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I like being able to leave Watford sometimes.
It's not something I'd ever share with anyone, not even Gareth. Especially not him. It's not a common sentiment; Watford is supposed to be a sanctuary for every Mage, old family or new, able-bodied or not—The Mage always gives me a meaningful look during that part of the speech, as if he's expecting me to thank him when I'm the only physically disabled person in the entire school.
And being someone's testimonial, the justification that they're an inclusive person, gets old real quick.
Even beyond the emotional implications attached to Watford, there's just the fact that it's not accessible in the slightest. It was built centuries before the ADA had even begun to blossom, though I'm sure there were disabled revolutionaries back then, and it's obviously a private organization now, which means it has no obligation to comply with federal laws.
This means stairs. And non-automatic doors. And all manner of absurd ignorances. We've made do—nobody is powerful enough to spell the Mummers tower into a ramp, not even Penelope Bunce, so we live on the first floor. And unfortunately, my roommate happens to be rubbish at magic—not that I can begrudge him. I couldn't blame him for anything; he even blunders endearingly. Most of the time I end up casting levitating spells on myself, though each casting causes a small zing of fear to shoot through me. My brain's convinced I'm going to die.
Students tell me I'm brave. An inspiration. I wouldn't have to be if everything could be adapted. Unfortunately, I've talked to The Mage about it, and he says structural remodeling wouldn't fly with the Old Families. But I asked Marcus and he said The Mage never even brought it up with any of the Coven.
Needless to say, I have more than ample reasons to hate Watford. But the thing is, I don't. I like the classes. I like having power over at least a few things. I like the food and I like my friends and I like—
No. We're not thinking about that; I gave myself a limit and I've already reached it tenfold.
Not that he's made it easier in the slightest, what with the absurd stunt he pulled last week.
Anyway. I don't want to leave school permanently. It feels like concession, like giving up. I really do believe that mainstream schools, as opposed to special schools for disabled kids, is much kinder and less isolating for us. I want to become a part of the changing world—I want to be in it, in the thick of everything that's happening—and I won't be able to achieve that unless I stay.
Still, the occasional break is nice.
Or it usually is.
I don't even like shopping, but here I am in the middle of a bakery, two-thirds of my focus on maneuvering through the cramped isles and the other third on the actual pastries.
What does he like? Tarts? Pudding? I don't—
Alright, it's not a big deal. I'm the one making it a whole thing.
But it was for me. And I'm not sure how to make it unstick from where it's lodged in my heart.
One more time. I'll think about it one more time, for educational purposes. Maybe running over it with a fine-toothed comb will reveal what I should do.
Gareth walked into our room one day while I was reading, pleased as punch, with a thermos in his hand.
"Got you that pumpkin drink you like," he'd said casually, resting it on the corner of my desk before spinning away to flop onto his bed.
"Oh," I breathed. I was a little in shock. Didn't even know how he knew I liked pumpkin. "How much was it?"
"Oh, s'not like that, mate. Just saw it and thought you'd like it."
He didn't even seem concerned. Like this was just… normal.
"But it's not anyone's birthday," I said flatly. "And it's November, not Christmas."
"So? I wasn't thinking about a holiday. Can't I get you gifts sometimes?"
I wasn't aware that was something people did. It was like… I don't know. Like someone had just handed me the entire world on a plate. Nobody's ever given me anything, and I've always felt guilty asking. It never seemed like my place.
And I'm aware how ridiculous that sounds. How even now, I can remember it and feel warmth flood my cheeks, taste the spicy-sweet of the drink (the best thing I've ever had.)
I've fancied Gareth for a long time, but it's been on the back burner, just simmering peacefully without really needing to be looked at. It takes a long time for me to get to a place where I can trust someone, let alone love them. It's difficult to explain when you haven't experienced it, but it's almost like there's a bubble between me and everyone else, and my constant goal is to break through that bubble. To show them that I'm not the preconceived notion they've crafted.
Yes, I was born this way. No, I'm not in constant misery. No, I don't want it magicked away.
I've grappled with that last one quite a lot in my life. Wondered whether people would like me more, or if life would be easier. But I eventually realized it'd be something of a betrayal to myself. I'd end up like one of those superheroes in stories whose disabilities get cured once they prove their worth. And I don't want to be that.
I want to be me. And 'me' includes the disability.
The bubble takes a while to burst for some people. Penny had all sorts of questions when we were younger. Simon brushes past me like I'm not there. But with Gareth, the bubble hardly existed in the first place.
He never asked me stupid questions—well, not of the malicious variety, at least. He didn't ignore it, but would instead laugh with me through embarrassments and lament the narrow-mindedness of The Mage. He likes me.
Well, not like that. I know better than to ever think he could…
But why'd he have to go and buy me a drink, then? Didn't he know what it would do to me?
No, he couldn't have. He's so guileless. That also makes him a bit clueless about relationships sometimes, and what they entail, and what certain gestures mean. He tells me daily that I think too much.
He would too, if he was in love with his roommate.
Gareth's seen me accidentally mow down a first year. He once carried me home when my childhood wheelchair finally succumbed to old age. And I hate letting people see things like that, because it ruins the image I'm trying to create—that I'm independent, that I don't need anyone's help, and that I'm going to be successful. My greatest pet-peeve is being looked down on, so I'm in constant combat with that very fate.
It's sort of exhausting sometimes. All of it. Which is why that stupid drink was such a saving grace.
And it's been forty-five minutes. I stare mournfully down at my shoes. I thought I could do this one thing for myself, after relying on everyone else for most of my life. I thought I could pick a gift for my best friend.
But this suddenly feels so monumental. Like I've been tasked with appointing the new headmaster—anyone but The Mage, seriously—or creating a new holiday.
I hate making choices.
(I've never really known how. People get used to speaking for me. And I think I've gotten a little used to it too.)
I end up getting him a truly unholy amount of shortbread. I'm pretty sure everybody loves shortbread, right? I think I've seen him eat it once or twice.
I don't know. Now I'm scared he'll think I'm weird. I don't know what he wants from me.
(Everyone seems to want something from me. To be their inspiration, to say I'm fine, to prove I'm not, to never protest, to fight for the entire community. I get so tired sometimes, knowing everyone will eventually realize I can't do any of it.)
I pack the biscuits up and prepare to go back, my heart only lightened by the fact that I'll get to see him again.
…
When I hear the knock, I practically leap to my feet in order to get it. Rhys is back. I've been waiting forever and he's finally, finally back. I'm bouncing with excitement as I pull the door open, ready to crow a greeting, but he doesn't look nearly as happy. His hands are adjusting the straps of his backpack and he's shaking.
"Rhys?" I say gently, attempting to dial back my excitement at seeing him.
Rhys smiles at me and wheels around me, playfully nudging me out of the way. "Hello."
Now I'm just confused. Is he sad to come back to school? I know how he feels about The Mage and everything that comes with his influence over the school, but I've never seen him this anxious before.
"How was your Christmas?" I say hesitantly.
"What is it?" He's watching me strangely.
"What, me?"
"You're acting weird."
"You are!"
"I'm not!" But he looks guilty all of the sudden. He's rolling gently back and forth, left and right.
I shake my head. "Look, it's fine. Whatever it is that's bothering you—"
"It's nothing." But he sounds a bit clipped.
Hesitant, I come to sit in the chair next to him. He puts his feet in my lap. It's a common ritual, and I'm not sure how it really started, but these little touches have been casual between us for a long time.
Now, he's stiff and uneasy, shifting his weight.
I run a hand carefully over his ankle. Most times, he can't control his legs and doesn't have sensation in them, but can still feel the pressure of my fingertips. Today, he relaxes immediately at my touch and his smile grows looser.
"Bought you something," he whispers.
"What?" I lean a little closer; he edges away like a nervous animal.
"I just—I just got you something. You know, because of the drink."
I have to wrack my brain, but I finally remember what he's talking about. I think I blocked it because I realized how dumb of an idea it was after the fact. "Rhys, that wasn't anything—"
"I know. But I wanted to repay you."
"You don't have to—"
He reaches into his uniform pocket and pulls out a package of shortbread. I feel myself grinning, but he still looks pensive.
"It's just—I wasn't sure if you liked this flavor but I thought because it's Christmas and this always reminds me of Winter and you like Winter and I should've gotten something more elaborate but—"
"Rhys…"
"—I'm awful at gifts and I hate owing people and I just wanted you to have it because you gave me a drink and now I gave you biscuits and isn't that how it works?"
"Rhys, wait—"
"But you can just throw them in the trash while I'm not looking or even while I am is fine—"
"Rhys." I reach forward and grip his forearms. He stills.
"It wasn't like that. I was—I was trying to flirt with you!"
He chokes, loses control of his chair, and nearly falls backward. I catch him just in time, still cradling his arms. "Wait. Don't run away on me just yet."
Rhys looks scared, like I've just delivered a threat instead of a love confession.
Crowley, even thinking that is insane.
I shake my head. "I know it's odd, but I just… you're so smart and you're too nice to me and I know I'm being really lame with this but I just thought—if you ever wanted to, like… remember that you don't have to do it all on your own… I wanted you to know that you have me. If you want, at least. I mean you're perfectly capable without me but I just, I think you're beautiful and I think it would be neat if we could date."
Rhys leans forward. His eyes are filled with tears. I reach up to his face, then pause. "Can I?"
"Gareth," he whispers, and I'm addicted to the way my name sounds in his voice, "I don't—"
"It's chill! We don't have to talk about it."
He looks up at me with large, soft eyes. "I want to talk about it so much. I want to talk until you regret having ever asked me in the first place."
"Not gonna happen, but okay." I'm beaming, I can't help it. He's looking at me all flustered and soft and earnest. "And for the record, I love shortbread."
Rhys' shoulders sag. "Really?"
"…"
"Liar!"
"I think it tastes like sawdust—"
"I knew I should've gotten something else—"
"But I'm going to eat every last crumb because it's from you."
I lean closer to him until our lips are just inches apart. "I think this is the part where we kiss," I say.
His eyes widen. "But I've never…"
"Do you want to wait?"
"No, no, absolutely not." He parts his lips and he's a wonder and he's a mess and he's a boy I'm so utterly smitten with and I don't want anything else. I don't want tarts or bonbons or pudding, I don't want Agatha or Baz or Niall.
I want shortbread. I want Rhys.