“My dad says the only understanding we need is how to take control out of the hands of the Faloii,” he says.
“Hear, hear,” Julian calls from the back. He never used to talk in class—if it wasn’t for his father being on the Council I doubt he’d have a future in the Zoo at all. Albatur’s election has made him bold.
Something crosses Dr. Espada’s features: anger, maybe. Or perhaps another shadow: fear. Something about the expression makes me squint. It’s like looking at one of the digital renderings of an indigenous mammal, searching for clues hidden in the skin.
“Dr. Espada,” I say. Part of me wants to ask a question just to redeem myself, but as soon as I begin to speak I realize it’s a thing that’s been waiting on my tongue. Now I’m not sure if I even want to know the answer. To retract now would make me look foolish, so I press on. “Have we seen the Faloii since our landing?”
Dr. Espada’s head tilts ever so slightly, his lips parting and then closing almost imperceptibly.
“The Faloii? No.” He turns to flip off the projector. “Now it’s time to discuss internships,” he says, and any follow-up question I might have had is lost in the buzz of the class, eagerly turning to one another to make bets and wish luck.
“Earlier this week,” Dr. Espada says, raising his voice above the din, “I asked each of you to send me a message with your preference of internship compound assignment. I have considered each of your requests and weighed them against previous exam scores for aptitude, along with other factors. I will call you up one by one and we will confer briefly about your placement. No appeals.”
He moves behind his desk and takes his seat, propping up his slate and looking over his spectacles at the first name.
“Yanella Axba,” he says, and Yaya flows down the aisle with her head held high like he’d called her first out of preference and not alphabetical necessity. I watch the back of her head and Dr. Espada’s mouth intently, trying to read his lips and her posture to learn where she’s been placed. I can’t tell, but when she pivots to return to her desk, a rare smile has crept across her features. She buries it quickly as she makes her way back up the aisle, her eyes unreadable. The girl can conjure an impressive mask.
“Someone’s excited,” Alma says under her breath after Yaya has passed. But her own eagerness is like the first subtle lurch of the ground before an earthquake: she’s tapping her foot, jiggling her leg, her face creased in a studious frown. The same small tremors are happening all over the room as Dr. Espada moves through the alphabet: we all know that where we’re placed might change the course of our lives. So when Dr. Espada eventually calls out “Octavia English,” I get up slowly. The claustrophobia I’ve felt in the varying domes of N’Terra crawls back into my skin. I’m suddenly not sure what I want my life to be, and I’m not sure if I’m ready for an internship to tell me.
I sit down in front of Dr. Espada’s desk, where he’s placed a chair. He sits with his hands clasped, studying his slate propped up before him.
“Octavia,” he says. He doesn’t look up. Never have I found him intimidating until now. His long face is usually smiling, even in some small, subtle way. Now his expression is serious and elongates his bones, making him seem older and more somber. “You requested to be placed in the Avian Compound for your internship.”
I had. I’d debated over the decision but in the end, composing the message on my slate at home on the night I’d seen the spotted man, I realized that the trail I’d been following to become my mother had blurred. I needed to be away from the Paw, away from my parents and their secrets.
“May I ask why you requested to be placed in the Avian Compound?” Dr. Espada says.
I’m not prepared for him to ask this—everyone else had been at his desk for barely a blink.
“I find birds . . . fascinating,” I choke out. I’ve never had to finesse my answers to cover for ignorance, so I falter while searching for the words. “Learning about new species is, um, valuable for the future of N’Terra.”
Dr. Espada looks at me a second longer, his expression gentle. It ruffles me, that look.
“What happened to following in your mother’s footprints? Your grandmother’s pursuits? How mammals use plants? In your last paper you said you wanted to learn how we, as mammals, might learn more in that area. Functional nutrition.”
I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye. How can I tell him that all my plans seem inane now, born of childishness that has withered more every morning? That a creeping anxiety has taken over the way I feel about N’Terra, a feeling I can’t fully explain? I shake my head, not able to answer.
“I’m afraid I must deny your request.” He sighs when he realizes I have no response, rearranging the layers of his fingers on top of one another. He breaks my gaze now, studies the screen of his slate, which shines in his glasses. “Your skills in studying mammals will benefit you in the Mammalian Compound. No matter what area of focus you pursue.”
“Fine,” I say, and rise from the chair. Anger balloons to take the place of whatever sorrow had nestled into my heart. It’s almost a relief to be angry, to replace the feeling of wilting that has planted itself in my life since my grandmother’s death. I turn away from him and begin to return to my desk, but suddenly I spin back. I keep my voice down—my peers, especially Yaya, are probably already curious about why I’ve been up here so long—but my soft voice doesn’t disguise my irritation: “Is there any other reason you’re keeping me in the Paw?” I’m thinking of my mother’s whispered voice in her den, and it feeds the flame of my anger. I glare at him across his desk.
“Any other reason?” he says. He doesn’t seem fazed by my flare of temper—he almost seems relieved somehow, like his initial instructions of “no appeals” had been a test he was hoping I’d pass.
“Yes. You mentioned ‘other factors’ when you were talking to the class earlier, didn’t you?”
Dr. Espada holds my eyes with his. It’s uncomfortable, his gaze boring into me for such a long moment. I find myself holding my breath, afraid of what he might say.
“There are always other factors.” His voice is soft but heavy with words he doesn’t speak out loud. Then he raises his voice, calls to the class, “Alma Entra.”