Chapter 2: The Girl with the Scratchy Couch

The day after the SATs, I had just opened my eyes—

Sunlight spilled through the slats of the blinds, striping my face. For a second, I thought I was back in my room, but everything felt off, like the air was charged with the hum of hidden possibilities.

And found myself transported into a world of American-style magic.

A low buzz filled my ears, and the old faded posters on the wall now shimmered with something more than nostalgia. My head throbbed, as if I’d pulled an all-nighter cramming for finals.

After a brief headache, a flood of new memories surged into my mind.

Like flipping through a yearbook I’d never seen before, I suddenly knew things I shouldn’t—names, faces, stories that belonged to this new life.

My name is Natalie Carter. My parents died when I was young, so I grew up as an orphan.

I still remember the scratchy couch in my first foster home, the smell of burnt toast, and the sound of tornado sirens in the distance. Raised in foster homes, bouncing from one small town to the next—Missouri, Indiana, Ohio—never quite fitting in. There’s something about Midwestern sunsets that always made me feel both homesick and hopeful at the same time.

At sixteen, the third senior brother from Maple Heights Academy took pity on me and pleaded with the headmaster to make an exception and accept me as an outer student.

He found me outside a gas station, hunched over a tattered library book, and thought maybe I was worth a shot. The way he looked at me—like he saw something hidden beneath all the hand-me-downs—still makes my chest ache.

My job? Sweeping floors and running errands for the academy.

I became the unofficial gofer—dusting chalkboards, grabbing coffee from the corner 7-Eleven, occasionally running interference when the cable guy showed up unannounced.

Though called an “outer student,” in reality, the entire Maple Heights Academy has only five people.

A real ragtag bunch. We’re so small, our group photo could fit on a single school ID card, and sometimes I wonder if our mailbox even gets any real mail at all.

But Headmaster said my talent was poor and I was destined to have no connection with the path of magic.

He told me this gently, the way a math teacher might let you down easy after a rough test. Still, I felt the sting—a kind of loneliness that’s hard to shake.

The day I arrived just happened to be the grand National Magic Selection among the academies of the United States.

There was a buzz in the air, like the whole school was holding its breath. Even the local diner had a sign: “Good luck, Maple Heights!” scrawled in dry-erase marker on the window.

This selection is held every five years. All the academies, big and small, gather together and send their most outstanding young students to compete.

The event’s got all the drama of March Madness, but with spellbooks and maybe a few more pocket protectors. People gossip about it on Facebook, and some even make friendly wagers at the bowling alley downtown.

If you stand out, you might even be chosen to enter the Magic Realm and gain supreme opportunities and treasures.

Rumor is, that’s where you find the kind of scholarships and power that change lives forever. Ivy League dreams, but spiked with literal magic.

So, every National Magic Selection attracts the attention of countless academies.

The stakes are high; even the principal’s ancient golden retriever seems to watch the proceedings with bated breath, tail thumping whenever someone mentions the big event.

Three days ago, I followed Headmaster and my senior brothers and sisters, traveling cross-country to the venue—Oakridge Academy.

We all piled into Headmaster’s battered minivan, snacks stuffed in backpacks, listening to old classic rock on the radio as we rolled past cornfields and rest stops. It felt almost like a family road trip—awkward silences and all.

Oakridge Academy is the largest school in the country, with deep roots and countless experts—completely different from our obscure Maple Heights Academy tucked away in some forgotten corner.

Their campus is enormous—think red brick buildings, rolling lawns, and a giant bronze eagle statue staring you down as you approach the main gate. I swear I got lost twice just looking for the bathroom.

Headmaster’s expectations for this selection were simple: just try to win a single match.

He wasn’t looking for glory, just some dignity. A win would mean everything—one moment of pride for our tiny team.

And as a new arrival with no talent, an outer student, I naturally wanted to witness the brilliance of all those geniuses.

I clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, I’d get to see some real magic—something to make the years of drifting finally make sense.

But after watching the first match with great anticipation, I was left completely dumbfounded.

I was ready for spell circles and fireworks. Instead, what I saw felt more like a classroom pop quiz gone wild.