“While your friends might find it appropriate to drag you into the school, I’m afraid there’s a reason that you weren’t allowed in. As you know, Profectus has very strict rules. And one of those rules is that no student can attend without a level three baku.”

I frown. Profectus isn’t supposed to discriminate toward its own students based on lack of funds—I should be offered a grant or scholarship or something. “Isn’t there some financial aid from the school I can apply for?”

I search Dr. Grant’s face for some sort of understanding. I can’t be the only student to have run into financial trouble. Plus, Profectus gives students money to buy new bakus all the time—for example, if they are destroyed in a baku battle. But there isn’t a trace of sympathy on her smooth features, and her owl baku looks down his beak at me with a stern, cold gaze. It sends a shiver down my spine.

“I’m afraid we can’t offer anything to you. We found some abnormalities with your acceptance to the school in the first place. In addition to the lack of appropriate baku… This is one rule we cannot bend.”

Abnormalities? Then I remember. Jinx hacked the school system to allow me in. That’s obviously been discovered now.

The reality of what she is telling me is slow to sink in. My chest tightens, and I feel like I can’t breathe. I’m transported back to the beginning of the summer, when my dream of getting into Profectus was dashed by a rejection letter.

She signals to her owl baku, who blinks at me. Slick pipes up, having received a message from the owl.

>>I have your registration details for St. Agnes. We had better walk quickly, or we are going to be late to your first class.

St. Agnes? But that means…

The principal spells it out for me. “You are no longer a student at Profectus Academy, Lacey Chu. I have to ask you to leave the premises at once.”

6

I don’t even have time to go to my locker or say goodbye to my friends. Dr. Grant’s owl baku makes sure I am escorted out of a different exit, unable to return.

I’m too shell-shocked to do anything remotely rebellious. It’s only when I’m back out the door (another door that refuses to open for me) and in the frigid December air that I think of all the questions I should have asked. How is this fair? What about my coursework? Is this even legal?

“Slick, call Mom,” I say, not wanting to waste any more time.

>>Calling Mom.

His happy-sounding voice irritates me. He’s not reading my mood at all.

I wait on the steps, pacing to keep warm. After a few agonizing seconds, Slick replies.