Giant Days

by Non Pratt

  Daisy resisted.

  “Didn’t you have lectures to go to? Cadavers to dissect?”

  Susan flapped it all away. “Kully took notes. And the only other thing was a session at the medical center yesterday afternoon, but I’ve already e-mailed an elaborate yet plausible reason for missing that one.”

  As Susan spoke, Daisy unlocked her door, remembering just in time that she’d been doing some yoga earlier and had yet to put her robe away. Faced with the possibility of Susan seeing this, Daisy felt a sudden stab of pain in the middle of her forehead.

  “I suppose this means I’ll have to go back to keeping the kitchen clean on my own,” Daisy managed, bringing her fingers up to massage the growing ache in her third eye.

  “Not if you give me your magic soporific cookie recipe.”

  Share only with those you trust, Jasper’s voice intoned inside her head. Surely Daisy could trust Susan. She was one of Daisy’s best friends.

  But when she opened her mouth to suggest she come to the next meeting of the Yogic Brethren of Zoise, the words that formed were not the ones she intended to say.

  “Some things should only be shared with those who wish to walk the path.”

  Even Daisy was taken aback at how flat and strange her intonation was, but after a second, Susan seemed to shrug it off.

  “Fair point. It’s not like I’m going to do any baking, is it?” She patted Daisy on the arm. “Make sure you bake double the number in your next batch.”

  “Of course!” Daisy nodded a little too fervently, but in her beatific state, Susan didn’t seem to notice, drifting contentedly back to her room. Unsettled, Daisy hurried through the door and, dropping her bag on the floor, immediately assumed Listening Pose and pressed the buds of her earphones into her ears, starting the calming cycle of the latest Zounds of Zoise.

  9

  VERIFICATION

  Esther had been talking nonstop for the last hour.

  English students.

  During their conversation, Susan had successfully completed a practice paper, read an article on gestational diabetes and compared it with notes she’d taken from Mrs. Doherty, watched the last fifteen minutes of the My Little Brony documentary she’d started watching the previous night, and posted a cathartic rant under the angrier of her Reddit pseudonyms in response to an accusation of so-called reverse racism.

  Esther, it seemed, hadn’t even managed to finish her cup of tea.

  A paper airplane cruised lazily over Susan’s shoulder and landed on her keyboard.

  Pay me attention.

  “I am paying you attention,” Susan said without looking up.

  “Then what have I been talking about?”

  In response, Susan held up her phone and played back the last ten seconds of the voice memo.

  “You’d really like her. I really like her. I’m not sure whether she likes me. I’m going to need independent verification. So how about it?”

  “You want me to come to the pub with you this evening so I can meet your wonderful new friend Vectra, assuage your insecurities, and receive free drinks all evening for services rendered.” Susan turned in her chair and grinned. “I’ll be drinking the finest whisky Wetherspoons has to offer, thanks.”

  “Actually, Vectra thinks pubs are a rip-off.”

  “Wetherspoons? That famously cheap chain of drinking establishments?”

  But Esther ignored the objection. “I’m meeting her in the S.U. The Stand-up Comedy Club is running an open mic night.”

  “No.” Susan turned back around in her seat and waved the idea away. “Take Daisy.”

  “Can’t. She’s got yoga tonight.”

  “Again? Seems like she’s got yoga every bloody night. What about Ed Gemmell, then?”

  “He’s playing pool with McGraw.” Susan could feel the look in Esther’s eyes as she added, “They might come along later.”

  “That’s nice. Leave them a seat at the front, and whoever’s onstage can destroy their self-esteem with comments about their appearances.” The thought of this made it almost tempting . . .

  “Pleeeeeeease.” Esther draped herself across the desk and pouted hopefully. “I really think the two of you will get along.”

  Daisy always enjoyed the bone lab. There was something deeply satisfying about studying bone fragments. It was like piecing together a skeletal jigsaw to tell a story about the past.

  “What’ve you got there?” Reggie peered over Daisy’s shoulder.

  “Fibula. Left. According to the carbon-dating record, it’s placed between 345 and 420 AD. Dug up in St. Albans.”

  “Roman. Snap.”

  “Mine’s female. I think she looks like a Metella. What do you think?”

  “I think she looks like a bone fragment.” Reggie sounded far from enthusiastic, and Daisy noticed he was wearing the same T-shirt he’d been wearing yesterday. And the day before. It said (Carbon) date me? And there were soil stains on the hem and something that looked like toothpaste smudged above the C of Carbon.

  Professor Jones walked past to cast an eye over their work.

  “At some point, you’re going to have to learn your arse bone from your elbow, Reginald. That’s a jawbone, and you’re looking at it upside down. You’ve got to think around your specimens in more than a single plane. When one discovers something buried in the earth, it is rarely the right way up.”

  Daisy held her breath while Professor Jones scrutinized her work, but the older woman let out a grudging sort of grunt, nodded, and moved on.

  Trying not to bask in the glory of what was tantamount to praise, Daisy gave Reggie a sympathetic smile.

  “Don’t take it to heart.”

  “Every time, Daisy, every time.” Reggie rotated his bone somewhat despondently and leaned in, gaze flitting around as he lowered his voice. “I think I’m doing the wrong course. I’m starting to get ‘The Fear.’ Like, what am I even doing with my life?”

  “Don’t say that—you’ve got all the makings of an archaeologist.” Daisy nodded at his chest. “Look at your T-shirts!”

  “I feel like such a fraud! People know me as Archaeology Dude—”

  “They do?”

  “—and if I left this course, then who would I be?”

  The middle of the bone lab was not the best place to have an existential crisis, but it seemed now that Reggie had opened the trapdoor to the void, he was determined to hurtle through it.

  “I’m no one!”

  “That’s not true.”

  “What would I wear? Who would I be? You don’t know—I don’t even know.”

  Daisy snapped her fingers sharply in front of Reggie’s face. It was a trick she’d learned during Girl Guides whenever one of the younger members started to panic in the middle of camp.

  “That’s enough. You need to calm down.”

  “How? How can I calm down when everything is chaos?”

  Daisy closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she knew what to do.

  “Reggie. Have you ever tried yoga?”

  “Is that what you’re wearing?” Esther gave a critical up-down sweep of Susan’s attempt at an outfit.

  “You mean clothes?” Susan crossed her arms and adopted the kind of glare that Esther knew better than to challenge. And yet . . . this was important. She needed Susan to make a good impression. For all Esther wanted to believe that it should be enough for her to like people for them to like each other, these were two tricky customers. All the variables had to be right.

  Reflecting that it was a shame she hadn’t been able to persuade Susan to buy something more than a coat when they went shopping, Esther selected a better ensemble: black T-shirt, black cardigan, gray jeans, cuffed to look a lot less tattered and a little more fashionable. To drown out Susan’s grumbles about cold ankles as they trudged their way down the hill, Esther filled her in on the rules of engagement when interacting with Vectra, even more elaborate than the ones she’d written in her notebook just over a week ago.

&
nbsp; “. . . and whatever you do, don’t try to pretend you know anything about music.”

  “Is that something I do?”

  “You pretend you know everything.”

  “Because I do.” Susan’s voice had lowered to a growl, but Esther was resolute.

  “Not music. You think just because you’ve been to one or two gigs—”

  “Seventeen gigs and two festivals.”

  “—that you’re entitled to an opinion.”

  “It’s art, Esther. The whole point is to have an opinion.”

  “I can’t risk you having a wrong opinion. Stow it.”

  They’d arrived at the S.U., and Esther stopped to check everything over. Black lipstick, best boots, leather trousers, massacred T-shirt . . .

  “Hang on. How come I’m not allowed to have an opinion on music, but you’re wearing this?” Susan jabbed her in the chest, right in Marilyn Manson’s googly white eye. Or what was left of it. This was a seriously vintage article of clothing, a memento of Esther’s days as an innocent baby goth. She’d been practically an embryo when she went to her first Marilyn Manson gig.

  “Unlike you, I have the credentials,” Esther said. This declaration of taste was a calculated risk. A tribute band called Charles Munroe had a gig in one of the local pubs next week—a strategic T-shirt was the perfect way to invite conversation and casually suggest that she and Vectra go.

  It wasn’t like Susan or Daisy would be interested.

  Vectra took a long time getting to the bar, and Susan had to endure Esther’s constant fidgeting, her attention bouncing back and forth between the door and her phone while Susan made her way steadily through her first drink. From Esther’s description, she was about to meet either a kindred spirit of sarcasm or a total nightmare.

  “There she is!” Esther hissed, then immediately added, “Don’t look!”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Vectra saw Esther a moment later, but it took her a long while to actually make it over to their little table. Maybe it was because of her tiny legs and frail little bones?

  “What are you drinking?” Esther sprang up, knocking the table. Susan was interested in the disdainful flicker in Vectra’s hooded eyes and the way Esther immediately downgraded her wide beam to a polite smile.

  “Vodka, lime, and soda. Double. Fresh lime.”

  As Esther skipped off, seeming to forget Susan’s existence, Susan took it upon herself to initiate contact.

  “Fresh lime is a bit optimistic for a student bar,” she said, raising a hand in a casual wave of welcome. “Hi. I’m Susan.”

  “I’m Vectra.”

  Once it was clear that was all she was going to say, Susan went on, “Vectra’s an interesting name.”

  “Susan . . . is not.”

  The two looked at each other for a very long moment, each measuring the other to discover she came up short.

  Susan was going to need that second whisky.

  The basement was always warm. Not like “hot yoga” warm, but the sweet spot between sweater off and air-conditioning on. It was the equivalent of a pleasantly snug duvet on a morning you didn’t have anything to get up for. The kind of place that, once you were in, you didn’t want to leave.

  “What do you think?” Daisy asked, sticking close to Reggie to make sure he didn’t feel intimidated. She needn’t have worried.

  “I think that cookie was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” Reggie held his hand in front of his face. “I feel like I’m melting.”

  A new acolyte had answered the door for them tonight. Daisy was starting to lose count of all the different fresh young faces she’d seen in the house recently. There seemed to be a never-ending carousel of Brethren, some staying for days; some who came once, never to return; and some regulars with colorful belts and a casual attitude to yogic meditation, who seemed more interested in cookies and socializing than in discovering new poses.

  Some of the more affluent initiates opted to hand over possessions in the Ceremony of Sharing rather than bringing friends or helping with housework. Brother Jacob seemed to have an infinite supply of console-related nonsense to hand over to the Brethren, but Daisy’s supply of goods was running low. Last session she’d brought in her favorite mug, hoping that the emotional value was significant enough to be considered worthy of Zoise, but Jasper had quietly taken her aside as she was leaving and explained that while worldly worth mattered not on the meditative plane, he felt that perhaps Daisy was not as committed to the Brethren as he had first thought.

  Pressing the mug back into her hands, Jasper had given her a sorrowful look.

  “If we cannot share, we cannot belong.”

  “But what of the emotional value of my transaction?” Daisy had looked down at the rejected mug, the wonky daisy she’d painted on it as a little girl and the speech bubble that didn’t quite fit the words I’m a flower! “Doesn’t that count for something?”

  Jasper had looked long and hard at the mug.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Daisy. Emotional value usually corresponds to something more . . . appealing. Zoise desires more than a kid’s mug.”

  Today, with Reggie by her side, some of that fear was assuaged. She was sharing. She belonged . . . but for how long?

  When Elise sounded the gong, and the Pathway Unlocked, Daisy presented Reggie as her gift to the Brethren.

  “This is Reggie. We study Archaeology together. I don’t think he’s alone in having anxiety about what course he’s on—”

  There was a murmur of agreement among some of the others in the room.

  “—but I know Zoise has helped release my anxieties, and it might help yours,” Daisy finished, looking hopefully up at Reggie.

  The rest of the Brethren came into the circle to introduce themselves, exactly how it had been the first time she came. Warm and welcoming. A place that felt part of the university but safer somehow. Smaller and friendlier. And with really good cookies. Daisy smiled as Grace stepped forward and enveloped Reggie in a hug as if they’d known each other for weeks. Reggie’s hands flapped at his sides, but then he hugged her, too.

  “You’ll love it here.” Grace pulled back and gave both Reggie and Daisy a fond look. “I’m so pleased Daisy asked me along. I never want to leave.”

  Once everyone had welcomed Reggie, Jasper took over.

  “The Yogic Brethren of Zoise is all about finding inner calm by alternating between meditation and intense stretching. Take everything at your own pace. The important thing is to stay hydrated. Has Elise given you plenty of tea?”

  Reggie held up his empty cup, and almost instantly one of the other Brothers emerged to fill it up.

  “And so our circle grows. Zoise thanks you, Sister Daisy. Step forward and receive your bounty. You are now a . . .” Jasper pulled a tangle of belts out of the pocket of his gown, frowned briefly at the pink belt that Daisy had acquired the week before, and selected a bright yellow belt. “You are now a Yellow Sister.”

  But rather than thread the belt through the loops as he had with so many of the other Brethren, Jasper handed the belt over for Daisy to do herself, adding in a low voice, “You’re the most dedicated of the Brethren, Daisy. No one’s made it up to silver yet, but if that’s what you want, you’re going to have to sacrifice a little more of yourself. Zoise has other needs. Perhaps you could help restock the kitchen shelves—we’re running a bit low on ingredients. Or can you reinstall Windows 10 on a laptop?”

  Daisy shook her head. “I use Apple.”

  Jasper sighed. “Think on it, Daisy. What more can you give to Zoise? What sacrifice are you willing to make for your family?”

  It was impossible to say anything right—unless the person saying it was Vectra. Even if Susan agreed with her, she still ended up wrong. So far she’d had been wrong about:

  Her favorite ale.

  Who was the best Mr. Darcy.

  What flavor a white jellybean was.

  Where the North started.

  Whether you could
get a ginger female cat. (WHICH YOU COULD, BECAUSE TIBBLES, WHO LIVED NEXT DOOR TO MRS. DOHERTY, WAS BOTH OF THOSE THINGS . . . but when Susan reached for her phone to show Vectra a picture, Vectra had shown such derision for people who used their phones to settle an argument that Susan had been distracted by thoughts of smashing the phone repeatedly into Vectra’s face and settling things that way.)

  “None of these people are very funny, are they?” Esther said as the last stand-up left the stage, giving up halfway through his set and leaving the audience with a blissful twenty minutes before the next.

  Vectra nodded. “I’ve seen black holes that sucked less.”

  “See a lot of those, do you?” Susan was three drinks down and had stopped trying to be nice.

  “Sarcasm. How droll.”

  Susan’s rage was so intense that suppressing it must have caused her to black out, because the next thing she knew, she was tipping the contents of her purse out onto the bar and praying for enough change to buy a double shot.

  “I don’t think they take this here.”

  McGraw was next to her, long fingers holding something circular and shiny. The souvenir coin of St. Matthew that Susan had kept in a succession of wallets and purses since her yaya gave it to her when she was six years old.

  “Thank you.” She took it carefully, making sure there was no contact between her fingers and McGraw’s.

  “Since I’m ordering one for me and Ed, would you like me to buy you a drink?” he offered.

  Such an offer directly contravened the ever-breachable Clause 4, but the flames of rage reserved for McGraw were losing their heat. In the last two nights, dwelling on her grudge had barely kept her awake long enough to see her alarm clock tip over into single digits. With Vectra on the scene, Susan’s enmity toward McGraw seemed a little . . . unnecessary.

  Besides, in accepting a drink from her old enemy, she could avoid further engagement with her new one.

  “That would be great. Thank you.”

  “Still drinking Lagavulin? Single measure? Neat?”

  “I am . . .” Susan looked him in the eye, waiting for a familiar stab of hostility. “But make it a double.”