“Shouldn’t you be in class too?” I manage to whisper, pulse still pounding.

“Yeah, but I don’t do boring and school today—” he gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes, a hint of a smile quirking up his mouth as he rolls closer on his skateboard.

“You’re an O’Connor.” I state the obvious. So smooth.

“And you’re a Turunen. Taika, right?” Morgan’s Irish accent adds soft r’s in the names where r’s have no business being, but I don’t hate it.

“Yeah, Toivo is my brother.”

“Nice to meet you—officially I mean.” Morgan pulls out two chairs at the nearest desk.

Warily, I sit, tucking my knees up under my chin and wrapping my arms around my legs. I pluck at the loose threads where my clumsiness has left a dirty tear across my knee. It’s weird being spoken to by one of the most magical kids at school, and in a way that makes me think he might not mind sharing oxygen with me.

We’re supposed to be in the same grade, but Morgan—being a wunderkind—got bumped up two grades in all magic classes. Rumor has it he can even combine opposite elemental runes like water and fire or earth and air into totally unique sigils. It’s a super rare ability, which means we only share two periods a week. I’ve tried to stay off his radar and so far it’s been working.

“Hungry?” Morgan is already tracing a conjuring sigil in the air with his index finger capped by chipped black polish. He mutters a few words I think might be Irish and produces two shiny red apples. The air is notably colder, tickling my nose like winter when I inhale.

“That’s impressive.” I examine the offered fruit, searching for the worm, or rotten spot—trying to find the trick in it. Aysha gave me an orange once only to hum it into a lemon the moment I took a bite.

“It’s good. Promise,” he says.

Tentatively, I take a nibble. “Oh wow.” I take another bite and another.

“Thanks.” Morgan stretches out long legs clad in deliberately torn black jeans and props his dark-red boots with purple laces on the desk. He’s got six rings in his left ear and four in his right, and there’s a stud in his nose in the shape of a triskelion.

“So are you mostly a conjurer?” I ask because I have no idea what else to say to him.

“Actually, I’m a part-time rock star.” Morgan crunches through his own apple. “Part-time bookworm.” His grin makes me doubt the veracity of that claim. “But mostly I’m allergic to tomatoes. Do you know what my life is like without pizza?” He pouts. “Do you know how disgusting hot dogs are without ketchup?”