Joel turned back to her, guilt overwhelmed by alarm. His mother could end his studies with Fitch. If she went to the principal …
A dozen complaints flashed through his mind. But no, he couldn’t protest too much. If he did, his mother might dig in her feet and decide it needed to be done. But what, then? How?
“Is that what Father would want?” Joel found himself asking.
His mother’s hand froze, chopsticks in her spaghetti, motionless.
Bringing up his father was always dangerous. His mother didn’t cry often about him, not anymore. Not often. It was frightening how a simple springrail accident could suddenly upend everything. Happiness, future plans, Joel’s chances of being a Rithmatist.
“No,” she said, “he wouldn’t want you to ostracize them the way others are. I guess I don’t want you to either. Just … be careful, Joel. For me.”
He nodded, relaxing. Unfortunately, he found his eyes drifting back toward Melody. Sitting alone. Everyone in the room kept glancing at the Rithmatists, whispering about them, as if they were on display.
Joel shoved his chopsticks into the spaghetti, then stood up. His mother glanced at him, but said nothing as he crossed the room to the Rithmatist table.
“What?” Melody asked as he arrived. “Come to flatter me some more so that you can get me to sneak you into another place where you shouldn’t be?”
“You looked bored,” Joel said. “I thought, maybe, you’d want to come eat over with my mother and me.”
“Oh? You sure you’re not going to just invite me over, then kick me out as soon as you have to talk about something important?”
“You know what? Never mind,” Joel said, turning around and stalking away.
“I’m sorry,” she said from behind.
He glanced back. Melody looked miserable, staring down at a bowl filled with brownish red spaghetti, a fork stuck into the mess.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’d … really like to join you.”
“Well, come on then,” Joel said, waving.
She hesitated, then picked up her bowl and hurried to catch up with Joel. “You know how this is going to look, don’t you? Me running off with a boy twice in one day? Sitting with him at dinner?”
Joel blushed. Great, he thought. Just what I need. “You won’t get into trouble for not sitting with the others, will you?”
“Nah. We’re encouraged to sit there, but they don’t make us. I’ve just never had anywhere else I could go.”
Joel gestured toward his open spot at the servants’ table across from his mother, and some people on each side made room for Melody. She sat down, smoothing her skirt, looking somewhat nervous.
“Mom,” Joel said, sitting and grabbing his chopsticks, “this is Melody. She’s studying with Professor Fitch over the summer too.”
“Nice to meet you, dear,” his mother said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Saxon,” Melody said, picking up her fork and digging into her spaghetti.
“Don’t you know how to use chopsticks?” Joel asked.
Melody grimaced. “I’ve never been one for European food. A fork works just fine.”
“It’s not that hard,” Joel said, showing her how to hold them. “My father taught me when I was really young.”
“Will he be joining us?” Melody asked politely.
Joel hesitated.
“Joel’s father passed away eight years ago, dear,” Joel’s mother said.
“Oh!” Melody said. “I’m sorry!”
“It’s all right,” Joel’s mother said. “It’s actually good to sit with a Rithmatist again. Reminds me of him.”
“Was he a Rithmatist?” Melody asked.
“No, no,” Joel’s mother said. “He just knew a lot of the professors.” She got a far-off look in her eyes. “He made specialty chalks for them, and in turn they chatted with him about their work. I could never make much sense of it, but Trent loved it. I guess that because he was a chalkmaker, they almost considered him to be one of them.”
“Chalkmaker?” Melody asked. “Doesn’t chalk just come from the ground?”
“Well, normal, mundane chalk does. It’s really just a form of limestone. However, the chalk you Rithmatists use doesn’t have to be a hundred percent pure. That leaves a lot of room for experimentation. Or so Trent always said.
“The best chalk for Rithmatists, in his opinion, was that which is constructed for the purpose. It can’t be too hard, otherwise the lines won’t come down thickly. It also can’t be too soft, otherwise it will break easily. A glaze on the outside will keep it from getting on the Rithmatist’s fingers, and he had some compounds he could mix with it that would make it put out less dust.”
Joel sat quietly. It was difficult to get his mother to talk about his father.
“Some Rithmatists demand certain colors,” she said, “and Trent would work for hours, getting the shade just right. Most schools don’t employ a chalkmaker, though. Principal York never replaced Trent—could never find someone he thought was competent enough for the job. The truth is, a chalkmaker isn’t really necessary, since ordinary chalk will work.
“But Trent always argued with those who called his work frivolous. Taste is frivolous when eating, he’d say—the body can get the same nutrients from bland food as it can from food that tastes good. Colors for fabric, paintings on walls, beautiful music—none of these things are necessary. However, humans are more than their need to survive. Crafting better, more useful kinds of chalk was a quest for him.
“At one point, he had belts filled with six different kinds of chalk—different hardnesses and curves to their tips—for use in drawing on different surfaces. A lot of the professors wore them.” She sighed. “That’s past, though. Those who want specialty chalk now just order it in from Maineford.”
She trailed off, then glanced at the large ticking clock set into the wall. “Dusts! I have to get back to work. Melody, nice to meet you.”
Melody stood up as Joel’s mother rushed away. Once she was gone, Melody sat back down, digging into her meal. “Your father sounds like he was an interesting person.”
Joel nodded.
“You remember much of him?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Joel said. “I was eight when he died, and we have some daguerreotypes of him hanging in our room. He was a kind man—big, burly. More like a fieldworker than an artisan. He liked to laugh.”
“You’re lucky,” Melody said.
“What?” Joel asked. “Because my father died?”
She blushed. “You’re lucky to have had a parent like him, and to be able to live with your mother.”
“It’s not all that fun. Our room is practically a closet, and Mother works herself near to death. The rest of the students are nice to me, but I can’t ever make good friends. They’re not sure how to treat the son of a cleaning lady.”
“I don’t even have that.”
“You’re an orphan?” Joel asked with surprise.
“Nothing so drastic,” she said with a sigh, scooping at her spaghetti with the fork. “My family lives down in the Floridian Atolls. My parents are perfectly healthy, and they are also perfectly uninterested in visiting me. I guess after their fourth Rithmatist child, the novelty kind of wears off.”
“There are four Rithmatists in your family?”
“Well, six if you count my parents,” she said. “They’re both Rithmatists too.”
Joel sat back, frowning. Rithmatics wasn’t hereditary. Numerous studies had proven that if there was a higher likelihood of a Rithmatist having Rithmatist children, it was very slight at best.