Tanya Huff - When The Student Is Ready

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WHEN THE STUDENT IS READY

by Tanya Huff

Tanya Huff lives and writes in rural Ontario with her partner, four cats, and an unintentional

chihuahua. After sixteen fantasies, she wrote her first space opera, Valor's Choice, the sequel to

which, The Better Part of Valor, is now out from DAW. Currently she is working on the third novel

in her Keeper series, which began with Summon The Keeper and The Second Summoning. In her

spare time she gardens and complains about the weather.

THE first time Isabel saw him, he was rummaging in the garbage can out in front of The Second Cup at

Bloor and Brunswick. He was wearing a filthy "I love New York" T-shirt, a pair of truly disgusting

khaki Dockers barely hanging from skinny hips, and what looked like brand-new, high-top black canvas

sneakers of a kind that hadn't been made since the sixties—at least not according to her father who

moaned about it every time he had to buy trainers. His dirty-blond hair and full beard were streaked with

gray, as well as real dirt, and both skinny arms were elbow deep in cardboard coffee cups and half-eaten

snack food.

She couldn't take her eyes off of him, which was just too weird. Having lived her entire life—almost

seventeen years—in downtown Toronto, she'd seen street people be-fore. Seen them, avoided them,

given them her loose change if she was feeling flush and they weren't too smelly or too old. This guy

was nothing special.

Thumbs hooked under her backpack straps, she took a step closer. Considering the heavy, after-school

foot traffic, he had rather a large open area around him. Which wasn't at all surprising when the breeze

shifted.

Did she know him? Was he like some old friend of her dad's who'd fallen on hard times? Breathing

shallowly through her mouth, Isabel tried to recognize a familiar feature under all the dirt.

As if drawn by her regard, he rose up out of the garbage and turned, what she could see of his face

wearing an expression of extreme puzzlement.

"Half a Starbuck's apricot square will last forty-six hours and seven minutes without going moldy," he

said. "A muffin ..." Glancing into the garbage, he shook his head. Then he looked up again, locking

bloodshot gray eyes on hers. "There isn't much time."

Isabel could actually feel the hair rise on the back of her neck. It was a totally gross feeling. Pulling a

handful of change out of her pocket, she thrust it toward him. "Here, buy afresh muffin."

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The two-dollar coin caught his attention. He plucked it off her palm, closed his right eye, and held it up

to his left. "Twonie or not twonie. That is the question."

The coin disappeared.

She'd been watching the coin. Had almost seen it slide sideways into nothing. Had almost recognized the

movement. She thought she heard something growl. A quick look around—no dogs. When she turned

back to her streeter, he was in exactly the same position he'd been in when she'd turned away. "So, do

you want the rest of this money or not?"

He shrugged and held out his hand.

Isabel dropped the change in his palm, careful not to touch anything, and hurried away. Maybe Dad's

right. Maybe I should start taking taxis home from school.

"Dad? You home?" She didn't expect him to be home, not at four thirty on a Tuesday, not on a day that

Mrs. Gerfinleo was in, but it never hurt to ask.

Shrugging out of backpack and blazer, she dropped them on the floor, kicked off her sensible black

school shoes, picked up her backpack, and headed for her bedroom. By the time she got out of the

shower, her blazer was hanging brushed and pressed on the door to the walk-in closet and her newly

shined shoes were aligned neatly in their cubby.

Grinning, she threw on jeans and a T-shirt and made her way to the kitchen for her biweekly lecture on

how clothing didn't pick itself up.

The kitchen was as empty as the rest of the condo.

"Mrs. G.?"

A noise on the terrace, the sound of furniture being moved, caught her attention.

Well, duh. Mrs. G. was out watering the plants.

"Mrs…" Her greeting trailed off, leaving her standing silently in the open doorway staring at the biggest

crow she'd ever seen. Perched on the back of a rattan chair, head cocked, it stared intently at her out of a

brilliant yellow eye. And it was staring at her—not just in her general direction the way most birds did.

"What?"

In reply, it dropped the biggest streak of bird shit she'd ever seen down the back of the chair.

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'Too gross! Go on, get out of here!" Flapping a hand at it, she added an emphatic, "Scram!"

Instead of flying away, it dropped down onto the terrace and hopped toward her.

"I don't think so, bird." Stepping back, she slammed the door in its face.

It stopped, glared up at her, ruffled its feathers into place, and said… well, it didn't say anything exactly.

It cawed like crows did, but for a moment, Isabel was certain—almost certain—it had called her a stuck-

up bitch.

"Okay. Low blood sugar. Definitely time for a snack."

Wherever she'd been, Mrs. G. had to be back in the kitchen by now.

She wasn't. But this time, Isabel saw the note.

Bella: Mr. Gerfinleo called from the emergency so I have to leave early. There was an accident with the

forklift. Don't worry, he's okay if you don't count the broken leg. Your supper is in the refrigerator in the

stone casserole. Ninety minutes at 350 degrees, then grate some of the parmesan on top. Tell your

father, I'll call him later when I know.

Well, that explained why the condo seemed so empty. It was.

About to peer into the casserole, Isabel paused. If Mrs. G. had left early, who'd picked up her clothes?

Clothing didn't pick itself up.

She saw him the second time on her way to Gregg's Ice Cream. Seven o'clock, her dad still wasn't home,

and half a dozen questions kept chasing themselves around in her head. If anything could take the place

of answers, it was sweet cream on a sugar cone with sprinkles.

Her streeter was standing outside the Royal Ontario Museum, inside the security fence, inside the garden

for that matter, both hands pressed flat against a floor-to-ceiling window, staring in at the Asian temple.

His wardrobe had grown by the addition of a mostly shiny black jacket with the logo for Andrew Lloyd

Webber's CATS embroidered across the back. Nobody but her seemed to have noticed him, but he did

have the whole poor-and-homeless cloak of invisibility thing going.

About to cross to the southwest side of Queen's Park— the museum's corner—Isabel stepped back up

onto the curb and crossed to the north side of Bloor instead. When she then crossed west, four lanes of

Bloor Street were between them.

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