Page 86 of The Monster's Daughter
She’s sitting near the front now, third row, crammed between two students—one antennaed, one with molted feathers instead of hair. She’s wearing that stupid hood again. The one she only puts on when she wants to disappear. Her tail flicks beneath the bench in stuttered, nervous arcs.
I know that twitch. That itch behind the sternum when you’re about to walk into the center of judgment. I know it better than my own heartbeat.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees.
Bella’s across the aisle, hands folded tight in her lap. She’s dressed sharp today—dark blazer, boots, but softer around the edges. Her lips move with silent encouragement. I don’t think Natalie sees it.
The teacher at the podium claps once—too loud, too sharp. “Next up, we have Natalie Ardyn-Korr!”
There’s a pause. My chest tightens. Natalie doesn’t move.
The kid next to her nudges her gently. She jerks to life, blinking fast. Her legs wobble. She walks up the steps like the floor’s made of jelly. In her hands is the family tree holopad we helped her build last week. She stares down at it like it’s a detonator.
Then she exhales—slow. Deliberate. And reaches up.
She peels her hood back.
The light hits her scales. Opalescent. Pale rose-gold under her human skin. Her horns peek through soft curls. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t hide.
The room freezes.
I can hear it—the barely-there gasp of breath from some of the students. The hush as curiosity collides with confusion. One of the teachers near the side stiffens. Another student in the back murmurs something to their neighbor, then falls quiet.
Almost hesitant—someone claps.
Then another. And another.
The auditorium erupts into a patchy, uncertain applause. But it grows. Stronger. Real.
I look at Bella. She’s crying. Like full-on, blotchy cheek, chin-quivering crying. She doesn’t even try to wipe it away.
Natalie lifts her chin, shoulders back, and steps to the mic.
“My name’s Natalie,” she says. Her voice cracks on the first syllable, but she pushes on. “I’m seven. My family’s weird.”
A ripple of laughter. She grins.
“My mom was a soldier. My dad was a war criminal. Now he’s a dad. He’s right back there—” she points at me, all fearless. “He’s the big one. With the claws.”
I wave, claws and all. The kids giggle.
Natalie takes a breath, steadies herself. “I’ve got skin. And I’ve got scales. Some people think that makes me broken. But my mom says I’m made of two worlds. That makes me strong.”
She holds up the holopad. The tree flickers into a 3D display—Bella and me at the roots, her branching up from between us, surrounded by glowing snapshots: Gake teaching her to throw a punch, Sorena braiding her horns, the three of us asleep on the couch. It’s not a traditional family tree. It’s a collage of chosen people. Her people.
“We fight for each other,” she says. “That’s what matters.”
Silence. Not awkward—reverent.
And then the place erupts.
Real applause this time. Loud. Loud enough I feel it in my chest cavity.
Bella covers her mouth with both hands, laughing and crying at the same time.
I wipe my eyes with the back of one claw. “That’s my girl,” I mutter.
Afterward, she runs to me, skidding on the polished floor. She throws herself into my arms like a missile.
