Chapter 2 2- Do Not Go Looking For Trouble, Because You Are Sure To Find It
LEXI
I bellow through the house at the absolute top of my lungs, the kind of yell that could wake the neighbors if the windows were open. A moment later, I hear heavy stomps thudding up the stairs. My door bursts open and there she is, my mum, wearing her ridiculous fuzzy dressing gown covered in cartoon geese. Her dark hair is a wild rat’s nest around her shoulders, sticking up in a dozen directions like she just wrestled a pillow into submission.
“Is everything okay, honey? You’re up early. I thought you’d want to sleep in for your birthday.” She says, worry threading her voice. Wordlessly, I shove the letter at her. Her eyes flick down, lips silently forming the words as she reads. I watch her eyebrows jump higher and higher until they almost disappear into her messy fringe.
“Well…” She starts finally, lowering the page.
“This is… very unexpected. I don’t know how it could have happened. I’ll call the school for you and figure out what’s going on, alright? You get dressed and come downstairs. Your dad promised pancakes.” She says gently. And that’s it. She sets the letter neatly on my desk, turns, and sweeps out of the room as though I’ve just shown her a flyer for a bake sale instead of a magical boarding school invitation delivered by demon-bird. I stare after her, slack-jawed. Seriously, what the hell?! That’s my mum for you, calm to the point of legendary. Honestly, it might be her superpower. The ability to look chaos dead in the eye, shrug, and carry on. Hurricanes, flat tires, family drama, nothing rattles her. I envy that more than I can say. And, true to form, her steady response slams the brakes on my panic before it can really spiral. If she can read that letter and barely blink, what right do I have to freak out? So… I do what she told me. I dig through my closet, pulling out a cute pink sundress I save for special occasions. It feels a little extra for a lazy Sunday at home, but hey, it IS my birthday. Might as well look the part. Then comes the battle with my hair. Long doesn’t begin to cover it, it hangs nearly to my ass, with waves that always seem one brushstroke away from mutiny. If it were shorter, it might curl properly, but I’ve never had the heart to cut it. It’s a pale golden colour and is probably my most striking feature. It’s something I've always liked about myself. I don’t know if it’s because it’s my own opinion or because people have always complimented it, but it makes me feel good about myself. Either way, I take pride in maintaining it, even when it fights me every step of the way. I leave my feet bare, no plans to go out means no need for shoes. Standing in front of the mirror, I study my reflection with a critical eye. The dress makes me look nicer than I usually bother with, but it also makes me feel… brighter. Like I deserve to be celebrated. Then, inevitably, my mind drifts to the comparison I can never quite escape. I don’t look a thing like my mum. Her dark hair, her warm brown eyes, her olive skin, there’s no mistaking we aren’t blood. Which makes sense, of course. I was adopted when I was just a baby, barely a year old. I don’t remember anything else, don’t know anyone else. Mum and Dad are my family, the only family I need. But sometimes, standing here in my pale hair and blue eyes, I can’t help but feel the contrast. I sigh, then reach for my makeup bag. Not much. just a flick of mascara, a touch of lip gloss, a dab of concealer to cover the shadows under my eyes (thanks, chronic late nights). The ritual makes me feel a little prettier, but more than that, it feels like armor. A way to prepare myself. Because something deep in my gut tells me this letter, this key, this bird, it isn’t just some bizarre mistake. Today is going to change everything. And I’m going to need all the confidence I can get.
With no more excuses to stall, I drag myself downstairs, following the smell of pancakes and the sound of my mum’s phone voice, that overly sweet, high pitched tone she only ever uses with telemarketers or customer service reps she doesn’t want to offend. The kitchen feels warm and familiar, sunlight streaming through the curtains, the air rich with butter and maple syrup. My dad is at the stove, wielding a spatula like a weapon, flipping pancakes with the practiced precision of a man who’s been perfecting this one dish for twenty-three years. He slides a plate stacked high in front of me the second I sit down. My mouth waters. Golden, fluffy perfection. I don’t waste time, I dig in, chewing thoughtfully while half-listening to Mum’s end of the conversation.
“Yes. I understand. Okay, but I’m just not sure how this could have happened…” She says, her brows drawn tight as she listens. There’s a long pause, then she frowns deeper.
“What about the cost?” She asks. Another pause. My fork stills.
“Oh. Really? Huh… okay. I’ll talk to Lexi and see what she thinks about it all. Yes, we’ll confirm either way as soon as possible. Thank you so much for your help, you’ve been great. Yes. Okay. Thank you. Buh-bye.” She hangs up with a cheerful lilt that doesn’t match the tension in her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she lowers herself into the chair across from me, folding her hands on the table like she’s bracing for impact.
“So?” I ask, nerves crawling up my spine. Thank goodness it wasn’t me making that call, I’d have hung up halfway through.
“Well, I’ve been assured you are actually enrolled, and you’re technically due to start in two weeks’ time. According to their records, your birth parents applied for you twenty-three years ago.” She says carefully. My fork clatters against the plate.
“That… makes no sense. Why would they enroll me? I’m normal. Totally normal… aren’t I?” I ask, my heart racing. Her expression softens, but her eyes stay steady on mine.
“The woman said their records don’t specify what kind of magical being you are. Only that you were enrolled as a shifter student. Which means… you must be a shifter of some kind.” She explains softly. The word lands like a stone in my stomach.
“But… wouldn’t I know?” My voice cracks, desperate.
“I asked about that, too. Apparently, with many shifters, it’s not uncommon for them to show no signs until their bodies and minds are fully developed. Which tends to be in their early to mid-twenties.” She adds delicately. I gape at her, horror bubbling in my chest.
“Are you saying I could just… turn into an animal… any day now?!” I demand.
“Yes.” She replies calmly, as though we’re discussing the weather.
“But, I know nothing about shifters! Or magic! Or anything! I can’t just… just sprout fur and paws and figure it out as I go!” Panic rises in my throat, thick and suffocating.
“That is why I think maybe it would be a good idea if you went. To the Institute.” Mum says gently. I stare at her, certain she’s lost her mind.
“You think I should go. To the Institute for Magical Beings and Creatures. That’s insane! I can’t go there!” I argue. She doesn’t flinch.
“You don’t have to go. But the woman I spoke to recommended it for your own sake. It’s not always wise to walk around not knowing what you are. And… I think I agree with her. Ultimately, though, the decision is yours.” She reminds me. My brain spins, a whirlpool of panic.
“But… I can’t!” I repeat.
“Why not?” My dad says suddenly. Until now, he’s been quiet, his focus on pancakes, but now his eyes fix on me.
“Because… it’s expensive, right? There’s no way we could afford it.” I blurt. That should end this conversation. But Mum’s face softens into sympathy.
“Honey… they explained all costs were paid upfront when you were enrolled. Room, board, classes, everything. Your birth parents must have spent a small fortune. They really wanted this for you.” She explains. I sit frozen, the words sliding over me like cold water.
“But… what about uni? I’m already in my final year of nursing!” I argue, clutching at something solid. Mum bites her lip, her calm mask cracking for a heartbeat.
“Yes. There’s that. But you could defer. Come back to it later. I know it would be disappointing… but if you suddenly changed, mid-shift, mid-placement? It could be dangerous.” She points out. I groan, burying my face in my hands.
“They really think I’m a shifter?” I ask again, my voice quieter.
“Apparently.” She confirms softly.
“We knew it was a possibility when we adopted you.” Dad adds. My head snaps up.
“You did?” I ask.
“Yes. We were given no information about your birth parents. And since many magical beings present human, we knew it was possible. But once you passed puberty with no signs… we assumed you were human after all. We had no idea shifters run on a different cycle.” He explains. Mum nods, her voice gentle but firm.
“We always thought we’d know by now if you weren’t. But maybe we missed something? And I agree with your father, it would be good for you to learn about yourself. This was clearly something your birth parents wanted. It’s been paid for. And it’s an incredible opportunity.” She points out. Silence hangs thick. My pancakes sit forgotten. Do I want to defer my studies? No. But what kind of nurse would I be if I couldn’t even manage my own health? The thought hits heavy. I let out a long, shaky sigh.
“I think… I want to go.” I decide. Mum’s smile is small, but warm.
“I’ll call them back and confirm. But we don’t have much time. Two weeks isn’t long, and we’ll need to leave early Monday morning to get you there on time. It’s just outside the city. You’ll have to figure out what to take with you.” She says, clearly already figuring out logistics. I nod slowly, still dazed. My fork scrapes against the plate as I take another bite of pancake. How can everything be so different, and so familiar all at once?