by Angel Lawson
“Hi guys, did you like it?” Faye bounces up. “I had to change a phrase. The original word was an archaic form of knullar, which sort of means ‘had carnal knowledge of,’ implying that Mimir is a woman. It’s the only reference I know of that postulates that. The book you brought reminded me of it.” She smiles up at Julian. His face flushes red and he opens his mouth, but he shuts it again, and turns to glare at me. “What’s wrong?” she asks. “I thought you would like it.”
“The poem was great, Faye,” I tell her, staring him down. “My idiot brother just has issues with your appearance.”
Her face falls, and she touches her curls. “Oh,” she whispers. “Memory said you don’t like girls when they’re pretty.”
“No, no...” he stammers, “That’s not what I—I didn’t mean—Dammit!” He kicks at a chair, and it topples with a clatter.
I glance around the room and my eyes imprint to my brain like a quick-sketch artist: Danielle in a tight pink t-shirt, waving from a far table; the guy at the podium struggling to raise the microphone; Dr. Anders, frowning, a smudge of gravy on his shirt; Faye, tears welling in her eyes, turning to flee the gawking crowd; a shadow moving behind me, taller than my own.
“Why did you do that?” Julian hisses.
I shove the fallen chair out of the way with my foot, and take a step forward. I’ve never hit my brother before, but my hands are in fists and I’m eyeing his chin, a squarer version of my own. “You called me a slut.”
“If the shoe fits....”
I lunge at him, but before my knuckles hit his jaw, a pair of muscled arms pulls me backward.
15.
Extraction
“Get out of here,” I tell Julian, over Memory’s shoulder. “Go find Faye.”
He looks from his sister to me and over his shoulder at my nod to Dr. Anders, striding toward us with a scowl on his face. Julian turns, and shoves through the crowd.
“Come on.” I push Memory in the opposite direction, through the hot kitchen, toward the back door, and when she stops resisting I take her hand. Her skin is smooth and cool against my chapped palms, rubbed raw from washing dishes. The minute we get outside, away from the crowd, she pulls away.
“I almost decked him.” Her eyes are wide under all the makeup.
“I know.”
“I wanted to.” A tear threatens to spill onto her cheek, but it doesn’t.
“I know.”
She sighs and sits on one of the steps leading to the back kitchen door. “Thanks for stopping me.”
“No problem.” I shove my hands in my back pockets. The applause from the dweeby poet types inside bounces over the quad. The fight ebbs out of the shoulders of the girl next to me, like steam rising into the humid night. A firefly winks in the trees beyond.
A female voice asks Constance where I am, and I hear the cook’s gruff reply to the negative. I’ll owe her big time; I do not want to deal with Danielle right now. I look to see if Memory heard, but she’s staring at my clothes.
“What’s this?” She grabs the bottom of my apron.
“Trying to give me a makeover, too?”
“Shut up,” she says. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing a line of black across her cheek. Her voice shakes when she says, “I was just trying to help Faye find herself a little. Show her who she could be on stage. It’s a performance. Like Julian said, a costume. Why did he have to be such an asshole? What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing. I get it. It’s like your makeup and clothing are war paint and armor. Sometimes you need your gear before you can go into battle.”
“Exactly.” She shifts over so I can sit next to her. “Why can’t he see that?”
“You’re his sister. I don’t have one but I can imagine a guy wouldn’t really be keen on her showing quite as much... skin, as you do. You look like sex, Memory. Guys don’t want to think about their sisters having sex. Ever.”
“Ugh, why do you all have to think like this? Always so freaking perverted.” She punches me on the shoulder and I grab her fist. She doesn’t pull away this time. “And what does that have to do with Faye, anyway? She’s not his sister.”
“We can’t help it. We’re programmed to think about it. And Faye? No.” I laugh. “I don’t think he sees her like a sister, but I doubt he wants every other guy checking her out.”
“You’re all jerks,” she mutters, bottom lip pouting out. She hasn’t pulled her hand from mine yet.
“You know what you’re doing, with those legs of yours.” My voice comes out rough.
Her eyes are everywhere but meeting mine, and her mouth moves, parting a little. My chest feels heavy and strange. There’s a male voice in the kitchen now, demanding, and Constance answers, her voice short. She bangs a pot, rattles a lid. I can’t tell if it’s in irritation or warning.
“Memory?” Jeremy calls. Dammit. I can’t seem to shake this guy. She pulls away from me again, and I stare down at my empty hand. The door opens behind us. “There you are,” he says, standing over us. “I’ve been looking all over. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just needed to cool off,” she says. “Ethan dragged me out of there.”
“Good thing he did,” Jeremy says, frowning at her. She nods. There’s a little dimple in her right cheek, and all I can think is that this is the first time she’s smiled at me without sarcasm. “Thanks, man,” he says to me, as though he has a reason to thank me. As though Memory is his responsibility. I fight the flare of anger boiling in the pit of my stomach. “I couldn’t get through the crowd. I was sure she was going to end up in Dean Burnett’s office.”
“That would’ve sucked,” Memory says.
Awkwardness looms over the three of us. Two guys, one smokin’ hot girl. An image of dogs marking their territory comes to mind and I should find it funny, but instead it makes me even angrier. I wait, hoping Jeremy will go back inside or that he has something he needs to do, but he offers Memory his hand like some kind of chivalrous knight.
She ignores it. “I think I’m just going to go back to my room. Julian and I’ll work this out in the morning. We always do.”
“I’ll walk you back,” Jeremy states.
“I think I just need to be alone,” she says.
“Oh, sure,” he says, stepping back. His eyes shift to me. I’ve made no effort to move. I may not be marking my turf, but I’m sure as hell not walking away. “You still working?” he asks.
I stiffen for a moment, hearing the implied threat. He knows my secrets, or enough of them. “Yeah, I’m about done.” I turn to the girl. “You okay?”
“She’s fine,” Jeremy says.
Like a submissive dog with its tail between his legs, I go back through the screen door, leaving her out there with him. I walk through the kitchen, kicking a mop bucket on my way to the sink. The plastic container overturns and murky water spills across the floor.
“Jesus,” I bark, kicking the now-empty bucket against the wall. I kick it again, cracking the side. I’m about to pick it up and toss it across the room when a voice stops me.
“What is that language?” Constance has her hands on her hips. “No one takes the Lord’s name in vain in my kitchen.”
I grimace and pick up the bucket. “Sorry.”
“Clean up that mess. And do it without the attitude.”
I want to be pissed at her, too, but she has this little understanding smile on her face. “Yes ma’am.” It takes a while, but I mop up the mess and go back to my station. The rest of the kitchen help is gone, except for Constance, putting up the last of the food. A tall stack of plates and cups waits for me. I turn on the faucet and let the hot water fill the basin, steam rising into my face. I’m rinsing coffee mugs when she comes up next to me.
“A girl came by, when you were with the other one. Yellow hair. Pretty.”
“Danielle, yeah. I heard.” I stack the cups, don’t look up. “Thanks.”
“What’re you doing with a fast girl like that one outsi
de when you got a nice one asking for you?” Her hands are fisted on her hips.
The nice one doesn’t challenge me with every look, every word, every everything. And her kisses don’t hurt. “I was trying to keep her out of trouble.”
She eyes me. “I thought you were the one who liked trouble.”
“Sometimes.” I shrug. “She would’ve regretted it.”
“You like her.”
“Not like that.”
“Mmmhmm.”
“I don’t.” I turn at her silence. Constance levels me a look that would make a serial killer confess. I rub the back of my neck with my pickled fingers. “Fine. Yeah, okay. But she makes me crazy. And her brother is my roommate.”
“And the blonde girl? What are you doing with her, then?” At my shrug, the kitchen manager clicks her tongue at me. “She can do better than you.”
“That’s the truth.” I plunge my hands back into the water, fish out spoons from the bottom, set them on the drain board.
She hands me a stack of plates. “What are you studying here?”
“Journalism, I guess. I do photography. But, we’re in these groups, with a theme or whatever. The girl and her brother are in my group.”
“Miriam’s daughter goes here. Do you know her?”
“Miriam?” I’ve heard that name before. Seen it. With a damp hand I touch the tiny lump of silver in my pocket.
“My friend. She’s got a daughter. Sonja.”
“She’s the one who’s supposed to be in my group but never showed. The others were pissed.”
She swats me with a towel. “Language.”
“Jeez,” I grab my arm in mock pain. “Mad. They were angry to be down one. Memory—the girl, the dark haired one—she was a little upset. I think they were friends.”
“What do you mean about Sonja never showing up?”
“She didn’t come to camp. I don’t know where she is. Something better to do, I guess.”
Her lips press into a thin line. “Miriam never told me she wasn’t here.”
“Does she work here? I know she lives nearby—that’s what Memory said.” I don’t mention our B&E, yesterday.
Constance nods. “We’ve known each other since high school. My mama worked here at the college and Miriam and I worked summers. She and I had dreams of leaving town, but I was never serious. I like it here, small as it is. Miriam gets restless. She got herself an education, though. A real degree that makes a difference and a job that lets her travel. It’s good for her.” She rinses her dishcloth, wrings it out. “I had my babies early and my choices washed away like sand in the tide. We’re still close, though. Lunch every Saturday afternoon, unless she’s out of town. I need to water her plants—”
Constance’s eyes are distant, staring into the past. I wish I had my camera with me. “Miriam is different—Sonja, too. Special. Beautiful. I was the ugly duckling next to her. But I liked being friends with the most beautiful girl. Made me feel beautiful, too.” The dishes are clean and Constance begins wiping the counters dry. “She lives for that baby girl. Never lets her out of her sight. I can’t imagine her letting her go off alone and not telling me.”
“Too bad Sonja didn’t come,” I interrupt her muttering. “Memory said she’d like our group topic. It’s about crows.”
“Crows?”
“With Dr. Anders. He picked it out for us.”
She makes herself busy wiping and rewiping the stainless steel counter. “The birds—they’re folklore around here. Miriam loves the old crow stories. Ever since we were kids.”
I lean against the counter. “What kind of stories?”
“The old ones. I’m part Carolina Sioux. My grandmother was full-blooded. She used to tell the stories about the birds that turned into humans and wandered the earth. Those were our favorite.”
“We have a research book on that, about Odin’s crows, trapped on this side of his portal, unable to get back to him.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know about any Odin, but my grandmother always told us that the magical birds escaped death by shape-shifting into men, then walking the earth, carrying their magic until they had a child to pass it on to. And so it went through the generations.”
“What kind of magic?”
“I don’t like to talk about magic. I’m a Christian woman. We don’t believe in all that. Miriam, though, she did. She checked everyone she met to see if they were one of these crows in human form.”
“Did she ever find one?” I joke.
“If she did I don’t want to know about it.” She folds up her towel and places in on the edge of the sink. “You’re a good boy, Ethan. You keep that temper down and stay out of trouble. I’ll tell Mr. Burnett to let you out of kitchen duty.”
“Thanks, Constance.”
“Come see me though, and I’ll make you something to eat. You’re too skinny.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I feel my cheeks turn hot.
“Go, leave.”
I untie my apron and hang it on the hook. “Goodnight, ma’am.”
*
Under the lamplight, near the campus fountain, I pull the charm out of my pocket. I find myself reaching for the rune often, like it has a secret only I can figure out. The rock Faye slipped me that first day of group helped ease my tension, but this rune has strength to it, like I’m holding an arrow between my fingers. I like the heavy weight of it, even though it’s so small.
A group of students passes on their way back to the dorms so I follow them, splitting off as I get close to my own building. Whispers and laughter mingle with the night noises, and I stop before I intrude. Faye and Julian are at the bench closest to the dorm. She’s sitting, still in her get-up from the poetry reading, swinging her feet in the boots, and Julian stands next to her, rubbing the back of his neck, looking bewildered, but she’s smiling.
“Hi, Ethan,” Faye says, before I can back away in another direction, but she stands to leave. I grin at her. Gotta admit, Cherry did a good job. Faye looks hot in a Betty-Boop kind of way, all eyes and low cut dress. I look away as they say goodnight. Julian watches her walk to her dorm, raises his hand when she waves from the door.
“So she got past the slut comment?” I ask, angling left before he walks into a lamppost.
He nods, glassy-eyed. “It’s not what I meant.”
“I know dude, but, really?”
“So how pissed is Mems?” He shoves his fists into his pockets and glances at the girls’ dorm as we wait for a group of kids to walk by, and then up at the clock tower. Curfew is minutes away.
“Just leave it ‘til tomorrow,” I say. “She’ll be alright.”
“I’ve never spoken to her like that. And she was so mad. I’m almost afraid to go to sleep. One of us may not wake up.”
“She said she wanted to be alone. Buy her a coffee in the morning and carry her books and she’ll be fine.” I wasn’t sure if I believed it, but it was worth a shot to get him inside. “So you and Faye are okay?”
“Ah, yeah.” He looks everywhere but at me. “Did you hear her poem?”
“Not all of it.”
“It was a translation, from a stone, about Odin’s crows.”
“Like the stories in Anders’ book.”
“Yeah. And there’s something about that story in the book that’s very similar, but the source isn’t quoted.” He punches in the door code to the dorm.
“Is that a problem? Do you have to quote the source on common legends?”
“No, of course not. But if it’s not a known variant, like if there is a major particular detail that is very different, you could trace the source.”
“So what’s the point?” I take the stairs two at a time after him.
“Faye’s father unearthed that poem from a ship burial four years ago. This book, by Johann Vangarde? It was published nearly a hundred years before that.”
“So ask Anders about it.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a problem with that.”
�
�What?” Pulling information out of this kid is harder than getting extra bread in a chow line. And he dogged me for holding back info?
“I need to talk to my sister, first.” He’s reaching for his phone, but I stop him.
“You can talk to her tomorrow, man. Let it be for tonight.”
He sighs, nods, but doesn’t put the phone down.
“I may have gotten some local folklore on the crow stuff, tonight,” I say, and it works, he puts the cell in his pocket.
“You’ve been in the library?”
“Hell, no. I was talking to this woman who works here, in the kitchen. She knows Sonja’s mother.”
“She say where Sonja is?” When I shake my head, he asks, “What were you doing in the kitchen?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Maybe it is,” he challenges. “Maybe you need to stop keeping secrets. Why were you in the kitchen?”
I clench my teeth, breathe in. “I’ve been working off my fight with Marcus.”
“Doing dishes? That explains why your shoes are soaked every night when you come in. Okay, so you met this woman—”
“Constance. The cook. She’s part Native American.”
“Why didn’t you tell us you were punished for the fight?” he asks. I don’t answer, and he eventually asks, “So what did she say?”
“Tyrell, Erikssen, curfew.” Jeremy, my personal warden, calls from the dormitory steps. He needs to find a new project. One other than me.
“Come on, I’ll tell you inside,” I tell Julian, pushing past College Boy without meeting his eyes.
16.
Misbehavior
I give up on sleep sometime after 3 am, and shove the tangled sheets off my restless legs. My pillow is a mangled lump, smeared with yesterday’s mascara. Between crying over my idiot brother’s stupid mouth and doing my damnedest not to dream, I’ve slept maybe an hour.
The mirror isn’t kind this morning, either. I give it the finger and notice my nail is chipped. I find a file and my brightest red polish, Cardinal Rhapsody. If Julian wants to call me a slut, I’ll give him reason to.
