The scholomance gave him shop class on Monday morning. He, very reasonably, requested shop on Wednesday instead, because he doesn't want to get eaten.
Now he has alch lab on Monday morning. And a literature course that he's pretty sure is going to put him in at least two languages worth of trouble. And Bible class.
He shovels faux scrambled eggs mechanically into his mouth and contemplates his own mortality.
"Hi. Can I -- sit with you?"
An enclave kid, whose tray contains three bowls full of strawberry compote that was probably meant for topping pancakes.
"—oh. Yeah, sure."
He can't help but be a little sympathetic to...whatever's going on there.
"Thanks."
He unloads the bowls onto the table, and pokes one suspiciously with his spoon, even though he's already checked it. Better safe than sorry.
"I'm Camillo. Artifice track."
"Z. Ditto. —uh, probably, anyway."
"You already registered for classes! You can't change your mind now, it'll throw off your whole four-year plan!"
"...kinda early for that," he says, instead of you have a four year plan?
"How is it early? You've already committed to twenty-five percent of your entire time here!"
"...I don't know, shit happens? You're totally sure you're not gonna turn out fantastic at Welsh incantations or something?"
"Welsh is full of rare phonemes and has a vigesimal counting system. I'm not learning Welsh unless, God forbid, the Scholomance drags me into it kicking and screaming."
"Avoid Welsh. Good to know."
He inspects a chunk of potato for potential regrettability.
"--anyway. Sorry. Um. ... I like your tattoos?"
That seems like the correct compliment.
"Thanks. Gotta remember this stuff somehow."
He glances down at the neat rows of alchemical symbols lined up on his right forearm. They're all clearly stick-and-poke, but the lines are relatively clean, and they're done with a steady hand. Some of the bottom rows show evidence of practice.
"Did you do them yourself?"
"Yeah. It's not as hard as people say it is, honestly."
"Could I trade you something to do one for me?"
—oh this all makes sense now.
"—sure, I could give it a shot. What of?"
"My room number."
He's a little pink.
...that's kinda cute.
"I can do that. What're you offering?"
"Um -- I've got first aid stuff, candy, random enchanted ... things ..."
And he'd feel incredibly guilty about trading any of them, after his family went to so much loving effort to put together his kit, but he needs to get over that, because this is how things work in here.
"...I dunno, anything in particular you could use?"
"...I can come by after class with the ink and stuff and look at what you've got, if that's cool."
"That would be great -- do you have friends to walk with? You shouldn't go places alone."
Oh, god, that's a loaded question.
"...might not be that far — where's your room?"
"Um -- 589. B. If it's, uh, inconvenient, I can ... bring someone and walk over and get you?" Haozinne is terrifying but Jake is fine, Jake would probably walk over with him.
He does a little mental mapping.
"...yeah, uh, probably fine straight out of class but I wouldn't mind a walk back if you've got people. I'm 50A."
"Yeah, no problem. All else fails, I can always get Mal."
"...wait, who?"
"Oh, uh -- Tejano indie kid. I know."
"...man, that takes balls. Gotta respect that."
"It's not even his full name! He goes by that voluntarily!"
"Yeah? What's his full name?"
"...I don't actually remember it was right before induction and I was super nervous."
"Guess the other one's got 'memorable' going for it."
"So does 'Z'."
“Got that at least going for me.”