“We have an important lesson today.” The Old Timer stalks around the classroom, his thin frame setting his long robes swaying. He pulls back his black hood and scans the rows of desks, twiddling his handlebar moustache.
“Today, we’ll learn how to prepare appealing meals for your masters.” The Old Timer’s thin indigo lips round into a demonic smile. “Exciting, eh?” He starts yapping about how happy we’ll make our overlords by preparing delicious dinners for them. I start doodling ‘Lessons in Stupid-tude’ over and over in my notebook.
Cissy’s tawny eyes focus on the envelope that half-hangs out of my backpack. “What’s that?”
I keep scribbling away. It looks productive and passes the time.
Cissy clears her throat. “I asked you a question, Myla.” She points at the envelope again.
I yawn. “Oh, that’s our invite for Zeke’s party Friday night.”
Cissy starts hyperventilating. “That’s an invite to where Friday night?”
I stop scribbling and realize my huge error. “Uh, I’ll tell you later.”
The Old Timer finishes his speech on pleasing our overlords. Half the class chit-chat in little groups. One guy snores in the back row.
“Impertinence!” The Old Timer stops twiddling his mustache so quickly, I think he’ll rip it off his face. “Pay attention to your master!” The room falls quiet; the sleeping kid raises his head. If the Old Timer were a cartoon, he’d have smoke coming out of his ears right now.
“That settles it.” Our teacher strides over to his desk, jotting down a quick note. “To punish your lack of focus, we shall have tests all next week.” He slaps his bony fists onto the tabletop. “That means robe-cleaning, foot massage, and groveling etiquette, as well as our lesson for today, meal preparation.”
A long groan erupts from the students; everyone sits straighter in their chairs. The dog-tailed kids stop wagging.
“At last, I have your full attention.” The Old Timer rubs his gray hands together, explaining how ghouls like things spicy, drink cough syrup like wine, and are allergic to fish. Oh, they eat a ton of worms too. “Everyone follow me to the demonstration area.”
The class steps over to a long metal table. Our teacher picks up a huge bowl of wriggling worms in his left hand and a tall bottle of Tabasco sauce in his right. “Who wants to prepare a delicious meal?” He looks like a cross between a black-robed scarecrow and Betty Crocker.
Cissy pokes me in the ribs. “Zeke asked me to go too, didn’t he? Please tell me he did.” She really needs a hobby.
I hip-check her. “Quiet, Cis. You’ll get us in trouble.”
“Myla Lewis.” The Old Timer snaps his gray head in my direction. “Is there something you’d like to share with the rest of those in servitude?”
“No, sir.”
The Old Timer sets the worm-bowl and Tabasco sauce onto the prep table. “Perhaps you believe your special status as Arena fighter means you don’t have to follow class rules like everyone else?”
I frown. The one thing that sucks about Arena matches is listening to everyone complain about my ‘special treatment’ afterwards. In all of Purgatory, there are only a few dozen Quasis across who fight in the Arena, and we’re all descended from Furor demons. The Furor are known for not one, but two deadly sins: lust and wrath. Clearly, I only inherited the wrath part, which is why I’m an especially good Arena fighter. And yeah, I do think I deserve special treatment. Hey, I kept an evil soul out of Heaven this morning. Where’s the love?
Opening my mouth, I’m about to say something to that effect when I glance into the Old Timer’s oily black eyes. No love for me there, that’s for sure. I bite my lower lip. “Whatever you say, sir.” Suck it, loser.
The Old Timer lets out an indignant puff of air. “What does the rest of the class think? Should Myla have special treatment because she wrestles a few ghosts?”
Thirty sets of eyes turn in my direction, everyone looking at me with a gaze that says ‘hey, I forgot about that freaky fighting girl.’ This attitude is an improvement, actually. Time was, they all teased me mercilessly. That ended when I put Billy Summers in hospital back in first grade. That’s when Cissy took pity on me too, wrapping me up in her little shoebox of friendship. I’ve cherished her ever since.
The Old Timer taps his foot. “Well, class?”
No one wants to get their ass kicked like Billy Summers, so they all keep their yaps shut.
“I see.” The Old Timer eyes the bowl of worms. “Myla, since you seem to deserve special treatment, perhaps you’ll demonstrate how to make worm soufflé.”
Oh my sweet evil. Not worm soufflé.
I take a deep breath. “Yes, sir.” Stepping up to the table, I eye the massive bowl of nasty, writhing, and greasy worms. Even for a quasi-demon, this is gross stuff.
The Old Timer grins, showing a mouthful of cracked and yellow teeth. “First, you must mush the worms into a pulp.”