I nearly beam. He thinks I look like a college student. Not a Creator, but a college student. I take a few steps closer. “No. But I thought . . .” Deep breath. “Maybe I could be?”
He’s surprised a bit, I think, as most colleges accept online applications. But here I am, in an admissions office, asking for actual paper. “Oh. Of course.” He opens a drawer nearby. “Are you transferring?”
When I went to the University of Annar last year, I’d been allowed all of one class. It was worse than a joke. The so-called professor spent more time telling his students—admittedly, there weren’t many of us, but STILL—that we weren’t required to do much work for his class as we obviously already knew our crafts well than actually teaching. All of my friends, save Jonah and Kellan, were in multiple classes that went in depth over the best practices for their crafts, and how to wield them on the various planes effectively. They were slammed by paperwork and research. I got to write all of two papers, and they were five pages apiece.
Obviously, I will not be requesting a transcript from the U.
I shake my head, and the admissions guy reaches down into the already opened drawer and pulls out a different packet. “Okay. Here is the University of Alaska’s enrollment application, along with some pamphlets about our school.” He lays the papers on the counter between us and highlights a section for me. “As the next semester is just about to start, you’ll be best off trying for Fall admission. Or maybe Summer, if you like.”
I stare down at the papers, my eyes tracking across photos of happy undergrads. My twentieth birthday is next week. Am I too old to be a freshman?
“Do you know what you want to study?” the guy asks.
My cheeks warm considerably when I shake my head no again.
He’s sympathetic. “I went in undeclared, too. And now I’m a junior and I’m still undecided. But I figure, I’m young, and I have plenty of time to figure it out, right?”
I like that. No pressure to figure out exactly what it is that I want to be, or learn, or do. Plus, he looks a bit older than me, so maybe I’m not past my prime for college just yet.
He slips the papers into a folder and hands it over. Then he passes me a business card. “Feel free to call us anytime if you have any questions. College is a great place. We’d love to have you here.”
The folder sits on my dresser for days. There are highlighted deadlines in there that I need to meet, if I’m going to go through with this plan of mine. But to do so, I’m going to have to use my craft for the first time in five months.
When I left Annar, I made a conscious choice not to use my Magic anymore. According to Etienne Miscanthus, a Council friend of mine, the worlds can function properly as long as a Creator continues living whether or not they’re working. Truth be told, I have no idea if Magic can be traced or not—I think not, but Trackers, the Magical equivalent of bloodhounds, are extremely good at hunting down people and things. I have no doubt that a horde of Trackers is out searching for me. The Council will want me and my skills back; not only am I first tier, but I’m also the only Creator in existence. The Guard will want me back, thanks to a number of friends who are no doubt in a panic over my disappearance. And of course, Jonah and Kellan may want me back: Jonah, being an influential second tier Council member, and his brother, a high-ranking Guard with a lot of pull, probably put the screws on both the Council and Guard to find me.
Unless they hate me for leaving them in the first place.
But my choice to cease Magic was more than just a fear of being found. It was because I wanted a chance to figure out who I am without Fate sticking its fingers in every one of my pies. So, as tough as it’s been at times, I’m glad that I’m learning to do things the hard way. It’s refreshing to actually earn things rather than simply create them at will. Except, now I’m going to have to create myself some documents if I plan on going to college. I need a high school diploma and transcripts that don’t have Chloe Lilywhite on them. I need references that don’t exactly exist. And yet . . .
Using Magic makes me feel like I’m failing somehow.
“Whatcha doing?”
I jerk away from the folder to find Cameron standing in my doorway, Nell at his feet. “Nothing,” I say, even though I must’ve looked like a weirdo, staring at the admissions packet as if it were Pandora’s Box.
He makes a motion, asking for entrance, and I wave him in. “College, hmm?” he asks once he joins me on the edge of my bed.
I tuck short blonde strands behind my ears. I miss my long hair. People say shorter hair is easier to style, but it’s a total lie. “Been thinking about it.”
He reaches over for the folder and flips through it. “Personally, I think it’s a brilliant idea.”
I don’t know why, but this surprises me. “You do?”