm against the suddenly cold air.

"What're you doing out here?" I ask. "Don't you have other things to do?"

I meant it as an innocent question, but of course it comes out sharper than I'd meant it to. He sighs and thankfully doesn't snap back at me. Instead, he sighs and glances at me. "You'd understand if I was sick of people offering me their sympathy, right?" he asks, sitting heavily down on the bench.

"Of course," I say softly. "I understand." I push some of the throw onto his legs.

"Oh," he laughs, smiling gratefully at me. "Thanks." he glances at me. "Yeah, you do understand a lot, don't you?" he muses, chin in hand. Even in that short space of time, I've learned that means he's thinking.

"I hope so," I whisper, my breath forming clouds in the night. "I want to understand. I really do want to understand."

Something unidentifiable crosses his face at the honesty in my tone. "Huh, you really mean that, don't you?" he says quietly.

"Yes!" I cry indignantly.

He chuckles. "I know." he shoves my knee in a friendly way. "I was kidding, Anya." he considers for a moment.

"I was from uptown too, you know," he says softly, avoiding my eyes and looking down at his scuffed combat boots.

"Really?" I ask, surprised. "You just look so... at home here," I say.

He chuckles. "Yeah. It is my home - I mean, I've been here long enough."

'Oh, yeah, of course-I don't mean to imply-"

He laughs again. "Sure. It's ok." he goes silent again for a few minutes, lost in his own thoughts. Then he speaks again."I know what it's like to feel like you have no-one - I know what it's like to feel mocked and isolated."