Odin's Murder

by Angel Lawson

“Be nice,” Julian says. I stall as he opens his laptop, hoping to see the look on his face when he actually Googles what “JFGI” means—because he will—but he’s waiting for me to leave, unmoving.

  I blow him a kiss. “Always.”

  *

  I cross the grassy area between the two buildings, breathing the fresh air. The girls’ dormitory sits across the courtyard from the boys’, a mirror of architecture, though not smell. I punch in the security code. The door opens with a click and I enter the first floor hallway of the dorm. Cheap perfume, augmented by the heavy heat, takes the place of sweaty shoes and teenage boy. My room is halfway down the hall, the fashion gods on my side, not assigning me to an upper floor like last year. The building is too old for an elevator, and climbing stairs in heels isn’t fun.

  The door to my room is ajar, some sort of Bollywood pop music oozing out the crack, and I groan under the sitar’s whine. I can deal with the clutter, I’ve lived with my brother for eighteen years, but the playlist is going to be an issue.

  “Hi,” I say, layering a polite smile on top of my lipstick. I glance over the room, noticing the changes since lunch: three more piles of polished stones and one with sea glass, and another tweedy sweater slung over the back of the chair. “Is Sonja here yet?”

  “I haven’t seen her.” Faye sits at her desk, sorting through some kind of crap littering the top. Feathers, maybe. “Have you?”

  “No.” I slip my shoes off and sit on the edge of my bed. The mattress is new, good springs and cushy with my foam pad from home, Mom’s nice sheets and two extra pillows. I hope Julian will be comfortable in his, and that his roommate doesn’t snore. “She said she would text me,” I say, checking my phone again.

  “You know her?”

  “From last year. We weren’t roommates, but SHP is a small program. By the time it’s over you’ll know everyone. She and I were going to do the registration thing together. Have you already been through the line?”

  Faye nods. “How many times have you been here?”

  “Just last summer. I came with my brother, Julian. You’ll meet him later. He’ll be the one with his nose shoved in a book.”

  She looks up and brushes her hair aside. She’s got pretty eyes, wide and dark. Her face is okay, too, for being so tiny and round. My fingers itch to get mascara on her.

  “Sonja’s probably just saying hello to people.” I check my phone and send her another quick text.

  “She’s friendly, then?”

  I nod. “She’s really nice. She’s got a pretty incredible reputation, though.”

  “How so?” Faye’s curiosity seems genuine.

  “Well, she’s smart. Like really smart. Early admission to Vassar, entering as a sophomore even without SHP credits, all of that. I heard she’s had a gallery showing in New York City for her paintings. And don’t even get me started on how freaking beautiful she is.” I pluck the bottle of black nail polish off my dresser. Licorice Lingerie, it’s called. “But then there are these rumors about her...”

  Faye drops whatever she has in her hands (they clatter over the desk—not feathers then) and leans forward. “What kind of rumors?”

  We’re going to get along fine.

  “The typical ones.” I shake the nail polish bottle, the rattle ball inside matching the music’s beat. “Like she and Roger Baker were caught half-naked behind the Science lab, which I believe, and also that her hair is a weave—it’s not, that’s pure jealousy—but there is another one that maybe she isn’t really gifted, like not enough to be at this program. I heard from Tammy Lawrence, who said that Megan Chambers heard Roger say that her family gave some of their land rights to the school when it was built, and some founding by-law allows descendants to go to any program they want.”

  “Really?”

  “I know. It’s just stupid, for a ton of reasons. I mean, she’s black, or half, anyway. And this college is over two hundred years old. Even if her ancestors did own land here, which was kind of rare at the time, would their kids have been allowed to go to a white school?”

  “This building isn’t that old,” she protests.

  “‘The dorms were built in 1928,’” I quote. “‘The institute was founded by Moravian settlers in 1766 when Bishop August Gottlieb Spangenberg expanded his parish from Pennsylvania.’” The rest of the memory fades out of focus.

  “Are you into history, then?”

  “Oh, no. It’s on the plaque. On the statue outside.” I wave my drying fingertips toward the window. “I have an eidetic memory.”

  “You remember everything you read?”

  “I can picture everything I’ve seen. Everyone calls it photographic recall, but that’s not really the right term.”

  “Wow,” Faye says. “How far back can you remember?”

  I smile. I get asked that a lot. “Most everything is a blur until I was a year old or so. I remember Mom’s face, my brother bawling, and a baby spoon with mushy goop.”

  “That’s neat.”

  “It’s as much a curse as a gift, trust me. You don’t want to remember every day of being thirteen.”

  She shudders.

  “So why are you here?” I ask. “What makes you an exceptional?” I roll my eyes at the word the camp emphasizes in their pamphlets and website pages.

  She blushes and ducks her head. “I don’t know if it’s that special—”

  “Of course it is, that’s why you were invited here,” I assure her.

  “Well, I’m good with pictographs and symbols. I decipher cuneiform and do a lot of rune translation.”

  “Wow. And you’re starting college next year? As a freshman?”

  “Well, technically I’ll be starting as a second year at Gothenburg. I’ve done some early coursework. At least, for the classes that dad wrote the textbooks for.” She wrinkles her nose. “Usually toddlers have the alphabet on their daycare walls. I had hieroglyphics.”

  I blink, remembering the name card taped to the door. Faye Jarvi. “Your father is Jonathan Jarvi. The archaeologist.”

  “Yarvi,” she corrects my pronunciation. “How did you—”

  “I saw his article in National Geographic, about the paintings they found in Afghanistan. You’re the little girl. In that one picture where they’re rebuilding the giant statues.” Her mouth is still the same, a little cupid’s bow with quirked up corners.

  “The Bamiyan caves,” she says, returning to her objects. “I was four.” She drops several stones into a tiny mesh bag, and knots the string around the top.

  I do some quick math in my head. She has to be seventeen, though she looks thirteen at most. I stare at the awful sweater on her chair, wondering if it had sentimental value. “I guess I’ll go take a shower and change for dinner. Don’t forget the meeting at eight.”

  “You’re changing? The student advisor said dinner was casual.”

  She looks panicked. She’s wearing some mess of a skirt and slouchy tights and a baggy tunic, too hot for early June weather, this far south. Her closet holds the same, wool and heavy knits.

  I stand, rummaging in my own closet for my robe and my basket of toiletries. “Nothing in life is ever casual.”

  “No, I suppose not.” She murmurs something under her breath, not English. She’s poking at piles of little plant parts, dried heads of flowers, and seed pods. I wonder if any of them are poisonous, but I keep my mouth closed.

  3.

  Expectations

  The student lounge of the English department smells like cheese puffs and fermented cola, with a layer of hair product on top. It’s a huge step up from the sweat and piss stench of the rec room at the state facility, so I’m not complaining. I look in the corners for the closed circuit cameras, feeling vulnerable when I don’t see them.

  There are girls everywhere. Short hair, long hair, short shorts, long skirts, glasses, no glasses, thick girls, thin girls, maybe two to every single guy. Most are joking with each other, quick eye contact and slight smiles when I edge past,
no fear. A few whispers, recognition of the fight this afternoon. I’m conscious of the bruise on my lip. The redheaded guy sits in the corner, cronies still at his side. I ignore him.

  Zoe, our student advisor, stands in the middle of the room, surrounded by a circle of second-hand couches and chairs, telling us about herself and what to expect over the next month. She’s enthusiastic, a three year program student come back for more. She’s heavy, but in a nice curvy way, and has a little brown tribal tattoo behind her ear.

  “Welcome to the Scholastic Honors Program! I can already tell that this is going to be a great group!” She smiles at a group of girls stuffed together on a couch.

  They giggle in reply, as though they’ve shared some inside joke in the four hours that we’ve been here. Girls. They group up faster than neighborhood gangs in a cell block.

  “New folks, this is your focus core, Creative Writing and Journalism. We break into project groups tomorrow. Is anyone where they shouldn’t be?”

  Two guys in thick glasses, laptop bags over their shoulders, raise hands like puppets on strings.

  “Technology and Hard Science is up a floor,” Zoe tells them, and as they leave she points out another building to a tiny girl with her hair in a bun and feet going odd directions. “Performing Arts is in the new brick building, there.” She turns back to us. “Time for the serious stuff. You will go to class, eat, sleep and study with the people in this room. You each may have your talents, but you are all equals. Every one of you has been selected for the program due to your abilities and recommendations to the faculty.”

  I fight back a cough—or a choke—neither of those are how I ended up in this program. I scan the faces, wondering if anyone else is a discipline case with a well-connected social worker.

  “Water?” Julian asks, offering me a bottle.

  “No, thanks,” I say, clearing my throat again.

  Zoe glances at me and smirks at Julian. “This means that all of you have an equal chance at winning the Honors Scholarship. There is no preferential treatment given to returning students, and no special consideration for previous runner-ups.” My roommate glares at her, swigs from the bottle he’s just offered me. She smiles at him and continues. “Now, you’ve been given your daily schedule, starting tomorrow. It includes meal times, classes, free time and group study. Our larger group will be broken into smaller teams, primarily for class projects, but these folks will be your support system during your time here. By the end of your four weeks, your team will feel like family members.”

  “Did you write that down?” Memory whispers to Julian. “Hopefully, this means I can find a new brother or sister. Maybe one that doesn’t steal my hair gel.”

  I laugh, glancing at Julian’s hair. I’d watched him tug at it for ten minutes before we left for dinner. I rub my naked scalp. One good thing about lock-up is free haircuts. Memory holds my glance for one brief, steady second, before refocusing on the student assistant, who is now describing the dining room, library and computer lab.

  Last time I saw her, she was lying in my bed. With her eyes off me, face in profile, I can check her out, and I take a long minute doing so. I haven’t seen a lot of girls recently, not this close up. She’s fantastic, and she knows it. She’s playing some kind of game, dolled up in a quasi-rockabilly pinup thing, shirt so tight I can see the pattern of lace underneath, hair up, showing off her white neck, long and nice, and legs that go on forever. I don’t know what the rules are, but she’s winning, hands down. I can’t keep my eyes off of her and neither can anyone else, male or female.

  “Don’t,” Julian says, so low only I can hear him.

  I play dumb. “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t judge that book by its cover. You want nothing to do with it, I promise you.” He hunches back over his notes, all ears as Zoe starts listing the ground rules for behavior.

  “Dormitory doors lock shut after midnight. If you break curfew, security will let you in, but you’ll have four hours with the janitorial staff for the favor. No boys in the girls’ rooms. This program is sponsored by the college, which does maintain a strict conservative campus. Ladies, you are welcome to have male visitors in the lounge only. Girls can go into the boys’ rooms, but only until 10pm.”

  “That’s worse than last year,” Memory says. Several other girls nod in agreement. “And it’s completely sexist.”

  “Welcome to the Bible Belt. I don’t make the rules. Next: You may not smoke—even if you are over eighteen—drink or use drugs while you’re here. If you are found with alcohol or illegal substances, you’ll be sent home.

  “Finally, to keep the integrity of the program consistent, and curtail outside distractions, you may not leave campus unless it is a designated trip with the program.” Zoe looks around the room. “Did you hear that? I’m going to say it again. You may not leave school grounds unless you are with a chaperoned group and a teacher. This campus is on private grounds. I’m sure you saw the gates when you arrived. Should you leave for any reason, security will not let you back onto campus without direct escort by the dean himself.”

  She tells us the time and reminds us of the curfew. I stand, and stretch. Memory is talking to some girl half her size, with short brown hair and piles of clothes that make me curious about the body hiding beneath.

  “You know what they say SHP really stands for, right?” Memory asks.

  The other girl frowns, dark eyes huge in a little face. “No.”

  “Sent Home Pregnant.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because half the kids here lose their virginity before they go home, and they’re totally unprepared. No protection. They come here for college credit and leave with a new definition of the creative process.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” the girl asks. She touches a pendant between her collarbones, like a delinquent’s mother stroking a cross, but the necklace is a naked woman, straddling the man on the moon, curved crescent horn between her legs like—

  “I wish I were.” Memory turns and winks at me. “Goodnight.”

  I close my teeth with a click. Julian and I watch them leave.

  Girls.

  *

  “I’ve taken the liberty to alter our part of the program a little this summer,” Dr. Anders announces, scratching his chin under the blond beard. I wonder if he ever found his wallet. “The class is still under the heading of Creative and Comparative Arts of course, and the results will still be published with the college’s backing, but I’m assigning each sub-group a specific topic. Within this study I want each of you to bring your area of interest and talent to the table.”

  All through orientation the teachers and counselors have stressed the word talent. I wonder if a good right-hook-left-uppercut applies. The rest of the students are clean scrubbed, glowing with privilege and upper education. Their talents involve words and wit, not fists.

  “So all of our assignments will be based on this topic? Is there a final project? A research paper?” Julian asks. “Like last year?”

  “Yes, but more structured. Your group will need to form a direction of study, collect data on the subject matter and then complete a series of assignments that will lead up to a multi-level project, highlighting each of your skills,” He leans back on his desk, and a stack of papers spills off the edge, scattering across the floor. This guy is a disaster. “Each group will have use of an office in this building to meet, collect data, and create your final projects. Now, to keep everything fair, I’ve already assigned your group partners.”

  The class twitches, everyone glancing around the room, guessing to see who they’ve been stuck with. I do too, caught up in the mass tension. There is no way I’m going to be able to get along with any of these kids, all valedictorians and yearbook editors, and me with my GED, majoring in six months off my sentence if I passed.

  Before I can speak, Julian’s hand shoots up again. A coal-black head of long hair shakes in his direction, but he ignores her. “How much total participa
tion will be weighed in the final product? I’m not comfortable working in a group setting if everyone doesn’t uphold their end of the work. Last year I was—”

  “I assure you, Mr. Erikssen, there will be no problems. I will be meeting with everyone, both individually and as a group, and you all will have a chance to discuss your participation. Besides. This is a program for exceptional students, remember? No slackers here,” he says. He laughs and straightens his shirt. “Well, except me, of course.”

  “But—”

  “I work better alone,” I announce. Heads swivel to the back of the room, but I only look at the teacher.

  “A group setting is part of this program, Mr. Tyrell, I’m quite sure you’re aware of this.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Does everyone in this place have access to my record? I’d seen Burnett lock my file away, but this guy is eyeing me like a judge.

  Dr. Anders shakes his head, gives me a lame attempt at a smile. “The groups are mandatory. In most academic and professional situations, a collective sharing of ideas and skills yields more creative and successful results than a singular approach. For instance, the Manhattan think-tank project of World War II, the Parisian expatriate writers of the early 1900’s, the La Mama Experimental Theatre Club, even the grunge scene of Seattle—”

  Who is this guy? I look around at the others, but they are enthralled by his babbling. His eyes are still on me though, and I rise to the challenge of the condescending smirk on his face.

  I stand up, my chair scraping against the floor. “Look, I’d really rather—”

  “Rather what, Mr. Tyrell? Go back home?” His easygoing banter from before is gone, and the air snaps between us as the age-old ego battle of student and teacher raises its ugly head. I wonder how far I can push him, but I suspect his threat isn’t empty. I grab my chair and drag it on the ground a few noisy inches, and sit down under the weight of his stare. He moves to the other side of the desk. “I thought not.”

  Asshole.

  While a couple more kids ask questions, all eager to get started, I try to calm down. Anders is right, and my caseworker had warned me this place focused on cooperative learning or some crap. My fault for not paying attention to the fine print. Not that I have any alternative.