Blanche

“Where do you think you’re going, Miss Callahan?”

Damn it! No need to turn around to know who that rich, warm voice—with its hint of amusement—belonged to.

Even in the surrounding chaos that was the Academy, Blanche would have recognized it among a thousand. Armed with her brightest smile, she turned around.

“Why, to your class, of course, Professor.”

“Funny you should say that, Miss, since the classroom is behind me.”

Elegant in his three-piece suit, as dark as his long, curly black hair tied with a colored ribbon, he gestured toward the back of the building with one hand, while the other remained tucked in his pocket.

He was leaning against the wall of his own classroom, in front of which his students were already lining up. The bell rang at that very moment, accentuating his mocking smile.

Walking backward, she set off again.

As she passed him, she let out a long, soul-splitting sigh, punctuated with an exaggerated grimace. She distinctly heard him let out a small laugh, which he tried to disguise with a fake coughing fit, as she joined the line.

Among the students was Evanescence—Eva to her friends—her best friend, who blew her a kiss. Who else could have given her away?

Blanche rolled her eyes, still smiling. She couldn’t get mad. Those two were a pair, father and daughter.

When it was her turn to go in, she clearly heard Mr. Ardachir, their history teacher, ask his daughter to remove her beanie.

She did so reluctantly. Eva, very proud of her striking looks, had one weakness: her obsidian curls, which she stubbornly hid under ever more stylish hats. But their teacher—her own father—was a stickler for etiquette and considered it disrespectful to wear headgear in class, whether it was his daughter or not, whether he paid for it or not.

The funniest thing was that Eva still believed she would eventually wear him down through sheer persistence. Yet she knew him inside out. This little game had been going on for three months already. It was the first year he taught at their level, only to juniors and seniors.

And Mr. Ardachir had this annoying habit of making a remark to each student before letting them cross the threshold. Blanche didn’t escape it, whether she was his daughter’s best friend or the one who had been spending half her weekends at their house for years.

“Your dress is not within regulations, Miss Callahan,” he added in a weary tone.

“Oh, drat!” Blanche exclaimed, feigning surprise.

“It doesn’t suit you very well,” he continued, pointedly indicating its length, which reached mid-thigh.

She didn’t take offense. She knew perfectly well he didn’t mean it. She entered the classroom, relaxed.

“Your daughter gave it to me,” she tossed over her shoulder in a low, suggestive voice.

She clearly heard him make a small disapproving sound behind her as she took her seat.

Eva shot her a desperate look.

“Great! Now he’s going to confiscate her credit card. Stop showing off with him,” she whispered, her eyes pleading for mercy.

“I’m not showing off. I’m clever. Big difference.”

Besides, she shouldn’t have snitched in the first place.

“Ha. Ha. Very funny. I’m dying of laughter,” Eva replied flatly.

“Really? That’s odd—my best friend often says I have no sense of humor.”

Rémi and Roberto, sitting at the table behind them, snickered. Eva sighed, turned a page in her textbook, her hand propping up her head as if it weighed a ton.

Her notebook already open, a Bic pen ready to go. As for Blanche, she placed her blank notebook in front of her, as she did every class. Thanks to her photographic memory, she retained everything she read, saw, or heard. Useful most of the time… a bit less so with Mr. Ardachir.

Because he couldn’t stand her relying on her natural abilities. Most teachers had known her for years. They knew that Blanche Callahan always had the last word. But Mr. Ardachir—Kiyan Ardachir, if you please—was the most competent teacher she had ever had.

The problem? She couldn’t help teasing him. It was stronger than she was.

It must be said… he was also her best friend’s father. The one who hosted Sunday barbecues in the garden, who lounged by the pool in a swimsuit. The one who, after midnight, checked that she was sleeping soundly and not chatting with Eva, whose bedroom faced hers.

Since she had turned nine.

And now, in class, he insisted not only that she participate, but that she take notes as well—something she hadn’t done since Eva learned to read and write. What was the point of copying the same information twice? Faced with her constant refusals, he had dismissed her thirty minutes early before the Halloween break. Since then, he had stubbornly given her a written quiz every single history class.

At first, she found it funny. Then she started skipping his classes.

As a precaution, she had still read the entire textbook, Eva’s notes, and even some past exam papers from previous years.

For once, Blanche had never worked so hard on a subject.

On weekends, he left her alone. At their house, she was a guest. A beloved member of the household. The worst part was that Blanche liked him. A lot, even. Eva was lucky to have him as a father. Blanche had never known hers.

“Miss Callahan, can you repeat what I just said?” he asked as he walked past her.

Blanche, always on alert in history class, complied—word for word. Then she added the rest of the textbook and began reciting the entire syllabus without hesitation. When he realized she wasn’t going to stop, he finally cut her off.

“Good, thank you, Miss. We’ll cover that topic in the next lesson. Did everyone take that down?” he asked the class.

Some, of course, hadn’t realized they were supposed to write down what their classmate was saying and answered no. Naturally, he made her repeat it.

“I’m practically doing your job for you, sir,” she said at the end of class.

He pretended to think, thoughtfully stroking his chin.

“There’s no denying you’d make an excellent teacher, Miss.”

“Yeah, if she wants to earn peanuts…” Roberto muttered behind her.

“What did you say, Mr. Espinoza?” Mr. Ardachir asked.

But from his smirk, even an idiot would have understood he had heard perfectly well. Which Roberto was far from being.

A little jerk, certainly. Arrogant, no doubt. But not an idiot.

“I was saying, Professor, that it would be a shame to settle for teaching, given her potential.”

He shrugged to punctuate his remark.

The bell rang right as the teacher—who didn’t even look thirty despite being over forty—opened his mouth. He cast an intense look at his protégée. She was the only one who heard his reply:

“A rather frightening potential.”