by Melody Rose
Except for when we were at the farmer’s market this summer. That’s when Mom had pulled out that really weird rhyme about the old trick, and the friend, and the infection…
“Holy shit!” I cried. My hands flew to my mouth as if to stuff the curse back into my mouth. My eyes grew wide as the realization hit me.
But there was no way, was there? Could my mom have been singing about this infection? The Love Struck?
I put a hand over my eyes so I could dig back into the recesses of my memories. The tune came to my throat, and I hummed it out, hoping the words would come back to me. Suddenly, as though they were on a teleprompter, the lyrics appeared in my mind’s eye, bright red against the darkness behind my eyelids.
“Oh la de dah de dah de dah, la de dah de dah
Many adventures to come
For you, my daughter dear.
Like a gross infection
On campus will appear.
A distraction it will be.
Do not fret at all,
Though solve it you must
Or a friend will fall.
Oh la de dah de dah de dah, la de dah de dah
Focus will be taken
By a flash of silk and red.
Follow the steps learned
To stop the violent spread.
Love will stay true
Through the thick and thin.
An old trick gone rusty
Will be needed to win.
Oh la de dah de dah de dah, la de dah de dah”
I danced about the room as I sang out the lyrics. I repeated them once, twice as I tried to piece out their meaning.
Some voice in the back of my mind kept saying that this was absurd. There was no way my mom could have possibly known about the infection. But there it was in her song, clear as day. She mentioned campus specifically, and how I would need to stop it or else a friend would fall.
While that part bothered me the most out of all the lyrics, the third stanza was the most important at that moment. I had distracted the students with my red silk dress.
“You,” I growled at the fabric, which still hadn’t moved. I pointed a threatening finger at it. “You did this.”
It was the next two lines that I was the most upset with: Follow the steps learned / To stop the violent spread. I knew what it meant, even if I didn’t want to admit it to myself.
“Damn it,” I said to myself. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”
Out of nowhere, the door to the kitchen opened. I whirled around, expecting Oliver to be back with the customers. But to my utter surprise and horror, Ansel stood in the doorway, looking as though someone had just slapped him senseless.
I was about to ask him what was wrong when I realized the reason for his dumbfounded expression. I was standing in the middle of the kitchens. In bright red, strappy high heels. Nearly naked.
24
We stood there, staring at one another. Ansel’s eyes glued to mine, but I could see the strain in his face as he struggled not to look away. He fought the urge to let his eyes roam, let them take in every nearly naked part of me.
“Well,” he started, but his voice came out as a squeak. The soldier cleared his throat and started again. “When Oliver told me to head to the kitchens right away, this is certainly not what I was expecting.”
“This isn’t what it looks like,” I supplied, even though I knew my words wouldn’t help.
“It isn’t you in a dark, secluded part of campus, with your dress on the floor, waiting for me?” Ansel said with a tight smile. He maintained control over his gaze, keeping it solidly trained on my eyes, but I noticed a teardrop of sweat break out on his right temple.
“We have to start the performance early,” I explained, jumping to the most important part. “And if I put that dress back on, you might try to make out with me.”
“I might try to make out with you if you don’t put it back on,” Ansel joked.
“No, that thing is cursed,” I said with an accusing point at the dress.
“Your dress…” Ansel began, the skepticism already obvious in his voice, “is cursed?”
“That’s why I can’t put it on,” I said urgently. “I know it sounds crazy, but just trust me.”
“It does sound crazy, but I do trust you,” Ansel said, squeaking out the words through a tight throat.
I sighed and shifted my weight on one hip. “You could close your eyes, you know, so you don’t keep having to look at me like you’re passing a kidney stone.”
“See, I tried that already,” Ansel said with a half-smile, “but I did happen to get a glimpse of you, all of you, and when I close my eyes, it’s literally all I can see. So I thought it would be more respectful to just…”
“Stare?” I supplied, not sure about his logic.
“Yes, but not at you,” Ansel clarified. “If you know what I mean.”
“I don’t,” I answered honestly.
“Neither do I,” Ansel admitted with a defeated sigh. “Gods, you’re--”
“Don’t you dare say ravishing,” I snapped, taking a step forward defensively.
“I was going to say hot,” Ansel finished, a confused look coming over his face. “Ravishing sounds like I want to eat you, which, well, I mean…” Another cough burst from him to hide his awkwardness.
“Like I was saying,” I said, trying to change the subject. “We have to start the performance early to stop the fighting and make everyone feel like they are in love again.”
“The fighting’s stopped,” Ansel reported.
“Well, that’s good!” I exclaimed, a flare of hope surging through me that I might not have to do the performance after all, no matter what my mom's weird foreshadowing song might have said.
“But the dance is a dud,” Ansel continued, his face falling. “After all that, some students had to be taken to the med bay, and it kind of killed the mood. The Olympic Officials are thinking about calling it.”
“No, no, they can’t do that,” I cried out desperately. “We need to get Eros here to fix all this. We need to light that spark again.”
I paused and looked at Ansel for the first time, really looked at him since he entered. He wore a well-tailored tux, classic black with a thin tie. There was a red pocket square over his heart. I cocked my head as I recognized the color.
“Did you…” I pointed wordlessly at the handkerchief.
Ansel’s eyes followed my finger and looked down at himself. “Oh, this?” Ansel pulled out the square and slapped it in the air, expanding it to its full size. He wrapped it around his hands nervously. “Yeah, Violet may have told me what color your dress was. She helped me find this so I could match you.”
I scoffed at Violet’s meddling. But secretly, I appreciated her extra effort.
“That was very thoughtful of her,” I said softly.
“I thought so,” Ansel agreed with a toothless smile.
We looked at each other for a moment when I broke the spell by jerking when a shiver ran down my spine. Ansel caught the embarrassing movement and dashed forward, unbuttoning his jacket. Before I could resist, he wrapped the coat around my shoulders and tucked me in it. The full thing barely covered me, but it did the trick.
When his hand grazed my side briefly, an involuntary gasp escaped my lips. He was so close to me, and I was so very naked. I could see his sculpted muscles, pecs, and abs, through the crisp folds in his white shirt. I reached out and ran my hand along the length of his tie, twirling the end in my fingers.
Ansel seemed to take my gesture as permission to look me over. His eyes scanned me from head to two, taking particular interest in my legs, which made sense now that the other exciting parts of me were hidden. When his eyes met mine again, he let out a long, low whistle.
“Gods, Cheyenne,” Ansel whispered. “You’re something else.”
A smile curled at the ends of my lips, flattered by his compliment. I opened my mouth to say something to him, to continue the tryst, but the slam of the kitchen d
oor interrupted me.
Oliver barged in with a pile of fabric obstructing his view. He waddled in far enough and kicked the door shut behind him with his leg. The pile of clothes plopped down on the ground. Then, the drama teacher unsheathed the two rapiers, which he carried one of either side of himself. Unlike the costumes, he treated those with care and set each one on the kitchen counter, like newborn children.
The son of Dionysus huffed out labored breaths like he’d just run a marathon. He looked back and forth between the pair of us as we just stared at him in awe.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Oliver hollered, putting on his director’s voice. “Get changed! We’ve got a show to do.”
Gone was the compassionate mentor from before, and back was the dictatorial director who demanded the best out of us. Ansel and I hopped to attention, as was in our nature, and searched through the pile to find our designated costumes.
We split ourselves up, each changing on either side of the kitchens, backs to one another. Even though I did sneak a peek over my shoulder once or twice. I figured since he’d gotten to see the whole of me, it was only fair that I saw some of him. I quickly discovered that he was a boxers man and became distracted by the thick thighs and solid calves that appeared when he took off his dress pants.
Oliver coughed in my direction, loud enough to be obvious. I snarled at him but continued putting on piece after piece of my Renaissance outfit.
Considering my mother’s background at the Faire, she would have been proud of the ensemble Oliver provided. Despite its weight and clear dysfunction for fighting, it was a pretty piece. The corset left little to be desired, but I did like how small my waist looked in it. I would have to regulate my breathing throughout the performance if I wanted to stay conscious.
The final touch was soon added. I slipped my white feathered mask over my face and turned to see my distorted figure in the stainless steel. Oliver didn’t give me a second to examine anything, though. He looked me over, adjusting my skirts so that the hem stayed on the side and removing a stray piece of string from my sleeve. He did the same thing to Ansel when the soldier finished dressing.
Ansel’s outfit was the exact counterpart to mine. Where mine flowed with white, his was shrouded in darkness. He wore tight black pants and high boots that came over his ankle. His coat even had tails, which I found highly amusing and way too dapper for this kind of fight. However, this was Oliver’s vision, and it was supposed to bring out the sexual tension in everyone.
That was if Ansel and I could put on the performance of our lives and pull it off.
“It’s showtime,” Oliver said in his classic singsong voice. “Places, people, places!”
The drama teacher’s large hands slapped themselves on the small of our backs and pushed us out the door. Ansel tumbled out first with me quickly behind. We made our way to the quad, and a sorry sight met us there.
The music, while still playing, did nothing to bring people to the dance floor, which was completely empty. Students sat on the sidelines, nursing sore legs or lumps on their heads. Some of them hovered by the snack table and nibbled on sweets without really looking at what they were eating. No one was in our privacy pods. Even the chocolate fountain stopped flowing.
It was a pathetic sight indeed.
“We’re doomed,” I muttered, speaking the obvious thought aloud.
Oliver swatted at me gently with his handkerchief. “Don’t talk like that. We still have a chance. I’m going to handle the music. You two get to the center of the dance floor and begin after the fourth count of eight.”
“Wait, music?” I turned to ask Oliver, but the spritely teacher had already headed for the DJ’s stand by the cafeteria. I looked at Ansel desperately. “He never said anything about music!”
“He’s probably trying to add to the ambiance,” Ansel reasoned. “Gods know we need it.” My friend sighed, and I heard the defeat in his exhale. “I don’t know how we’re going to manage this, Cheyenne.”
Part of me agreed with him. I want to tell everyone to go to bed and rethink another way of getting Eros here. Start from square one. It seemed utterly hopeless.
But then I thought about what my mom had said. Yes, it had been in one of her silly songs, but something about the words was impossible to ignore. They were too true, too accurate. The silk and the red of my dress had distracted everyone while an infection raged on campus. If that part was true, then surely she had to be right about the steps.
I took Ansel’s hand in my own. “We can do this, Ansel,” I said, trying to infuse him with confidence as well as myself. “We have to do this. It’ll work.”
Ansel looked into my eyes, and I pushed the small belief I had left into my gaze. I watched as his own gaze softened from worry to determination. He squeezed my hand and led me forward, out onto the dance floor.
We positioned ourselves on opposite ends. This was how we were to begin, on different sides, only to come together in the end, me in his arms, united in death.
The deep bass of the party music stopped with a record scratch. I fought back a giggle at the cliche of it all. But then, after a moment, a violin played a single note.
The battle had begun.
Dueling with rapiers was a different style to the combat Ansel and I were used to. In fencing, the technique focused on bursts of tight movements instead of a constant onslaught of attacks. The sequences could be strung together into one long line of attack, but it was a chess game of movements.
It wasn’t until I was in the middle of this choreographed fight with Ansel did I recognize the beauty of Oliver’s show. It was well-timed and well-executed. Precise and measured. He knew the beats and drilled into us when to land them.
My feet shifted into the correct positions. I stayed on my toes during attacks and straightened my back during my thrusts. I felt the movements in my body and was able to ooze each emotion into every action. I fell into the story and felt possessed as the tale of Achilles and Penthesilea consumed us.
Achilles dived forward, the tip of his rapier aimed low as he struck towards Penthesilea’s knees. She swung her sword up in a round arch to block the blow with enough strength to push him away. The warrior continued his routine with a series of strikes, and the Amazon met each with precise timing.
Achilles whipped the blade behind his back and teased Penthesilea. She fell for it and aimed her own blade around the side to match his attack. But with a quickness that she thought only the gods possessed, he spun the blade back towards the front of him and threatened a slice along her abdomen.
Penthesilea doubled over with a cry but scurried away before her enemy could land another blow. She swiped desperately at his shins, a foolish attempt that he simply avoided by side-stepping out of the way.
First blood had been drawn.
Rage burned inside Penthesilea’s heart. She watched as a cocky smile spread across her enemy’s face, clearly mocking her. Unable to let such a slight go, she unleashed a series of furious combinations on him. She attacked near his right ear, and Achilles had to rush to block while maneuvering back. Penthesilea pushed Achilles across the battlefield with wide steps and lengthy lunges.
Music swelled around them, only amplifying the adrenaline running through her veins. It ebbed and flowed with their movements as if the Muses could predict their choices and matched the music perfectly.
Surprisingly, Achilles held his ground and forced Penthesilea to slide her blade down his so their hilts clanged together. He switched the duel to a contest of strength rather than technique. The two soldiers pushed against one another, muscle bulging, sweat dripping. A cross of metal divided the two, but as they gazed into one another’s eyes, both warriors recognized the determination and the strength of will that would not fade easily.
Penthesilea had enough of the standoff and wrapped two hands around the handle of her rapier. She shoved Achilles off with one heavy push, accompanied by a fierce grunt.
He aimed low again, but Penthe
silea knocked her sword into his, consequently throwing him off balance. Here, she saw her opening and slashed against his upper arm, finally evening out the score.
Achilles didn’t take kindly to finally being hit. His next few attacks surged with an energy and stamina that Penthesilea hadn’t seen before. She defended herself and matched him blow for blow, the clang of steel on steel ringing in her ears. However, she couldn’t find the opportunity to attack as he kept her so consistently on the defensive.
Achilles fell back and gave each a moment to breathe, but the break only lasted mere seconds before he attacked again. Fire was in his eyes, blood pounded in his ears.
For the first time, the Amazon was afraid.
She wasn’t prepared, as she was too focused on his eyes. The tip of his sword slammed against her wrist, forcing her to drop her blade. It skittered away from her, and before she could dive after it, Achilles held the blade to her throat.
A steady rhythm from the drums echoed all around them as Achilles held her in his hands. The tension crackled in the air even though it looked like the battle was almost over. All he had to do was take one step forward, slice her throat, and he would claim victory.
It was at that moment that the effect of the battle, the performance melted away. I could no longer be Penthesilea. I had to be Cheyenne, or the next part wouldn’t work.
Oliver added this next sequence late in the rehearsal process. I didn’t know how he knew about this part of my powers, but he claimed it would be a showstopper, a real twist for the audience if they thought Penthesilea had a fighting chance, only to have it stripped away from her seconds later.
The trick took more concentration on my part, as I had only ever done it once before, and that had been in the heat of battle. When I was actually on a battlefield and not a pretend one, the stakes were different, so I wasn’t sure it would work.
While Ansel circled me, the tip hovering millimeters away from my throat, I curled my hand into a fist. I reached out for the blade, remembering how the steel felt in my hand. I recalled the sensation of molding and bending the metal to my will while in the forge. The blade I crafted with my own hands, from my own mind, I beckoned it to me.
