Jazik sat hunched over the table, the fluorescent lights of the library casting a pale glow on the garish covers of his textbooks. Beginner's Math, Grade 4 showed a cartoon dog doing sums with bones; History for Little Learners depicted smiling pilgrims and cartoon Native Americans sharing a harvest feast; Science is Fun! featured a grinning child holding a bubbling beaker. Each page felt like a fresh reminder of the gulf that separated him from his classmates.
The equations swam before his eyes, the concept of fractions eluding his grasp. He knew complex algorithms for calculating rift trajectories, could factor in temporal distortions, but the idea of dividing a cake into equal slices felt impossibly distant. History was worse—dates and names blurred together, devoid of the personal weight and consequence he felt so acutely in his own past. It was difficult to focus.
Near the table, the Poppingummy and a Zakuzakuchips Gochizo played tag, their tiny forms zipping between the stacks of books like living confetti. One minute, the gummy would stretch impossibly, a wobbly blue tether reaching for a distant shelf; the next, the chip would slice through the air on sharpened edges, leaving a faint, crisp scent in its wake.
He needed them to be put away. Their games were distracting, but even more than that, he was terrified someone would spot them.
A soft chime echoed through the library, announcing the end of classes. The muted shuffle of footsteps and the rustle of backpacks filled the air as students began to depart. Jazik sighed, rubbing his tired eyes.
As if on cue, the Gochizos sensed something and scattered. The Poppingummy launched itself into his shirt, the Zakuzakuchips zipped behind the bookshelves. He barely registered their quick disappearance.
Ms. Bustier entered the library, her presence radiating a gentle warmth that seemed to chase away the shadows. Her smile was soft as she spotted him hunched over the table, his face illuminated by the soft glow of a nearby lamp. She approached with a measured grace, as if not wanting to startle a wild animal.
"Jazik? Are you studying?" she inquired, her voice as soothing as chamomile tea.
He stiffened, his hand instinctively moving to shield the open pages. The blood rushed to his face, a flush of embarrassment rising from his neck to his ears. "Just... reading," he mumbled, hoping his tone conveyed disinterest rather than shame. He knew he was failing miserably. "Catching up."
Ms. Bustier's gaze drifted down, lingering on the brightly colored, simplified pages. Jazik felt a knot tighten in his stomach, the silence amplifying the perceived inadequacy. He moved to gather the books, intending a hasty retreat, but a soft hand on his arm gently stopped him. Her touch was light, questioning, not accusatory.
"Are you having any troubles with the material, Jazik?" she asked, her voice laced with a concern that felt both genuine and invasive. He stiffened, pulling away slightly.
"I can handle it," he murmured, the assurance quick, dismissive. His guardedness betrayed him.
She didn't believe him for a second. Her eyes, warm and knowing, lingered on the childish illustrations, the large print, and the cover's promise of fun. "I can tell that you're troubled, Jazik," Ms. Bustier said softly, her gaze steady and kind. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"
The walls were rising, brick by silent brick. He cataloged Ms. Bustier's expression, every line of her face, the tilt of her head, the way her fingers were clasped together in her lap. She was an educator, practiced in the art of drawing out secrets. He could lie, feign understanding, and struggle in silence, a path well-worn, but something in her eyes gave him pause. The concern wasn't clinical; it was… personal. He'd seen that look only a few times before, in the faces of Tom and Sabine when he first arrived. It was unsettling.
"I… I haven't finished school before," he admitted, the words barely audible. "Elementary school, I mean."
Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across her face, quickly replaced by a gentle curiosity. "Why is that, Jazik?" she asked, the question soft, probing.
He tensed, the weight of his past pressing down on him. His gaze dropped to his hands, clasped tightly on the table, knuckles white. It was a nervous habit, tracing the faint scars that lined his palms. They were maps of old wounds, reminders of a life best forgotten.
"It's… complicated," he murmured, his voice barely a breath. "I can't really say." Not yet. Maybe never.
Ms. Bustier's expression softened, her eyes filled with a gentle empathy that made him want to squirm and confess everything at once. "I understand, Jazik," she said softly, her voice reassuring. "But I can help with the learning." A faint smile touched her lips, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "If you would like. I could tutor you. Extra lessons after school." Her hand gestured lightly to the books on the table. "Think of it as extracurricular activities. A way to catch up… at your own pace."
He looked up, his indigo eyes widening slightly, surprised by the offer. He hadn't expected such direct kindness, such an open willingness to help. G.O.D. instructors had been harsh, demanding perfection and punishing failure without remorse. This was… different. A wave of warmth washed over him, a feeling unfamiliar yet deeply comforting. He nodded, a small, grateful smile touching his lips. For the first time since arriving in Paris, he felt a flicker of something akin to hope, a sense that he might not have to face this daunting challenge alone.
"I would appreciate that very much, Ms. Bustier," Jazik said, his voice quiet but sincere.
A genuine smile bloomed across her face, erasing the professional reserve that had been present moments before. It was a smile that reached her eyes, a warmth that seemed to emanate from within. It occurred to him that she truly did care.
"Would you like to start today, Jazik?" she asked, her voice gentle. "I have some free time after school."
He considered the offer. The thought of grappling with fractions and historical dates filled him with a weariness that settled deep in his bones. But the alternative—remaining lost and adrift in this new world—felt even more daunting. He nodded, his gaze meeting hers. There was no room for hesitation; he was here, and he would adapt. He always did. "If it's not too much trouble, Ms. Bustier, I would like that."
His first after-school tutoring session with Ms. Bustier proved surprisingly beneficial. The library was quiet, filled with the scent of old paper and a hushed reverence for knowledge. She was an effective teacher, he quickly realized. Ms. Bustier broke down the daunting concepts of math and history into digestible parts, using visual aids and relatable examples. There were patterns, systems, and logical rules, just like in combat. With her help, he grasped concepts that had previously seemed insurmountable, a surge of confidence replacing his earlier perceived inadequacy.
"You're a bright student, Jazik," she said, her voice soft, encouraging. "You just need a bit of individualized support." Her praise warmed him. He was beginning to see that maybe, just maybe, he could find a place for himself here.
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