Chapter 3

​“Some children experience real fear when their powers are first discovered. It is my job to let them know that this is normal. They will be okay.”

Agatha Penorton: ‘The Curator of the Spark’

Quora Headmistress

​

Fenton raised his hands to his face, the Artiflex swinging back to his chest as his leather gloves sighed.

He sucked in a deep breath, lips sputtering against the palms of his gloves, dropping his head as if his neck couldn’t hold the weight.

“Fen— I can’t see,” his mother said, frantically stomping on the brakes as the tires locked. Rubber dug into the gravel, screaming like tearing canvas, then ceased abruptly.

He remembered that his gaze caught a boy in gray dungarees and a matching shirt standing just apart from the others. Eyes downcast, fists clenched at his sides. For a moment, their eyes met. Fenton felt a flicker of something, recognition, maybe, or just the relief of seeing someone else who looked as nervous as he felt. He wondered who the boy was and why he seemed familiar.

Fenton fluttered his eyes, taking in his surroundings.

It was snowing.

It was a blizzard.

Snow wooshed behind the glass. It swirled and danced, puffing out the open window like smoke.

Fenton felt his mom's love settle on his shoulder. His own hand darted along his sleeve. Too much sensation at once.

“I can’t— “ he said, a tremor in his voice. He squeezed his eyes shut, furrows cutting into his forehead as he sat trembling. “Too many people. Too much noise. Too much to learn.”

He felt the brass sigil pressing against his chest. Miss Penorton had given it to him. Now wearing it from a chain, its edges warming his skin, reminding him that there were people who only wanted the best for him. He remembered not just the power, but the aftermath.

The hollow ache in his bones.

How his hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

Fear that he’d lost something vital, or unleashed something he couldn’t control.

Miss Penorton had noticed. She knelt, pressing a warm cup into his hands. Steaming tea. “Drink, Fenton. Sugar helps,” she said softly, her voice gentler than winter sunlight spilling through glass. He remembered its warmth. The taste of honey. The way it steadied him, if only a little.

Her rheumy eyes glowed with soft light as she watched him sip the tea. He hadn’t understood what had happened.

He was so young.

So confused.

Having no idea what was inside him.

When it first escaped, his fingers growing cold, the fright that consumed him was like a hungry beast. He was afraid he would disappear. The aftermath left him dazed. Unsteady. He nearly toppled, but her strong hand kept him upright.

Even now, the memory of that exhaustion and Miss Penorton’s quiet care made his chest tighten. He wasn’t sure which he feared more.

The power itself.

Or how small and spent it left him.

His mother’s fingers gripped the steering wheel, knuckles the color of bone, a voice soft and steady. Each word sharp but calm. Fenton wondered if she was as scared as he. Sending her only child into a place neither of them understood. He saw her eyes flicker his way, a fleeting sadness quickly replaced by a curling line across her lips, as if she were holding something back. She stared out the windshield before speaking, her jaw tight. Fenton watched her chest rise and fall. Slow. Deliberate breaths, like she was steeling herself. He thought of all the times she’d acted bravely when things were uncertain. His father leaving. The days when the house felt too big and empty. The move. The new house. The visits with Miss Penorton.

Now, as she finally looked at him, Fenton saw something flicker behind her eyes. A mixture of pride, fear, and something like apology.

“Promise me you’ll try, Fen,” she whispered, her voice barely above the hush of the cascading snow.

He nodded, but wondered if she would cry the moment he shut the door behind him.

“You’ll be fine, Fen,” she said, her voice nearly steady.

He wanted to believe her, not quite sure if she was convincing herself or him.

He sucked in a deep breath, head swinging like a pendulum. His mother's hand pressed against his shoulder, steadying him and stopping his frantic movements. Lavender perfume clouded his senses. He squeezed his eyes shut; it felt like snow burst from them like confetti.

“I’m always here, Fenton,” she said as she scooted closer across the bench seat, pulling him towards her. He thought the cotton of her dress sounded like his gloves on his sleeve.

His head fell to her chest, the scent surrounding him as he tried to calm himself. He knew he needed to do this, to make his parents proud, even if his father wasn’t in his life often. Miss Penorton and his mother had coached him along, helping him as they could. Now it was up to him to make the necessary changes so he could learn what it meant to be ‘Hexic.’

With a rattling breath, his shoulders shuddered and fell, the leather on his right hand squeezing tighter as he held close to his mom.

“Don’t make me do this,” he said, his voice warbling with fear, barely above a whisper.

With a voice as soft as linen, she spoke. “You are braver than you allow, Fen,” she said, smoothing his dark hair. “You can do this, Fenton. I know you can.”

Fenton lifted his face, lashes coated and crisp like morning frost on trees, pupils dilated with fear. He could smell the snow, dense and wet. Like his emotions.

Raw and savage.

Words caught in his throat.

Blocked and unmoving.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he tried to swallow his fear. He remembered the day he arrived at his new junior academy. Fenton was eleven. His father wasn’t helping out enough, so his mother moved them across the city to Pullman, into a smaller house closer to work. This was a different part of Chicago. Everything was new. The sights, sounds, and smells of an industrial area and its factories triggered all-new sensations for Fenton. He struggled once again, trying to adapt—then came the new kids.

The stares, the laughter filling the space between them.

“He looks like a stork.”

“Hey, Scarecrow– the cornfield’s that way.”

“Don’t blow away, beanpole.”

His shadow drew even longer before him as he ran after his mother’s car.

Fenton shuddered, returning to his mom, flakes pushing from the corners of his eyes as he stared at her. He watched her inhale deeply, eyes widening as her lips curled and stretched.

“Breathe, my little man,” she said, softly patting the leather covering his hands. ”I know this is new. Scary,” she said, eyes wrinkling slightly as her head trembled. She reached over and played with his collar. “But I know you.”

He tried to grin, his mother using the words from when he was young. She fussed with his collar as he wondered how different this felt from being with his dad. He remembered the last time his father had picked him up after school. It had been raining, and his father’s goodbye was quick, almost careless. As if he were too much trouble to spend time with. “Can’t you stay?” Fenton asked in a soft voice. A pat on the shoulder and his dad’s eyes trailing him to the door, as Fenton made a mad dash through the rain. His mother in the doorway, arms crossed. Anger hardened her soft features as they watched his taillights blur into the fog.

That memory pressed in.

Cold and sharp.

Fenton glanced at his mother, her concern so obvious it almost hurt. He wondered, not for the first time, what it would feel like to have both parents rooting for him as he stepped into the unknown. The ache about his father felt sharper here, on the cusp of something new. Would his father even recognize him now? Would he be proud? His breath caught again as the words finally landed.

Did anyone really know Fenton? The boy who was scared of everything.

Every sound.

Every smell.

Even his shadow.

He remembered how the ground felt beneath him after the name-calling. The shadow of the building wrapped him in its darkness. Legs bent to his face, eyes buried in his knees as he felt the light warble across him. He raised them to a short, dark girl with braided tails that stuck out from behind her ears. She cocked her hip, hands landing as if she were a teapot– then smiled.

Light radiated from her as her flour sack dress danced in the breeze. Its collar waved ‘hi’ as Fenton stared.

“Now, Fenton Snow,” she said, her voice soft and lilting like a violin bow drawing the note out across the strings. She tipped her head as if she were listening, eyes towards the clouds.

“We can’t have you hidin’ back here. You’re too pretty for that," she said, a twang as sharp as sauerkraut.

Fenton’s mouth fell open. How did she know my name?

“All them’s kids are just mean.”

Fenton just blinked.

A snowflake puffed, then drifted to the ground.

They both watched as it lazily settled into the dirt.

She tapped her foot. “Now comes–,” she said, extending her hand.

The question still lingered on Fenton’s face.

“Oh, babe,” she said, swishing her hand towards her chest. “Isa ‘seer.'" Her coffee-colored eyes sparkled with mischief.

Fenton closed his mouth.

A smile snaked across her dark face.

“Name’s Prairie.”

She extended her hand again.

“C’mon now. I won’t be aksin again.”

He pushed up from the ground, extending like a telescoping ladder.

Her eyes followed, mouth falling slack as her head tipped back, watching him rise. ”Now’s I see’s why they say’s those mean things.”

He looked down at her, a small grin tugging at his lips.

Prairie clutched his hand tightly as she marched him back around the building, a confidence in her stride he himself had never felt. She was short but quick. Even his long legs stretched to keep up with her. The other kids were still clustered by the swings, roughhousing. Laughter filled the air as they approached. One of them, Patch, the loudest, opened his mouth, but Prairie cut him off with a fierce glare.

“Uh Uh Uhhh,” she said, pointer waving like a flag in a gale. “ Babe, I know you ain't got a problem!” she called, her voice ringing clear. “You want’s to say’s I am fine or anything, then that be great.”

The kids shuffled, casting their eyes away, Ked’s stirring circles in the dirt. No one answered.

Prairie turned to Fenton and winked. “See? Bullies be’s quiet when someone’s watchin.”

She stared over her shoulder at the throng. She squeezed his hand, then led him back to the shade of the big Sycamore tree, holding her head high. For the rest of recess, she lay on the grass beside Fenton, telling stories about her grandmother’s farm and pointing out shapes in the clouds.

He listened.

He breathed.

She made him feel calm.

His hand stilled as her voice soothed him. No one bothered him again that day.

​

A pale grin rose on Fenton’s lips as his present world came back into view, fear slowly subsiding. The flakes were decreasing in size and intensity as he remembered his friend Prairie. He recalled when she pressed a smooth stone into his palm, closing his fingers around it. “So you know I am always here,” she’d whispered, grinning. Fenton still kept it in his pocket, rubbing its surface whenever he was scared. Maybe, if he was lucky, she’d be waiting for him inside. He knew she couldn’t be. The Ragen’s Colts gang had taken that from him. Pain crossed his face at that memory.

She had made it easy, though. How would he fare here? The boy who was overwhelmed by everything. He briefly smiled at the memory and returned to the face looking at him, his gloved hand resting on the small stone in his dungarees.

“You are amazing, Fenton,” his mother said, trying to transfer her belief to him. How she wished he could see himself as others did.

“Fen. Look at me.”

Fenton raised his eyes.

“The world will always be big. Be bold. Be loud.”

She swallowed.

“Even to others, it can be scary.”

She looked away, her eyes catching the brick mansion beyond the glass for the first time. She turned back to Fenton, tears lighting her eyes with joy.

“You have always made me proud. I am so glad,” she said, leaning in, their foreheads touching, “that I get to be your mom.”

Fenton swallowed as the snow immediately sputtered to a halt.

"Just like Prairie did, these kids will love you—once they know you."

She placed a hand on either side of Fenton’s face, eyes darting back and forth between the glacier-blue eyes in front of her. “You are beautiful, smart, and so charming. You are strong," she said through clenched teeth, shaking his head slightly. "And I am always here.”

Her hand dropped, resting on his chest as his racing heart began to slow.

Fenton grasped her, the glove tightening as he squeezed his mother’s hand.

“Don’t let this fear win," she said in a soft but forceful confidence.

The words ricocheted around the car as Fenton inhaled, his chest shuddering, stretching the cotton of his Lacoste.

His hands trembled as he remembered another time they wouldn’t stop shaking. Standing behind the curtain backstage at the school auditorium, the audience a murky blur beyond. His nerves made him vibrate like one of the strings beneath the polished wood of the waiting piano.

He’d wanted to run.

To vanish.

But Prairie found him there, shaking like clothes on a line. His hands assaulting the opposite sleeves frantically enough to sound like a shoe brush polishing leather.

“Oh babe, you knows you can't get out of this. You’re going to play, Fen,” she’d said, squeezing his shoulders, authority in her voice. “You always sound like the rain on my tar-paper roof. It’s my favorite thing.”

A feeble grin crossed his face, now white with fear.

“Theys needs to hear the rain.”

Somehow, her confidence had gotten him onto the stage, notes tumbling out of him. Shaky at first, then stronger.

He remembered her smile as the last note of his recital lingered, enough to make him breathe —just a bit deeper now.

He had to be brave.

He had to face his fear.

If not for himself— for his mom.

Fenton’s fingers wrapped around his camera as he looked toward the brick giant beyond.

His mother patted his leg, grabbed the gear lever as the car moved forward– toward Divergent Academy once more.

As Fenton stepped out of the car, a breeze bit at his cheeks. Prairie’s words echoed in his mind as he felt the small stone resting in his pocket:

“You’re too pretty to hide.”

He squared his shoulders and took his first step forward, reaching for his two Rimowa bags, their handles nestling into the leather of his gloves as the sun sparkled off their aluminum sides. He glanced up at the Academy’s looming façade and, for a heartbeat, saw the boy at the top of the steps. A familiar outline etched against the blue sky, as the professor led him away.

He again felt a coldness that wasn't his own.

A snowflake drifted once more as he turned to his mom, then started up the stairs.

“I knew she would cry,” he said softly.

He smirked, heading toward his future—one he hoped would make not just his mother proud, but himself too.

Even- possibly- his dad.