“Another! Drink, FRESHMEN!”
“Sir, we’re not pledges!”
“Well, I don’t know what else to do!” the leader said pleadingly, as we heard him open another beer.
“Drink!”
“Get the paddle!”
“Football!”
“Chicks!”
“Sigma Alpha Epsilon!”
Though we couldn’t see the group, we could tell things were rapidly deteriorating. This Rush thing didn’t seem to be going well at all.
“Do you think we should do something?” I asked Randy. He nodded, so we made our way out of the shadows and back into their line of sight.
“Hello, up there!” I called. There was a scuffle of movement from above, and an empty beer can fell down and bounced off Randy’s forehead. A few seconds later, we were looking up at the faces of Young Adult’s ten Stereotypical Frat Boys. On top of the roof, they were lit by the distant, dimming light of Sci-Fi’s moons, now only mere slivers in the lightening sky. But I could tell they were all ex-characters, because none of them were glowing or looked particularly animated. In fact, they looked pretty dull. Stereotypical Frat Boys, I guess.
They all wore crisp polo shirts and baseball caps with beer or sports-team logos. I didn’t know what they were wearing on their southern halves, but I could only assume that it was something stereotypical, like khakis and loafers. I never did get to find out that early morning, because after just a moment’s hesitation, the clever boys decided to pour beer on us after all.
“Drink, FRESHMEN!” the leader howled, happy to fulfill his mission. “Nobody escapes our net and gets away with it!”
Randy and I glanced at each other. It was time to leave.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t think YA is really my thing, at least not the Coming of Age College Life thing,” I said to Randy several minutes later. By then, all thoughts of Gail, knives, and rude eulogy etiquette were far from my mind, as I stuck and unstuck my fingers. Randy had done his best to dry both of us with a quick spell, but my hands were still sticky with beer.
We had almost reached the other side of campus for our next genre test, and all around us the school was coming to life. Of course classes hadn’t begun for the semester yet, but there were other freshmen—humans and creatures alike—wandering around consulting maps and schedules and sharing nervous glances.
“Yeah, I’d say we pretty much failed that one,” Randy responded, smiling genially as we passed a young and otherwise nondescript girl with a map. “According to the school’s Genre Guidebook, you have to exhibit ‘a strong desire to fit in, to please, and to be cooler than you were in high school,’ in order to go into the Fraternity subgenre.”
Randy chuckled quietly to himself and suddenly stopped walking. He was looking over my shoulder at a rather unremarkable box of a building. When I turned back to him, he quickly resumed walking with me, but not for long.
“Oh, you know, Peter? I’ve just remembered: I have a thing to go to!” Once again he glanced at the little building and then back at me. At my look of confusion, he explained himself, which only confused me more. “Okay, I’ve got a meeting . . . type thing . . . with a certain genre . . . type, and the genre is a bit secretive about . . . said genre.” He looked at me apologetically.
“But we are supposed to have Romantic Comedy next,” I said, a little taken aback. I dug my crumpled schedule out of my back pocket and pointed at it uselessly.
Romantic Comedy: 9:00.
“See?”
Randy shook his head.
“Okay, the truth is . . . I’ve already been offered a spot in this genre. I haven’t met with them yet to accept, but . . . I think it’s where I need to be. I wish I could tell you more, but I really can’t. Not yet.” He gripped my shoulder bracingly and then moved his hand down to my mine. For a mortifying moment, I thought he was going to take hold of it (if it hadn’t looked like he was breaking up with me before, it certainly would then), but he just moved my arm so he could see my watch.
“I’ve got to go, Peter!” he called, already rushing back the way we had come. “Good luck!” And with that, Randy dived headlong into a spiky green hedge. What the hell?
“Peter, I can’t let you see where I’m going,” his muffled voice called after several seconds of stunned silence. “So, can you just, you know . . .”
“Alright, I’m going, I’m going!” I shouted at the bush as I turned back toward the center of campus. Suddenly Romantic Comedy didn’t seem all that appealing. I wanted to go home.
CHAPTER FOUR
I gloomily made my way back down the path toward what I thought was the center of campus, hardly noticing the other students, mostly huddled in small groups around me. I felt bewildered, betrayed, and suddenly very lost. Literally—I had no idea where I was. I pulled out my map of campus and surmised that I was either on the north, south, east, or west side of the school’s main square, and was either getting closer and closer or farther away. I crumpled the useless map and tossed it into the tall grass along the path, which I now noticed was blowing about wildly. With one look up at the black sky, I knew it was about to storm.
Not a second later it was pouring. There was no buildup, no polite warning drops, just a downpour. I ran along the path, winding between the few other students who hadn’t seen this coming. As the school’s stone courtyard loomed into view, a man, straight out of Sci-Fi by the looks of him, stepped in front of me and pushed a button near his wrist. The black wetsuit-like outfit he was wearing grew thicker and shinier in an instant, and a clear visor snapped over his face, protecting him from the rain. He pointed at the sky, then pointed at me, and then gave me the finger.
I got the message. My mood was ruining the atmosphere. Well, you know what, I didn’t give a—
I stopped myself, as I didn’t want the neighborhood Dach-shund to have to come all the way to campus in the rain. The little dog may have been the size of a kitten; but when it came to eliminating inappropriate expletives throughout Fiction, she was a terror.
I jogged along, hoping to follow Sci-Fi somewhere indoors, but he was gone, so I ran for the nearest shelter I saw.
The little awning was barely five feet wide, and just deep enough to shield most of the rain, which was now coming down in sheets. I was trying to think of a spell to dry myself when I felt somebody tap me on the shoulder. I wheeled around quickly, thinking of the ghosts we’d seen on campus earlier, and accidentally smacked my assailant in the jaw.
“Oh, God! I am so sorry!” I said, truly horrified, as I helped the young woman back to her feet. She was a little blurry and indistinct-looking, but still more detailed than some of the others I’d come across since the end of my series. Clearly, she’d been written rather recently, and her author seemed to have been pretty heavy-handed with sultry details. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back, curling at the ends because of the rain. Her skin was smoother than porcelain, and her eyes were gray like the rain. She was every cliché I’d ever dreamed of, and I’d just socked her in the face.
“Are you okay?” I asked, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. There was a rather nasty bruise swelling up just beneath her eye. She touched it tenderly, and to my surprise, she started to laugh . . . and laugh . . . and after about a solid minute of this, I began to wonder if I hadn’t concussed her.
“Oh my! This is funny!” she said, pointing at her smiling mouth to further emphasize the point.
“Yeah, not really. Do you want to find the school’s clinic? Or I could try a quick Healing Spell. It won’t be quite as efficient, but it’ll do for now.” I pulled out my wand, ready to mumble a little something impressive, when she grabbed my arm and brought me closer to her.
“Oh! You must be a Boy Wizard!” she said.
I was relieved that she had finally stopped laughing. The feeling was pretty short-lived, though.
“So what is it that you do, Boy Wizard?”
The beautiful, perhaps insane, and probably
brain-damaged girl stepped even closer to me, pressing into my chest.
“I, uh, well, lately I’ve been helping my roommate look for his wife who he thinks might still be alive even though a house fell on her . . .” I jabbered. I had no idea why I was telling her this. Suddenly, my brain and my mouth seemed to want nothing to do with each other. “He thinks she was a background character in my old books who walked around with this rack, or, a knife! I meant a knife, and I told him I’d help him find her. And now he’s off meeting with some other genre, and . . . and . . .”
Her wet blouse was clinging to my own soaked shirt, which I only then remembered boasted a picture of my dictionary-writing hero, Noah Webster. I was mortified. But then she ran her fingers through my hair, fingers that smelled like rain. Or perhaps that was the rain. I couldn’t tell; everything went a little bit fuzzy just then.
“I think that’s really noble what you’re doing. I think it’s really . . . romantic,” she breathed hotly into my ear, sending chills down my spine.
“Hrrmmmgg,” I replied, nearly losing my grip on my wand. She leaned back, her head lolling dangerously, and began laughing. Again.
“Oh, you are funny!” she finally hiccupped, wiping tears from her eyes. “What is your name anyway? I’m Kiki. Should we go dance in the rain now?” She tightened her grip on my arm excitedly, but then, like a bunny on uppers, seemed to lose interest in the idea and moved on to the next. “Or maybe we could go shopping and happen to love all of the same ridiculous things? And my goodness, look at that funny-looking gentleman coming this way!”
The crazy Kiki burst into renewed laughter. And she was right, somebody was splashing across the square, barely visible in the torrent of rain, heading straight for us.
“Am I too late?” the funny-looking gentleman asked in an ever-so-charming British accent. The guy looked like he had come straight from a Gatsby party. He was wearing a white tuxedo and tan shoes that may as well have been made of money. As he doffed his top hat to Kiki, water rained down onto my sneakers.
The little awning had been a tight squeeze with just Kiki and me, but with the entrance of the Handsome British Man, it was downright uncomfortable. I opened my mouth to make some very clever excuse to get away—something noble about having to help Randy with his mystery, no doubt—but the two already seemed to have forgotten I was there.
“I’m Brent,” the man said, cupping Kiki’s face in his hands.
“Kiki,” she whispered. “Patrick was just leaving. He’s looking for a psychopath,” Kiki added in a voice that somehow managed to still be lusty. A moment later, the two were kissing madly, then laughing, and kissing, and by the time I decided I’d had just about enough, they were off, dancing in the rain, fading into the downpour.
And so, rather than deal with any more Romantic Comedy, I decided to go home and risk getting struck by lightning.
By the time I got back into Fantasy, I was soaked to the bone and decidedly grumpy.
Who was Kiki to call anybody a psychopath? I thought miserably as I walked down my street. All around me the grass and colorful trees swayed and danced, grateful for the storm. Their little words floated around in the air, little white things like gnats, before being battered down by the rain.
“Oh yeah? Well—” but I didn’t get to finish grumbling, as one of the little words flew into my mouth and I nearly choked. I squelched up the stairs to my home, my feet slipping inside my shoes, ignoring the toad in the grass at the bottom of the steps that was giggling at me. By the time I fumbled with my key, which I still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of, my mood was black and the storm was violent.
“I take it Romantic Comedy didn’t go too well?” Randy asked timidly as I slammed the door behind me. I was going to tell him that, no, Romantic Comedy didn’t go too well, and that, yes, I was upset that my one friend seemed to be moving on without me. But my author was no longer around to dish out unrealistically poignant dialogue, so I just said, “You’re home early,” and plopped myself down on the green couch, still struggling to breathe.
Randy quietly brought me a cup of tea and set about tidying up around the apartment. He mopped up the puddle I’d left by the doorway without saying a word or even suggesting that I take off my shoes that were pooling with water. He just brought me a pair of slippers and handed me Beth’s quilt from the back of the couch. I guess that was one good thing about Randy: he knew when to push me—when to make me talk—but he also knew when to just leave me alone.
After a while, the storm grew calmer, and finally only the patter of rain and the rustle of the trees could be heard. At some point I fell asleep on the couch, clutching Beth’s quilt and thinking of all the genres that still lay ahead, just for me.
The next two days were a blur of faces, events, and emotions. I didn’t even have the time, energy, or, honestly, the inclination to help Randy dissect my books for clues. On the first day alone I was tested in Horror, Science Fiction, and then Western. On the second, I covered Mystery, Family Drama, and Parody. By the time I got home at the end of day two, I was a mess. I jumped when I opened my own front door, immediately suspicious as to why it had opened so easily, and spent the next thirty minutes alternately hiding from the killer I just knew was lurking, and daring him to come out and fight like a man.
Randy got home a couple of hours later and found me curled into a fetal position on his latest purchase, a very soft blue-and-green rug. He prodded me gently with his shoe, which I noticed was black leather, also brand new, and already sporting a thick wad of pink bubblegum on its sole.
“You have gum on your shoe,” I said, still not getting up.
“What did you call me?!” he asked. It was dark in the room, but I noticed something odd. Randy looked even more . . . substantial than he had just earlier that day. Then, just as I thought it, his cheeks paled and he stared at me with something like horror. Horror. I shuttered at the memory of the genre and took a few deep breaths to calm my heart.
“So, I guess you haven’t found your genre yet,” he said after a while, still watching me carefully. He sat down on the couch behind me and propped his feet up on the coffee table.
“Boarded windows; eyes red from crying, probably over a troubled past or family issues; and, what is this, a rubber chicken?” I heard him pick something up off the couch before he went on. “Yes, I’d say all these clues point to a day full of Mystery, Family Drama, and Parody. That’s rough, Peter,” he said kindly. I couldn’t see him, but I felt his eyes on me. “I’ll make you some tea, and then I need to ask you a few questions . . .”
From my spot on the floor, I saw his feet slide from the table and heard him walk into the kitchen, a little sticking noise from the gum with each step. I wondered if he was acting weird or if I was just losing my mind. I had forgotten about the rubber chicken, after all. Perhaps he was the killer . . .
“Here you go,” Randy said a minute later, setting the tea down on the table. “There’s just a splash of Nonfiction Extract in there, to balance you out a bit.”
It was honeysweet, warm, and even as it trickled down my throat, I felt the Nonfiction doing its job. I took several more sips and placed the empty cup back on the table. I looked around. Apparently I had boarded the living room windows.
“Don’t worry about it,” Randy said, gesturing toward the windows. “We’ve all been there. I’ll take them down tomorrow while you’re at . . . what have you got tomorrow? No, no, don’t tell me!” he practically shouted as I opened my mouth. “Let’s see, you’ve already been through YA, Romantic Comedy, Horror, Sci-Fi, Western, and then today Mystery, Family Drama, and Parody. By process of elimination, you must have . . . Fantasy and Thriller tomorrow!” He leaned back into the couch, looking very smug indeed.
Okay, he was being weird.
“Actually, I just have Fantasy,” I mumbled into my empty teacup, not daring to meet his eyes. “I did so poorly in Horror today, they told me not to bother with Thriller.”
I looked away from Ra
ndy, my nose suddenly itchy, and I knew I was about to cry. So I just traced my fingers along the blue stripes in the rug.
“Hey, that’s okay, Peter,” Randy said. “If I weren’t already in . . . the genre I am in, I’d gladly join you in Fantasy tomorrow!” I still wasn’t looking at him, but I could tell he was leaning forward on the couch, trying for a smile. After a moment I felt his hand on my shoulder, and I turned to face him. He was close enough that I could see myself in his glasses. I was a mess. My brown hair looked more like a nest for pixies than something that should have been growing from my head. My red eyes were brought out beautifully by the purple rings beneath them. And, what was that? It was a zit. I had never felt older or more worn out, and yet I was still getting zits.
Randy coughed a little uncomfortably, and I realized I was prodding at the thing, still looking into his mirrorlike glasses. I quickly dropped my hand and looked into the face behind the frames, ignoring my reflection and the barnacle on the middle of my nose. He was watching me carefully, worry etched into the very lines around his eyes and brow. It was a look so paternal, so full of love and care; it was a look I’d seen only once before, on my father just before he died in my backstory.
I immediately felt guilty for having been so childish.
“So, uh, how is your new genre? And how did your search for Gail go today?” I asked, having reached my Touching Moment capacity. They were the first questions that entered my head as the Nonfiction did its job, and I immediately wished I hadn’t asked.
“What do you mean? I wasn’t searching for Gail!” Randy snapped, taking his hand from my shoulder. “And that certainly doesn’t have anything to do with my new genre! Nope. No searching for clues in that genre. No sirree . . .”
“Okay . . . It’s just that this morning when I left you were looking through my books . . . I was just wondering if anything new had jumped out at you . . .”
The Fantastic Fable of Peter Able Page 4