Marissa steps over his writhing body, straightens her skirt, and saunters on like nothing happened. The truth is, she doesn't care that she just stole someone's will. And that makes me furious. It's one thing to treat an A.P. badly, but this – taking away a stranger's choice – it's deplorable.

'You . . . you can't just leave him there.'

She spins, flicking her blonde hair over her shoulder with force. 'Don't be stupid, Rach, he'll find me. They always do. You really need to come to terms with it.'

I focus on the guy curled in a fetal position, rocking back and forth on the ground, his denim jacket bunching by his neck and his white T-shirt covered in soggy brick dust. I can't call for help – drawing attention to him could risk exposing us.

'Why, Marissa? Why did you turn him?'

She shrugs. 'Besides the obvious,' she waves to the sloppy stack of school papers in my arms, 'he's cute . . . and he has nice shoes.'

'Nice shoes?'

'A guy with nice shoes brings good luck.'

I'm fairly certain she just made that up. 'It wasn't too lucky for him, was it?'

'God, you're melodramatic. It had to be done and I'm glad I did it. I haven't turned a guy in days. I was starting to feel under-appreciated.'

'You're out of control.'

Marissa ignores me. 'Nothing makes you feel as valued as a fresh turn. They're so desperate to please, all those heightened passions overcoming their other desires.' The side of her mouth curls into some freaky smile/snarl hybrid. 'There's nothing like a man doing whatever I ask to keep me happy. You really should try it sometime.'

'Do you hear yourself?'

She glares at the interruption. 'Maybe I should tell this one I want someone who can fly and watch him jump off a building.'

I shudder. She can't mean it, but I've heard of others doing similar things. It's reasons like this that make me hate my gift. If you could call it that. Gift feels like a sick term for what it is we really do.

Steal.

Forcing a man to love me is not something I want.

I kick rocks away from the guy shuddering into my Converse sneakers. There's nothing else I can do for him. He'll stay like this until he's fully turned.

Marissa lets out a long breath, waiting for me to say something. And I do. 'I just don't think it's right.'

Somehow this infuriates her enough to continue toward school. When she's a good few feet ahead, she pivots on her heels. 'First the cab and now this.' Her arms flail like one of those inflatable advertisements on a car lot. If it weren't for the particulars of this argument it would be hilarious. 'If this is your I want true love rant, I'm tired of hearing it. Those women in true love situations would die to get what we have. Well, what I have – a guy whose only purpose is fulfilling my every wish.'

I ball my fists and glance around, making sure no one heard her, or will hear what I'm about to say. Thankfully the park is still dead. 'If women really wanted that, they would get a dog. Nobody wants to be followed blindly by a boy. They want someone to see their worst qualities and still choose to love them.'

'God, you're such a downer.' Marissa nods back over her shoulder. 'If what we do is so bad then why would the gods gift us with the ability? Huh?'

It's a question I ask myself every day.

I hang my head, eyes closed to avoid seeing the guy. Why did the gods choose me to have this ability, to be a Hedoness? Why couldn't I have been born to another family and missed the freak gene? It pains me to open my eyes, but I do, and look one last time at Marissa's victim.

She's right about one thing, he's good-looking – even while mid-seizure with his headphones twisted around his head, and that's saying a lot. He's not much older than me. And now he's Marissa's puppet.

'Stop moping,' she says, glancing at her cell. 'We have first block in five minutes. We're supposed to pick a famous Hedoness to study for our final projects this morning. I want to get there before someone else chooses Marilyn Monroe.'

I point toward the guy on the ground. 'What about him?'

Marissa folds her arms across her chest, gripping tight to her gold purse strap. 'Haven't you been listening?' She lets out a dramatic breath. 'Seriously. Forget about him. He'll find me when he's fully absorbed my power. Until then, I have a class to get to.' With that, she flips a wave of blonde hair over her shoulder and struts off.

Even though my heart tells me to stay, I know there isn't anything I can do to help him. Who am I kidding? Marissa's right – I'm a Hedoness and no matter how much I want to, I can't change that.

I run to catch up, guilt washing further over me with every step away from the will-less boy. That quickly shifts to anger. It irritates me how Marissa seems to float over the ground and how her gold mane sways in unison with her hips. She doesn't even need powers to make men fall for her. It's out of laziness that she uses them.

Marissa's almost at the Convent by the time I make it to her side. She acknowledges me with a curt nod and then starts right back into her speech from earlier.

'Amor est vitae essentia,' she says, pointing to the words carved into the wood doors. 'Love is the essence of life. Until you come to terms with that, Rach,' she goes on, her tone dripping with contempt, 'you'll never experience any form of love. What we do might not suit your high morals, but it's our calling, our purpose.'

'Ladies,' a gruff voice barks from the doorway. 'You're late.'

I look up in time to see Marissa curtsy, bowing her head to the large black form. 'Yes, Mother Superior. Apologies.'

The woman in black turns her attention on me. She cocks her head, showcasing the wiry grey whiskers poking out from her chin. 'And why is that, Miss Patel?'

'Reverend Mother . . .' I pause and attempt a curtsy of my own. By the look on her face, it comes across like a drunk trying to plié. I glance at Marissa. I could sell her out, buy me some much needed favour with the nun. Though I can't help noticing the uneasy way she grips the strap on her new gold purse.

'The taxi—' I begin, but Marissa cuts in.

'I stopped to turn a guy.'

I hold my breath, waiting for Mother Superior to yell about how careless Marissa was for using her power without a teacher's supervision, especially now, with all the media attention on the missing boys.

'Good,' she says instead, clasping her hands and lifting the side of her mouth in what I can only assume is an attempt at smiling. 'What is your current turning span'

'They usually last for a few days,' Marissa says. 'Then I either turn them again, or set them free, depending on what the class needs are.'

Mother Superior strokes her whiskers. 'That is passable, but you are an outstanding student and my expectations are high. You should be aiming for weeks, months – even years, soon.'

I'm pretty sure my jaw's hanging open. The nuns are constantly telling us to be careful and not get caught using our gift. But now she's practically encouraging it. It's not surprising the reporters are starting to ask questions.

Mother Superior puts her hand on Marissa's shoulder, but looks at me. 'It is important to learn to control your gift. One day you will turn a future mate and that requires no error – it must last for ever. It is your duty to be fruitful and multiply so we can ensure the survival of the gift you were given.' She drops her arm from Marissa, but her eyes remain locked on mine. I'm starting to see why Marissa didn't get in trouble. Mother Superior seems more concerned with my lack of embracing the gift than Marissa's overenthusiasm for it.

Her eyes wander down my body, taking in my dishevelled appearance. 'Heavens, what muddy tragedy has happened to your uniform?' Her voice cracks and her eyes bulge when they land on my shoes. 'Did you dip your toes in white paint?'

'They're Converse sneakers.'

'They're responsible for the demerit I'm adding to your student file.' She points to them, her nose turned up. 'I never want to see those on school property again.'

'Yes, Mother Superior.'

She leans closer. 'Now, how are your studies going? Have you had a successful turning yet?' She glances at Marissa as she asks.

From the amount of times I've been sent to her office, you'd think she'd know.

I haven't done it yet, and I don't intend to.

Mother Superior clears her throat, waiting for my answer.

I hang my head and tug at my coat sleeve, wanting to tell her that I'm perfectly content to never test my ability. But instead I say, 'No, your Reverence.'

She tsks and steps closer, a giant wall of black blocking me from the doors. 'This troubles me, Rachel. Your mother was one of our best students – such a treasure. There's no reason why you shouldn't have developed your gift.'

There's that word again. Gift. If it's a gift, it's a stupid one.

The bell rings, and Marissa shifts from one foot to the other.

'You ladies better hurry or you'll be shut out of homeroom.' As soon as the words leave Mother Superior's mouth, Marissa takes off, dashing around the nun and through the doors. I force a smile and follow after.

'Miss Patel,' Mother Superior says. 'I want to see you in my office after school. Be prompt.'

I push down the wave of nerves and nod before continuing to the hall. Tuesday's turning out to be the worst of the week.

My shoes squeak on the polished stone floor as I pass the housing wing and turn down the corridor of classrooms. Marissa's way ahead of me and I realize I'm probably going to be late as I glance up at the domed ceilings painted with vivid scenes of angels and demons in a deadly war.

The halls, blue-striped wallpaper and wood trims, are peppered with art. Mostly historical pieces rescued from closing Greek museums, but there's some custom work too, like the ceiling. I take a quick moment to study my favourite – a baroque of Eros gripping that magical golden arrow in one hand and a charcoal black arrow in his other. His hair is curly like mine, his skin way paler, and his eyes are a striking blue. But the bow slung over his shoulder is what draws me to this particular painting, it's carved with a celestial battle scene similar to the ceiling, but instead of angels and demons it's the gods of Olympus verses man.

I continue to the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time, skidding onto the landing in front of a procession of Sisters guiding a classroom of first-year students to their homeroom. I feel for every single one of them. It's hard enough being a normal thirteen-year-old, but for Hedonesses, thirteen means discovering we have an ungodly ability, that we're monsters, and that everything we thought we knew about life and ourselves is one big lie. We're torn from our normal schools and sent to ones masquerading as religious institutions so as not to be detected. Schools like St Valentine's, that specialize in guiding us into our power.

First year is a whole lot of girls, with a whole lot of confusion and anger and tears – something that's evident in the group before me. They take in every inch of the hall, trying to make sense of this new place, this new stage of their lives, and they walk in parallel lines, forced to hold hands with their recently assigned A.P.s.

The nuns stop to send a warning look – they can't have my tardiness setting an example for the first years. I quicken my pace, less for fear of angering them and more because I can't stand seeing the cries for help hiding in the eyes of the girls. It

reminds me just how stuck I am.

When I finally make it to homeroom, the large oak door's shut. I take a moment to straighten my uniform, though it doesn't really help, then ring the bell signalling to the class that a tardy student waits in the hall.

The door groans open, and peers out. Her hazel eyes fall on me and she offers a welcoming smile.

'I'm sorry I'm late, Sister. I was—'

'No need to give reason, Miss Bale's already informed me. Please come in and take a seat.' She motions me to a spot at the front of the class. I scan the room for Marissa to find her in our usual place at the back. She offers me a brief shrug before spreading her things on my section of the table.

As I take my new seat, the Sister hands me a paper. 'The other students have already picked their end-of-year projects. I'm afraid you're left with Joan of Arc or Queen Guinevere.' She looks on with anticipation.

I chew the inside of my cheek, flicking my pencil back and forth, thinking over the choices. Truthfully, I don't care which Hedoness I do my project on, but my teacher's dedicated her life to preserving Hedoness traditions, and after this morning with Mother Superior I want to be careful with my response. The last thing I need is more demerits – failing transcripts from St Valentine's would be even worse than regular ones, and I really don't want to take school all over again.

'Who will it be?' The Sister clasps her hands.

'Um, I'm not sure. Who do you suggest?'

She leans against her desk, crossing her hands in her lap, the shadow from her habit making her look like a sad doll. 'Hmmm . . .' she thinks out loud, 'Joan used her gift to turn men's will toward her cause and help end a war. She was not interested in love, per se. But Guinevere had men believe she was the most beautiful maiden in the world, when in truth she was a regular girl much like you.' The girls in the class fight back chuckles. But they don't bother me – I know I'm no Marissa. Still, I can't help running a hand over my wild black waves.

The weight of everyone's eyes on me, waiting for my answer, is too much. 'I guess I'll go with Joan of Arc,' I say, knowing I'd rather be a fighter than a beauty queen.

'Excellent choice.' Sister Anthony Christine jots some notes in her planner. When she finishes, she stands, smooths out her habit, and turns to address the class. 'Ladies, I'd like you to take the rest of this period to plan your essays and presentations. If you need any resources, please come to me for a hall pass before leaving for the library.'

I flip open my notebook and glance around – most of the class has already set to work. The girl next to me, Paisley, leans over. I know her a little outside of school. Our mothers were A.P.s when they went here, and they've kept in touch over the years. Plus we're the only students whose parents aren't from the US – my ma's from India and my dad's from England. Her parents are South African. Paisley's nice, and I think we would have been real friends if it wasn't school policy to only be friends with our A.P.s.

'Did you see My Vampire Alien Life last night?' she asks, her accent a more musical and wild version of my father's British one. She tugs on her necklace – a charm of a spaceship with vampire fangs.

'Not yet.' I smile at her.

'OMG you have to. It's the new it show about hot vampires that come from outer space and go on dates with high school gi—'

'Paisley.' Sister Anthony Christine flashes a warning look. 'Just because your A.P. isn't in class today, doesn't mean you can disturb Miss Patel.'

'Yes, Sister.' Paisley nods and leans against her hand.

It feels like hours go by before the bell finally rings. I glance at my notebook, where I've doodled the words 'Joan of Arc' and 'fighter' over and over in twisted writing. Sighing to myself, I pack my books and leave for the next class – Turning 101. As I walk past Sister Anthony Christine's desk she looks up at me, disapproval flashing in her eyes.

'Hey,' Marissa calls from the hall, giving me an excuse to rush past the Sister. 'I got Marilyn. Rita tried to claim her but I gave her the dirtiest stare.' Marissa hooks my elbow and chatters away as we walk toward second block. 'She caved so fast it was hilarious. You should've seen it.'

She stops to wait for my reply as a pair of A.P.s skip past us down the hall, heads together, giggling about their projects. I look up, trying to think of what Marissa said.

'Nice.' I force a smile, hoping it's the right answer.

'You're not even listening.' She watches the girls until they bound around a corner.

'I'm trying, it's just—'

'What?' She turns back, somehow managing to make one word a weapon.

My grip tightens on my books. 'After that guy this morning, then Mother Superior . . .' I sigh. 'My mind's someplace else today.'

She crosses her arms. 'It sucks being your A.P. sometimes.'

I'm too shocked to respond. Of the two of us, I thought I'd be the one saying that.

'I just wanted you to be happy for me,' she says. 'For my new purse from my mom, the hot guy I turned, for Marilyn. But all you care about is yourself.'

'I didn't mean—'

With a flick of her hair and a scowl, Marissa turns and stomps away, leaving me feeling like the worst A.P. ever.

I can't be a normal girl, and I suck at being a Hedoness. 

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