by Max Barry
She went over and put her hands on his shoulders. He tensed. “Relax. It’s a massage. Therapeutic.” She kneaded his muscles until they loosened. When she moved up his neck, he tightened again. “Stop fighting it! I’m helping.”
He relaxed. She slid her fingers into his hair. She rubbed his neck with her thumbs. After a while, he put down his pen. It had been a while since he’d turned a page. She ran her fingernails lightly down his back. “Take off your shirt, so I can do your back.”
He didn’t respond. She bit her lip. That had been kind of obvious.
“You can’t focus if you’re tense and distracted. You can’t pretend you’re not made of biology.” She pressed her thumbs into his shoulders. “You have a deficiency need, you satisfy it. That’s Maslow. You can’t move on to higher needs until you satisfy the base ones.”
He looked up at her.
She said, “I’d like to have sex with you, if you want.”
His eyes were unreadable. “Okay.”
She smiled, but he didn’t, so she stopped that. He rose from the chair. He looked like he was concentrating on a puzzle. She unbuttoned his shirt. Her fingers shook and he must have noticed. She felt his hands on her waist and she pulled open his shirt and his chest was smooth and hairless and smelled of him in a way that was powerful. She kissed his skin. She craned her neck to reach his lips but he turned his face away. So there was to be no kissing. He removed her jacket. She backed onto the bed and he climbed on top of her. His face betrayed nothing. He was breathing more quickly; that was all. She tried to be like him, not react as his hand moved up her stomach, but a sound came out of her before she could stop it. His eyes flicked at her.
“I’m okay.” She pulled him closer. She felt his erection against her and had a moment of panic. She wasn’t a virgin but it had been a long time and everything was different. He continued to press. Her body fizzed with tiny stars and she remembered how this went. She reached down and touched him through his pants and made him grunt. She liked that. She squeezed again.
His hand sought admission to her skirt. She lifted her butt, unzipped, and pushed the whole mess of fabric down. His fingers pushed against her and she gave a little gasp. He hesitated. She wanted to grab his hand and force him onto her. She tugged him out of his pants. He buried his face in her shoulder. His fingers found her. It was an awkward angle; she could only squeeze. But the pressure was amazing. Vibration began in her legs. Her teeth chattered. She almost laughed, but that would be no good; she couldn’t do that. He groaned, a low warning, but she ignored it and then he jetted through her fingers. He did it silently. She felt triumphant. The movement of his fingers intensified, and she felt herself going out with the tide of her victory. Her legs kicked once.
She lay still. He panted into her hair. She could smell their sweat. After a minute, he raised his head. She could see the endorphins in his pupils. He rolled away, onto his side. She used a corner of the sheet to clean herself and lay back beside him. He didn’t speak. She watched the ceiling until his breathing eased into a sleep rhythm, about twenty or thirty minutes, and then, when it was safe, she put her arm around him.
• • •
She went to class the next day and no one knew. It was a secret treasure. She sat in the back row and thought: I had sex with Jeremy Lattern.
It was Subvisual Methods, a class she liked, but her mind wandered. At odd times, she seemed to catch his smell. Maybe some of him was still on her. She liked that idea.
A thought popped into her head: He’s a thirteen. She blinked. She didn’t know where that had come from. She had considered Jeremy’s segment before and decided he was probably a ninety-four. His behavior matched up almost perfectly; she’d watched him pretty carefully. But now she felt differently. Ninety-four was a cover. He was a thirteen.
• • •
After classes, she decided to fetch him a slushie. He would be studying all afternoon and have no time for her; she knew that. She wouldn’t bother him and wouldn’t expect anything to be different. But she would fetch him a slushie.
On the way out, she noticed Eliot’s door was open. She hesitated. She hadn’t seen him for months, had been looking forward to his next visit, but right now she should probably avoid him. Because maybe Eliot could tell. But then he came out of his office and it was too late. “Hey!” she said. “Busy? You look busy.”
“Yes. Leaving. But you can walk with me.”
“Okay.” She fell into step. They walked in silence. She transitioned from being worried that Eliot would figure it out to disappointed that he hadn’t. “How’s life?”
“How’s life?”
“Yes.”
“Life’s good.”
“Good.” They passed a group of boys loitering with intent, who straightened and shifted. Eliot was well respected here. It was widely believed that he taught so rarely because he was usually required to be away doing mysterious and badass things. “I was thinking about my name. My poet name, I mean, when I graduate. I decided I want to be Emily Dickinson.”
“You can’t be Dickinson.”
“I could keep my first name. Also, awesome little poems about death. She’s literally the only poet I don’t hate.”
“We already have an Emily Dickinson.”
“Aw.”
“Also, graduates aren’t given the names of world-renowned poets,” said Eliot. “You’ll be someone you’ve never heard of.”
“Is there a list I can choose from?”
“No.”
“You guys are hard-asses.” They reached the front door and descended the steps. “Well, see you round.”
He paused. “You’re happier.”
“What?”
“You seem happy.”
She shrugged. “It’s a beautiful day, Eliot, what do you want me to say?” He didn’t answer. “You should get out more,” she said. She walked away. He was going to call her back; she could feel it. He would know everything. But he didn’t, and her tension eased, and by the time she reached the gate, she was humming.
• • •
She purchased two slushies and almost got hit by a car running across the road while carrying them back. She balanced them in the crook of her arm and knocked on Jeremy’s door. When he called out, she pushed the door open with her hip. “Refreshment!”
He looked at the slushies. He wasn’t as happy as she’d hoped.
“Thank you, Emily,” she said.
“Thanks.”
She deposited the slushie on his desk and leaned her butt against the wall. She had intended to give him the drink and go, but now she didn’t want to. “How’s the study going?”
“Slowly.”
She nodded. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Thanks.”
“Unless you want a study break.” She raised her eyebrows.
“That can’t happen again.”
“What can’t happen?”
“You know what.” His voice dropped. “We shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have.”
“Well, I forgive you.” She tried to keep it light, but her heart was sinking through her stomach. She had seen this coming, hadn’t she? She’d practically provoked it. But now she felt sick.
“If they knew, I’d be expelled.”
“We both would.”
“Yes, but . . .” He tapped the books lightly with his fingers. “This is my final exam. I can’t fuck this up.”
She stared at him.
“You understand, right? I have to do this. I’m sorry.”
“Are you,” she said.
“I think you’re a great person—”
She threw her slushie. It exploded on his head, red juice and ice chips flying everywhere, splashing his books and papers. He sat frozen, dripping. She slammed the door on the way out.
• • •
She had soccer and was in no mood for it. She stood rooted in the defensive half of the field and didn’t chase. Sashona, on the opposing team, concentrated her attac
ks on Emily’s wing to capitalize on her apathy. Once she ran past while Emily just stood there, and after she scored, she ruffled Emily’s hair.
The next time Sashona pounded toward her, the ball bobbling along in front of her, Emily decided to put Sashona on the ground. She moved to intercept and Sashona’s face hardened in a way that told Emily to expect the shoulders. A word bubbled to Emily’s lips, one of the attention words she had discovered in Sashona’s room. Kassonin. That was the word. It would be enough to kick Sashona in the brain just long enough for Emily to knock her flat, and she would use it because she had not used it on Jeremy, even though she could have, because he was, like Sashona, a thirteen. Kassonin, bitch. Her head was full of blood. Eat MY shoulders.
They collided. By the time Emily got up, Sashona was jogging back to her half, doing the fist pump. She had scored while Emily was on her ass. “Fuuuck,” Emily said, and Sashona laughed.
• • •
She had to get away for a while, so instead of changing she headed for the school gate. She was almost there when she heard footsteps. Jeremy was running after her. “Em! Wait!” She didn’t want to, but some small, stupid part of her thought, Maybe he changed his mind. He caught her, breathing fast. He’d showered, put on a fresh shirt. His cheeks were pink. “Let’s not end things this way.”
“What?”
“We’ve been friends for two years. I don’t—”
“Gah,” she said, as soon as she heard the word friends. She walked.
He trotted beside her. “You can’t tell anyone.” She didn’t answer. “They will expel you. They’ve done it before. They’ll send you fucking home.”
“Maybe you made me do it,” she said. “Maybe you took advantage of me, with your words.”
He stopped. When she reached the gate, he yelled, “How dare you!” She flinched, because there was fury in his voice. She kept walking. She wasn’t going to accuse him of anything, couldn’t he tell that? She just wanted him to feel something. “Come back! Come back here!” The traffic was flowing but she threaded through it to the other side. A van honked. She turned to see Jeremy stranded outside the gates, his face red. “You say nothing!”
“Make me.”
He stepped onto the road. She was reminded of Benny in San Francisco: how he’d been funny and kind until she pushed him too far. “Stop,” she said. Jeremy knew her. He did know her segment. He was about to graduate and he could make her do whatever he wanted. “I’m sorry! I won’t tell!” He was halfway across, paused between lanes, his face thick with anger. He waited for a car, threw a glance to his right, and ran at her. She screamed, “Kassonin!”
His head jerked. He stopped. For a moment he was a child. Then he came back. She saw shock in his eyes and outrage and fear. She was transfixed by his face. Then a car swept him away. She shrieked and couldn’t hear herself over the tires.
• • •
She wanted to go to the hospital but they wouldn’t let her. She had to stay in the sitting room, the same place Charlotte had interviewed her when she’d first arrived, curled up in the same armchair.
Finally, Eliot came in, wearing a long coat. She opened her mouth to ask about Jeremy but could see the answer on his face. She covered her face with her hands and cried.
“Tell me what happened.”
She shook her head, not looking up. He crossed the rug and lifted her chin. “No,” she said, and tried to cover her ears. He pulled away her hands and spoke and her mind went away. When she returned to herself, he was sitting in the chair across the rug, his eyes dark. She closed her mouth and swallowed. Her throat felt sore.
“Your time here is over,” he said.
“Please don’t send me away. Please.”
He stood. She began to cry again, but there was no pity in his eyes. He left.
KILLED STUDENT “RAN INTO TRAFFIC”
Police say the student who was struck and killed by a vehicle on Montebury Avenue on Friday was attempting to cross the busy road away from lights or crossings.
The driver, a 39-year-old woman from Orange, was moving at or near the speed limit, police say.
The incident is likely to reignite calls for lights or a crossing, as it has been the scene of several accidents. The area was again targeted for upgrade in the Department of Transportation’s Pedestrian Safety Master Plan, but works were placed on hold last year due to local opposition.
The student is believed to have been in his final year at an exclusive Williamsburg school. His name and details have not been released.
[II]
Odysseus, who had first avoided identifying himself, and then given a false, impossible appellation, now supplies his real name in full: he is Odysseus, sacker of cities, son of Laertes, who lives in Ithaca. Odysseus’ mention of his true name acts as a flash of illumination for the blind giant, who now comprehends an earlier prediction concerning his loss of sight. The enlightened Cyclops does not respond with stones this time, but with the force of words. Polyphemus is able, at long last, to bend language to his needs, and he carefully repeats, word for word, Odysseus’ name, epithet, patronym and country of origin, when he prays to his father Poseidon to punish him.
—DEBORAH LEVINE GERA, Ancient Greek Ideas on Speech, Language, and Civilization
Posted: 22 minutes ago See conversation
Well what happened is two weeks ago I went for a job interview and they turned around a laptop to face me and said, “Is this you?” And it was all this stuff I posted YEARS ago, pics of me passed out, drunk, long teenage rants about stupid shit, you know
So needless to say, no job
So before THIS interview I delete EVERYTHING, delete Facebook, delete Twitter, anything I can find. I go in and the first thing they ask is do I have Facebook. I say no. They say how about a college page, LinkedIn, anything. I say no. They look at each other and say well their company likes to “feel comfortable” with their new hires’ background but I don’t seem to have any. They’re not saying I’ve done anything wrong but when someone has no Facebook, it looks like they have something to hide
Seriously, you can’t win
[ONE]
The airplane climbed and Wil waited for the chopper to shoot at them, or crash into them, or explode for no reason, who knew. But minutes passed with nothing but the drone of the engines and the night spreading out ahead. “Are we clear?” he asked Tom, or T. S. Eliot, or whoever he was, and Eliot said nothing, but Wil thought they were. Exhaustion dumped into him all at once: One minute he was in fear for his life, the next he wanted to sleep. “I’m going to sit down, okay?” He made his way down the plane. He reached seats and collapsed into one. He should buckle up. But the buckles were so far away.
He opened his eyes to daylight. The world bumped and shook. He clutched at the armrests, his head full of half-remembered dreams. A girl with bad words. A kangaroo. The engines were wailing. Beyond the round windows he saw snow and wooden fence posts and these seemed very close and moving too fast. The note of the engines changed and they began to shed speed. The world slowed and stopped. Eliot emerged from the cockpit, flipped open a panel on the fuselage, and began to crank the door.
“Where are we?”
Eliot kept cranking. The door became a series of steps and he trotted down them.
Wil got to his feet. He was not thrilled about heading out into the snow again, but he did it. Eliot stood at the side of the road, urinating. Wil looked around. The blacktop stretched out as far as he could see. Power lines marched alongside. There was nothing else.
“Nice landing,” Wil said. He got nothing from Eliot but a steady stream of urine. “Where are we?”
Eliot zipped and walked a short distance down the road. Wil went after him. The plane was very modern, he noticed, sleek and clean with upturned wings. It was surprisingly large, too, although maybe that was because it was on a road, where it did not belong.
He stopped beside Eliot. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. His breath fogged. “What now?”
“Next car that comes along, I’m catching a ride. Then I’m going to get some breakfast. Bacon, ideally. Lots of bacon.”
Wil shook snow from his boots. “Okay.”
“That’s me, though. You can do whatever you like.”
Wil squinted. “Say what?”
“We’re done. This is it. You go your way, I go mine.”
“What?”
“It’s over.”
“But the poets. Woolf . . . does she still want to kill me?”
“Oh, yes.”
“So we have to hide. Go to more of your friends.”
“There are no more friends.”
Wil stared. “No?”
“No.”
“You mean your entire, what, resistance or whatever, got wiped out yesterday? Everyone?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have a cell in another city or—”
“No.”
“Jesus.” Wil exhaled. “Then we need to stick together.”
“Hmm,” Eliot said.
“She’s coming after you, too, right? Woolf wants you dead.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“So from your point of view, I’m a guy who can keep you alive. But from my point of view, you’re a useless sack of shit. You don’t help me at all.”
“You said I was important! You have to find out why I’m immune! To the words!”
“That was before,” Eliot said. “Circumstances changed.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Wil. “Wherever you’re going, I’m coming.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You can’t stop me. Your word voodoo, it doesn’t work on me. Right? So how do you think you’re going to—”
Eliot produced a pistol. He didn’t seem to pull it from anywhere. He just suddenly had it.
Wil’s eyes stung.
“See?” Eliot put away the gun. “There are all kinds of persuasion.” He gazed at the horizon again.