My morning routine at Nevermore was an elaborate performance.
Lie in bed until 6:30, pretending to sleep. Shower unnecessarily. Stare at breakfast like it required digestion. The whole theatrical production of being human exhausted me more than actually being seventeen ever had.
"Adrian!" Eugene's voice carried across the dining hall. Day three, and he'd already claimed me as his personal project.
He waved from a table near the windows. Not the prime real estate the sirens occupied, but not the social Siberia near the kitchen either. Strategic positioning for someone who understood his place in the ecosystem.
"I saved you a seat," he announced as I approached. "Did you know there are actually seventeen distinct supernatural classifications at Nevermore? Well, eighteen if you count hybrids, but the administration doesn't like to acknowledge those."
I set down my tray of props. "Fascinating. Is there a quiz later?"
"No, but there should be!" He pulled out a notebook covered in bee stickers. "Look, I made a chart. Werewolves are pack hunters, obviously. Vampires are solitary but form temporary alliances. Sirens are technically aquatic but adapt to terrestrial environments. And psychics like me are categorized by our specific abilities."
"You've given this too much thought."
"It's important to understand your environment." He pointed across the room. "Like, see that guy? Kyle? He's a shapeshifter, but only into inanimate objects. Last week he turned into a lamp to avoid a pop quiz."
"Did it work?"
"Until Ms. Thornhill tried to turn him on." Eugene grinned. "The screaming was memorable."
Despite myself, I snorted. The kid had a gift for making the absurd sound reasonable.
"Oh, and that's Bethany." He indicated a girl floating three inches above her seat. "Telekinetic. But she can only levitate herself and only when she's anxious. Finals week must be exhausting."
"The evolutionary advantage seems limited."
"Right? Natural selection should have weeded that out centuries ago." He paused. "Unless anxiety is the evolutionary advantage. Like, prehistoric humans who worried about saber-tooth tigers survived longer."
"Except she floats. That would make her easier prey."
Eugene's face scrunched in thought. "Good point. Maybe it's for flood survival?"
We spent the rest of breakfast debating the evolutionary benefits of useless superpowers. Eugene's enthusiasm made even the most ridiculous theories sound plausible. When the bell rang, I realized I'd actually eaten some of my food. Accidentally. Like a normal person.
Concerning.
Second period was "Supernatural History" taught by Mr. Fitzgerald, a vampire who'd apparently lived through most of it. He droned on about the Salem Witch Trials with the passion of someone reading a grocery list.
"The outcasts of 1692 faced persecution based on fear and misunderstanding," he intoned. "Much like today's political climate regarding our kind."
I'd been in Salem in 1692. The real story involved less persecution and more bad mushrooms causing hallucinations. But pointing that out would raise questions about my supposed age.
The student next to me, a kid with nervous energy, leaned over. "You're the new guy, right? Adrian?"
I nodded.
"Cool. I'm Derek. I'm in Thisbe too. Third floor."
"End of the hall."
"Right, the single." He tapped his pencil against his desk in an irregular rhythm. "Lucky. My roommate talks in his sleep. Full conversations. Last night he negotiated a peace treaty with Belgium."
"Specific."
"You seem pretty normal for someone with special requirements." His tone stayed casual, but I recognized the probe for information.
"Looks can be deceiving."
"Fair enough." He shrugged. "We're having a poker game tonight in the common room if you're interested. Low stakes. Mostly an excuse to avoid homework."
"I'll consider it."
Translation: I wouldn't. Poker with teenagers who thought they invented bluffing held no appeal. Plus, winning money from children felt ethically questionable, even for me.
After lunch came the commitment I'd somehow made: my first official Hummers meeting.
The beekeeping workshop smelled like honey and wood shavings. Eugene already wore his protective suit, practically bouncing with excitement. A girl with long dark hair stood near the hives, holding an empty jar.
"Adrian! You came!" Eugene beamed through his mesh hood. "This is Sage. She's in Ophelia Hall."
Sage looked me over with the calculating gaze of someone who categorized everything. "You're the transfer student. Eugene won't shut up about you."
"He has that problem generally."
She almost smiled. "The honey better be ready. My sleeping draught won't work with store-bought."
"It's ready!" Eugene carefully opened a hive. "The girls have been very productive. Spring flowers made excellent nectar this year."
I watched him work, movements precise and confident. The bees swarmed around him in organized patterns, never aggressive, almost affectionate. His entire demeanor changed around them. Less nervous energy, more focused purpose.
"You try," he said, offering me a smoker. "The smoke calms them. Makes them think there's a fire, so they gorge on honey instead of attacking."
"Drugging bees. Very ethical."
"It doesn't hurt them! It's like... giving them a food coma. You know that feeling after Thanksgiving dinner?"
"Vividly." If you counted watching other people experience it for two centuries.
I took the smoker, following his instructions. The bees responded immediately, their buzzing lowering to a contented hum. Eugene lifted a frame covered in honeycomb, pointing out the different cells.
"These are drone cells, these are worker cells, and this—" He indicated a larger, peanut-shaped structure. "—is a queen cell. They're raising a new queen."
"Regicide?"
"Succession planning. The old queen will leave with half the colony soon. It's called swarming. Natural reproduction for the superorganism."
Sage collected her honey and left with a perfunctory goodbye. Eugene didn't seem to notice, too absorbed in explaining bee democracy and the waggle dance. His passion was infectious. I found myself asking actual questions, not sarcastic ones.
"How do you communicate with them?"
"It's not words exactly." He tilted his head, listening. "More like... feelings? Intentions? Right now they're content but curious. They keep asking about you."
"What are you telling them?"
"That you're a friend." He said it simply, like it was obvious.
Friend. The word sat strangely. I'd had allies, accomplices, temporary arrangements. But friends? Those required emotional investment. Caring. Things I'd trained myself to avoid.
"We should head back," Eugene said, carefully closing the hive. "Dinner starts soon."
Back in Thisbe Hall, the poker game was already starting. Derek waved me over, but I headed to my room instead. The less social interaction, the better. Eugene was already more involvement than I'd planned.
Mr. Kellerman stopped me in the hall. "Settling in okay, Blackthorne?"
"No complaints."
"Good. Remember, lights out at eleven. I know you have that insomnia issue, but try to keep it down."
"I'll be positively silent."
He nodded and moved on to harass other residents about curfew. The man took his minimal authority very seriously.
My room felt smaller each day. Or maybe I was expanding to fill it. Three days, and I'd already established routines. Patterns. Connections. Eugene's friendship. The beekeeping club. Even the nightly cello concerts from Ophelia Hall.
Speaking of which, right on schedule, Wednesday's music drifted through my window. Tonight she played something I didn't recognize. Original composition maybe. Dark and complex, with moments of surprising beauty buried in the dissonance.
I stood on my balcony, listening and not listening. Processing the day. Three days at Nevermore, and I'd already failed at staying disconnected. Eugene had somehow bypassed my defenses with his genuine enthusiasm and terrible bee puns.
The smart move would be distancing myself. Pulling back. Maintaining proper emotional barriers.
Instead, I was mentally preparing bee facts to share tomorrow. Because apparently, that's who I was now. Someone who collected insect trivia to make an eager teenage psychic smile.
Wednesday's cello stopped mid-phrase. Unusual. She always finished pieces, even the wrong ones.
Through the darkness, I caught movement on her balcony. A figure joining her. Male, based on the height. They stood close, having what looked like an intense conversation.
None of my business. I had my own questionable friendships to worry about.
Like how I was going to explain knowing about the London bee crisis of 1890 without admitting I'd been there.
Tomorrow's problem. Tonight, I had a routine to maintain. A facade to perfect.
A normal life to pretend to live.