“Sorry… sir… I mean, ma’am… I should have… I shouldn’t have…” As I fumble through my apology, I can’t help but wonder how I didn’t know this. Why did I automatically assume the vice-principal was a man? Is it because I wanted it to be a man? Because I understand men better than women and instinctively know when they will laugh, get angry, or feel insulted? Because women have always remained a mystery to me, even though I’m one myself. Why they say or do things, how they react, or what they talk about—it all feels equally alien to me. Most of the time, I watch women like a caveman watching a catwalk during a Parish fashion show. I’m a dog in a cat’s nest and whatever I do, I always end up with a scratch on my nose.
Slowly, I push myself back up. Although the vice-principal couldn’t have missed my rather tumultuous entrance, she continues whatever she’s doing, not acknowledging my presence at all. While a bit unnerving, it at least gives me some time to catch my breath, gather my thoughts, and assess the situation, hoping for a clue on how to get out of here.
The unexpectedly small office is packed, with not a millimeter left unused. A diverse array of bookcases and displays are arranged with such mathematical precision that, despite their number, the room doesn’t feel chaotic or cramped. Behind the oversized desk, as straight as a ruler and as motionless as a statue, sits the vice-principal. She’s wearing a perfectly tailored three-piece suit. Her hair is dark and short, and her narrow face is sharply defined. Perched on the tip of her short straight nose is a pair of heavy horn-rimmed glasses, giving her the appearance of a lead actor in a 1950s movie. Despite her masculine outfit and haircut, she looks quite attractive and surprisingly young.
After several minutes of deafening silence, she finally pushes her glasses up onto her forehead. Her remarkably bright piercing eyes bore deeply into mine and when she finally speaks, her voice is soft and devoid of any humor or irony. “Your arrival has been announced, of course, but it would be good manners to knock before entering.” And then, without waiting for a response, she places her spectacles back on her nose and resumes studying the papers in front of her. “Let’s see... Maxime Maria Juliette Kwintens...”
"Max!" I quickly interrupt. "I'm called Max."
She doesn't even look up as she responds, "Maxime Kwintens, if you stop interrupting me after every sentence, we'll get along just fine." Her voice remains calm, but I instantly realize that keeping my mouth shut is a very good idea.
"Yes... uh... ma'am?"
"You may address me as 'Vice Principal,' like everyone else. Now, where was I? Ah, here... Maxime Kwintens... third grade... joined us just a few weeks ago... lives with father and grandmother... mother disappeared after birth... involved in several incidents... suspected of burning down a farmhouse... no proof... loner... problems with authority... potential hazard for school discipline... high marks without apparent effort, and... now we know why. You were caught cheating less than half an hour ago." I have to bite my tongue hard to stay silent. "You see, Maxime, you are what we call a liability. Of course, we were aware of the newspaper articles, social media memes, and overall gossip linking you to the fire in your village. Believe me, the announcement that you would join our school led to a small exodus. Most teachers consider you a loaded weapon, ready to go off, and I tend to agree. You leave a trail of destruction behind you."
This conversation is not going well at all. I’m in even deeper trouble than I thought.
“Personally, I don’t think you’re difficult or ‘unpleasant’ on purpose. I believe you’re simply unprepared. You have no idea what you’re capable of. With extensive training, we might have been able to make something of you. Unfortunately, we don’t have time for that anymore. We need to use you right now.”
“Use me?” I finally break my silence. The vice-principal’s expression is as unreadable as a sphinx. “Use me?” I repeat, with more emphasis.
“I don’t like to repeat myself, Maxime Kwintens. You heard me the first time. Yes, I have an assignment for you. It’s far from ideal, but things have escalated so quickly these last few weeks that I have no choice. It has to be now.” I’m thoroughly confused. What has escalated? Why now? I just wanted to finish school as uneventfully as possible and move on with my life. Was that too much to ask? Gnat’s right—I have no talent for keeping my head down... not at all. My goal of staying out of trouble was doomed from day one.
“Okay, let’s get this over with,” I sigh. “What do I have to do? Write lines? Detention? Chores? Clean toilets? Sweep the schoolyard? Work in the canteen?”
“Of course not, Maxime. Do I look like a janitor? You need to listen more carefully. This is not a punishment; it’s an assignment. You can choose not to accept it, but if you refuse, I won’t be able to help you with any future problems during your time at school.” Her straight face and soft voice can’t disguise the fact that this sounds suspiciously like blackmail.
I detest any abuse of power, but what can I do? I’m trapped in a lion’s den.
“I’m glad you agree to cooperate,” the vice-principal continues, conveniently interpreting my silence as consent, “because we have a rather urgent problem at hand. We’ve lost something extremely important—or more accurately, we know where it is but can’t retrieve it.”
I know I should keep my mouth shut, but the one-sidedness of this conversation is gnawing at me so badly that I can’t resist responding. “Is this about the list?” I blur out, but if I’d hoped to see a sign of surprise, that hope is in vain.
“Good. That only confirms our observations were accurate.”
“Are we being watched? Isn’t that a bit over the top for a group of spoiled rich kids with authority issues?” I reply, realizing how humiliating it will be when I have to admit to Gnat that he was right all along.
“Ah, no, that would indeed be silly. These precautions aren’t meant for regular students; they’re for students like you.”
“Students who attend this absurdly expensive school even though they can’t really afford it?” The pause before the vice-principal responds is unexpectedly long.
“Alright, you may need a bit more information. Otherwise, it’s like giving you a candle but no matches. So here’s the short version.” She straightens her back, folds her hands and continues, “Besides the fact that this is a school for spoiled rich kids—as you so eloquently put it—it is a monotoring facility for children with talent.”
“Talent?”
“For lack of a better word, of course. Terms like ‘gift’ or ‘power’ have such silly superhero connotations, don’t you think? Before you know it, you’re secretly stitching together a costume from old sports gear in your bedroom, brainstorming a name that includes some rare insect, and sketching a matching logo in one of your old primary school notebooks. So yes, we do watch you. Too many children have fallen to their deaths because they believed they could fly, or drowned because they thought they didn’t need air. There have been countless victims because they weren’t properly monitored.”
I think about Shadow and how she makes light disappear, or Fred turning the corridor into a rapid, or Gnat's exploding lamps. Damn, she knows all of this. She knew it even before we took our first step into the school.
With mild interest, the vice-principal studies my face. "You can play dumb, of course, but it's irrefutable. You're on the list."
"And when you're on the list, you... you have..."
"One hundred percent."
"But how?"
"We'll get into that later. First, we need the list."
"But the list isn't lost at all. It's lying on the desk in the science classroom. I saw it myself."
"Yes, we thought as much."
"Then why don't you just get it yourself and send me back to class? I'll keep my mouth shut. Promise."
"There's a simple reason for that, Maxime. We can't get in."
"Oh."
"Not even Williams."
"And when Williams can’t get in..."
"nobody can."
"But yesterday..."
“The four of you did, and I can tell you that single fact alone caused a lot of excitement in this office. We thought our search was over, but when we tried to get in ourselves just an hour later, the door didn’t budge.”
“No?”
“Somehow, Kwant must have programmed the door.”
“Programmed?”
“For lack of a better word. He somehow ensured that nobody can get in except for himself and – as we saw yesterday – you four.”
“But he doesn’t even know us. How would he...”
“Who knows, Maxime? Mister Kwant may have a stubborn, grumpy personality and a nasty temper to boot, but his commitment to our cause is legendary. He’s ‘The Keeper’, the protector of the list, for a reason. That legendary commitment, however, is of no use now that we are unable to locate him. Either he’s in serious trouble, or he’s committed treason. In either case, we need to retrieve that list as quickly as possible. Without it, I can’t determine what has happened or what we need to do.”
"So...?" I ask, making a feeble attempt to sound naive.
"Don't play dumb, Maxime. We need you, or one of your friends, to get that list for us. I want it on my desk by this time tomorrow. Yesterday, it seemed easy enough."
The ease with which she orders me around starts to sting more than a bit. "But why so much fuss over a silly list? There must be copies, surely."
"Your ignorance is... charming, but naivety is a luxury we can't afford right now. If that list falls into the wrong hands, everything will collapse like a house of cards."
"Everything?"
"Yes, everything."
"Like the school?"
"No, Maxime, like the world."
Suddenly, in a rush of panic, it becomes crystal clear to me: the vice-principal is crazy. How is it even possible that someone like her is allowed to lead a school? Why hasn’t the school inspection intervened? And why, of all people, am I caught up in this? Why can't I just be given a simple punishment, like writing lines? A thousand times over: "I’m not crazy; I’m an airplane," or something equally nonsensical.
"And what if I refuse?" I ask, desperately trying to avoid any further involvement with this madwoman. The corners of her mouth twitch upward in a knowing smile, like someone who predicted something improbable and is proven right against all odds.
"We anticipated this would be your most likely response, of course. It’s not just talent that passes from generation to generation—stubbornness does too, it seems. With the genetic material of your parents and grandparents, it would have been remarkably out of character for you not to fight me."
"What do you know about my parents?"
"Miss, Maxime Kwintens. If you’re not addressing me as Vice-Principal, you will address me as Miss. Don’t forget who you’re talking to." Her words only fuel my anger.
"What do you know about my parents? What do you know about my mother, MISS?"
"Everything, Maxime…"
"Max," I interrupt.
"Excuse me?"
"I prefer to be called Max, MISS."
The vice-principal's face remains utterly unreadable. “You have spunk, Max, I Have to give you that. Not many students would have the courage to open their mouths without my consent, and certainly not with that tone.” She’s silent for a few seconds, contemplating a decision. “Alright then, let’s deal with this now, otherwise, it will only get in the way. What do I know about your mother, you ask? Everything, of course. I was her vice-principal.” I almost choke. Has this young woman been the vice-principal of my mother? Twenty years ago? “And, believe me, she was a handful. She broke virtually every rule in the book plus a few, we instated especially for her. Williams loved her, of course. He appreciates a free spirit, but for the rest of us... still, despite all the trouble, she was the most gifted student of her generation, possessing a flawlessly calibrated moral compass and the determination to act on it. We trained her, molded her, destined her for great things, and then… she was gone. Just after you were born, she vanished. Untraceable to this day.” I’m at a loss for words. What is happening here? I wanted to learn about the kind of person my mother had been when she was alive, not to hear that she might still be alive.”
I’m at a loss for words. What is happening here? I wanted to know what kind of person my mother had been when she was still alive, not that she is still alive.
“My mother is dead!” I say way too loud. “Gran and Dad would have told me if she were still alive. That’s not something you keep from your child or grandchild, and... and... no mother would abandon her child like that... right?” My last words sound weak and uncertain, and I hate myself for it.
“Are you sure, Maxime Kwintens? Have you ever visited her grave? Ever laid flowers on it? Has anyone actually told you she was dead, or did you just assume that from everyone’s silence?” I cover my ears with my hands, but it doesn’t help. “I thought you wanted to know about your mother?” No, I think, not anymore. I have learned to live with the idea of a dead mother, at the cost of countless sleepless nights and dark, depressive mornings. I survived episodes of frustration and anger where I took my grief out on the people closest to me. That can’t have been for nothing. I’m over it... enough.
An unreasonable, senseless rage flares up inside me. I search for something—anything—a stick, a cannon, a rocket launcher. I want to hurt her, if only to escape my own pain and grief. A part of me realizes this must be a test, but I don’t care. Every switch in me flips to self-destruct.
“Is this what you do? Blackmail?” I know I sound utterly disrespectful, but the vice-principal doesn’t even look at me. Her eyes are on the wall where the edges of the lists pinned to the small bulletin board begin to brown and curl. On her desk, steam slowly rises from the glass of water in front of her. One of her eyebrows arches slowly, perhaps in surprise—I'm not entirely sure—but it's the first crack in her facade of superiority. It's all the opening I need to throw more proverbial gasoline on the fire. "You're even worse than Scroptz." The water in her glass is boiling now. “Scroptz at least teaches. You...”
“Miss.” Her voice is not loud or angry but solid like a gemstone, beautiful and flawless. “You address me as Miss.” It has more impact than all the shouting and hollering of all teachers combined. It effortlessly cuts my words to shreds. Little white clouds escape my mouth. The water on the desk hasn’t only stopped boiling; it’s turning into ice. Above my head, ice flowers overgrow the windows with astounding speed. It would’ve been beautiful if it hadn’t been so utterly frightening. I swallow and shut up. Finally, I’m out of my depth. This visit has turned out even worse than I had imagined. I didn’t end up in a nest of cats; I ended up in the lair of a dragon, an ice dragon.
Everything is quiet now. Only the soft rustle of paper, the creaking of bookshelves, and my own breathing remain audible. The layer of ice covering everything grows thicker and thicker. The vice-principal’s eyes are locked on mine, unblinking. Three seconds pass, then ten... and then, completely unexpectedly, she laughs.
"You really have the same talent for getting under my skin that your mother had when she was your age." And gone is the smile again. "The big difference being, of course, that she embraced her talent without hesitation, using it with reckless abandon. But you... You don't even accept or acknowledge your gift. Such enormous potential, wasted.From the moment your name appeared on the list—so forcefully that it almost seemed to burst into flames—you've been an enormous risk. The only reason you're standing before me now is because we were ordered to stand down. For you, we bent, stretched, and broke centuries-old rules. It was an epic and unprecedented gamble. Unlike most teachers, I agreed with it. You may be a risk, but you also represent hope, and hope is what we need most of all." She pauses, looking me up and down. "But seeing you now, I'm not so sure anymore. Look at you. You act like a child, an untrained child. Still, you're the only one we have. So go, Maxime Kwintens, before I change my mind. Maybe you're more like your mother than I give you credit for. Bring me the list." She waves dismissively towards the door. "You can go now. Close the door behind you, will you?"
Can I go? No punishment? Not even a scratch on my nose? I’m so surprised that I forget to move. But when the glass of water in front of me splits into two perfect halves, leaving a shiny jewel of frozen water on the desk, I grab my backpack, yank the door open, and throw myself through it. Only after the door clicks shut behind me do my legs start to shake uncontrollably.