The Dream
Chapter 3
“You’re lucky I’m not gonna tell Ms. Hoakum,” Isis mutters under her breath as we hustle back to the clearing. “And we’ll need to sprint to catch up.”
I frown and flick sweat from my forehead. “Sorry,” I gasp through labored breaths. “I just… that guy—”
“No worries, Alice,” Ian grins as he falls into step beside me. How is he not dying? “You can do this, even though you’re only functioning on three hours of sleep.”
I make a face. “How encouraging.”
We reunite with our respective groups, Isis apologizing as we stop for lunges. I focus on stretching mostly between sets before we jog again so I’m not as sore tomorrow. I yearn to lie on the ground and slumber for eternity.
Brooding over the guy makes everything move faster. Before I realize it, I’m back in the locker room and wiping myself off with a towel.
“No shower for the runaway?” Isis jests as she approaches me. Her ebony skin glistens with perspiration. She looks spectacular, even after a workout.
“Nope,” I exhale. “I don’t enjoy showering in the morning. Or around other people.”
“That’s fair.”
I pull on my uniform: a deep red blazer over a white polo, a pleated skirt (because it’s too hot to wear pants and I don’t feel like messing with shorts), and tall socks because I love them, even if I’m contradicting myself about the pants thing. With an extra helping of deodorant and fruit spray, I should be fine for the rest of the day. I’d rather shower later, since most of my classes keep me active.
Isis leans against the lockers. “That guy that ran after you. He a friend?”
I nod. “That’s Ian. He’s in theater with me.”
“Theater,” she repeats, surprised. “I guess that explains the dramatics of chasing after someone that could have taken your life.”
Frick. She’s right. I wasn’t thinking when I plunged into the trees after him. He could have led me outside the force field and I wouldn’t be able to return.
“You need to notify someone about him. Who knows what his intentions are?”
“I will,” I promise, slinging my bag over my shoulders.
“And, hey, Freshie.”
I glance at Isis once more before pushing the door open. “Yeah?”
“You’re friends with a senior now. Refrain from embarrassing me, okay?”
I smirk. “Will do.”
My first class is combat. I’m one of the thousand students focusing on close combat. Mixed martial arts, sword wielding, et cetera. I became a black belt in taekwondo earlier in the year. Before that, karate. Next year, I’ll be learning jujitsu and fencing. Everyone has their fighting preferences, so we have several classes to cater to what we want to learn. For me, the things I watched in my childhood massively influenced me, such as action-packed movies and vintage Japanese cartoons.
Ian stands across from me, wearing a smug smirk. We’re stuck with one another, being at the bottom of the class and all. No one wants to pick up the slack of two losers.
“How are you feeling?”
I slam my knuckles into the left Thai Pad he’s holding, the smack of the vinyl against my skin welcoming and familiar. But it doesn’t erase that guy from my mind.
“Fine,” I lie through a clenched jaw, hitting my left fist against his left pad.
“Liar,” he smirks.
I roll my eyes. “Doesn’t matter.” I do another round of punches. “Besides. I need to clear my head. Wanna spar?”
Disapproval plagues his body language as he drops his hands. He passes me the pads and I slip them over my fingers.
“Nope,” he says. “Got to be sharp for second period. I swear my English teacher hates me.”
“Only because you slack off. That’d be the one class you’d excel in if you tried.”
Ian snorts as he raises his fists to have a go at the pads with his own knuckles. “Writing isn’t my forte. It’s yours, oh mighty pen-wielder.”
I grunt as he punches the pads, delivering a harder blow than usual. He’s gradually gotten tougher the past few weeks.
“Sorry.”
I wave away his apology. “Don’t be. You’re doing what you’re supposed to.” I raise the pads. “Again.”
He strikes them again, weaker this time.
I glare at him. “Don’t go easy just because it stung me a little. I’m fine. I can take a few swings, Ian.”
He exhales, placing his fists on his hips as he watches me. “We’ll have to switch partners soon. You know that, right?”
I scrunch my nose. “What? Why?”
“Because,” Ian drawls, eyeing our instructor as he makes his rounds to double-check our forms. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m growing and getting stronger. And as a guy, we are biologically designed to be—”
“I can handle whatever you send my way,” I snap, the venom in my words making my tongue tingle. “I’m not some delicate girl who decided she wanted to fight in a war. I chose this.”
Ian throws his hands up in defeat. “I know. I just… I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“People get hurt,” I spit, lifting the pads once again. “But we heal too.”
I frown and flick sweat from my forehead. “Sorry,” I gasp through labored breaths. “I just… that guy—”
“No worries, Alice,” Ian grins as he falls into step beside me. How is he not dying? “You can do this, even though you’re only functioning on three hours of sleep.”
I make a face. “How encouraging.”
We reunite with our respective groups, Isis apologizing as we stop for lunges. I focus on stretching mostly between sets before we jog again so I’m not as sore tomorrow. I yearn to lie on the ground and slumber for eternity.
Brooding over the guy makes everything move faster. Before I realize it, I’m back in the locker room and wiping myself off with a towel.
“No shower for the runaway?” Isis jests as she approaches me. Her ebony skin glistens with perspiration. She looks spectacular, even after a workout.
“Nope,” I exhale. “I don’t enjoy showering in the morning. Or around other people.”
“That’s fair.”
I pull on my uniform: a deep red blazer over a white polo, a pleated skirt (because it’s too hot to wear pants and I don’t feel like messing with shorts), and tall socks because I love them, even if I’m contradicting myself about the pants thing. With an extra helping of deodorant and fruit spray, I should be fine for the rest of the day. I’d rather shower later, since most of my classes keep me active.
Isis leans against the lockers. “That guy that ran after you. He a friend?”
I nod. “That’s Ian. He’s in theater with me.”
“Theater,” she repeats, surprised. “I guess that explains the dramatics of chasing after someone that could have taken your life.”
Frick. She’s right. I wasn’t thinking when I plunged into the trees after him. He could have led me outside the force field and I wouldn’t be able to return.
“You need to notify someone about him. Who knows what his intentions are?”
“I will,” I promise, slinging my bag over my shoulders.
“And, hey, Freshie.”
I glance at Isis once more before pushing the door open. “Yeah?”
“You’re friends with a senior now. Refrain from embarrassing me, okay?”
I smirk. “Will do.”
My first class is combat. I’m one of the thousand students focusing on close combat. Mixed martial arts, sword wielding, et cetera. I became a black belt in taekwondo earlier in the year. Before that, karate. Next year, I’ll be learning jujitsu and fencing. Everyone has their fighting preferences, so we have several classes to cater to what we want to learn. For me, the things I watched in my childhood massively influenced me, such as action-packed movies and vintage Japanese cartoons.
Ian stands across from me, wearing a smug smirk. We’re stuck with one another, being at the bottom of the class and all. No one wants to pick up the slack of two losers.
“How are you feeling?”
I slam my knuckles into the left Thai Pad he’s holding, the smack of the vinyl against my skin welcoming and familiar. But it doesn’t erase that guy from my mind.
“Fine,” I lie through a clenched jaw, hitting my left fist against his left pad.
“Liar,” he smirks.
I roll my eyes. “Doesn’t matter.” I do another round of punches. “Besides. I need to clear my head. Wanna spar?”
Disapproval plagues his body language as he drops his hands. He passes me the pads and I slip them over my fingers.
“Nope,” he says. “Got to be sharp for second period. I swear my English teacher hates me.”
“Only because you slack off. That’d be the one class you’d excel in if you tried.”
Ian snorts as he raises his fists to have a go at the pads with his own knuckles. “Writing isn’t my forte. It’s yours, oh mighty pen-wielder.”
I grunt as he punches the pads, delivering a harder blow than usual. He’s gradually gotten tougher the past few weeks.
“Sorry.”
I wave away his apology. “Don’t be. You’re doing what you’re supposed to.” I raise the pads. “Again.”
He strikes them again, weaker this time.
I glare at him. “Don’t go easy just because it stung me a little. I’m fine. I can take a few swings, Ian.”
He exhales, placing his fists on his hips as he watches me. “We’ll have to switch partners soon. You know that, right?”
I scrunch my nose. “What? Why?”
“Because,” Ian drawls, eyeing our instructor as he makes his rounds to double-check our forms. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m growing and getting stronger. And as a guy, we are biologically designed to be—”
“I can handle whatever you send my way,” I snap, the venom in my words making my tongue tingle. “I’m not some delicate girl who decided she wanted to fight in a war. I chose this.”
Ian throws his hands up in defeat. “I know. I just… I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“People get hurt,” I spit, lifting the pads once again. “But we heal too.”
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