He nodded.
She rolled her eyes again and turned to her laptop. Why not. She didn’t have anything to lose. Yes, but that’s not the point, part of her argued. What do you have to gain?
It’s not like Levi was going to be impressed by her fanfiction; entertained wasn’t the same as impressed. He already thought she was a weirdo, and this was just going to make her seem that much weirder. Did the bearded lady get excited when cute guys came to her freak show?
Cath shouldn’t want this kind of attention. And Levi wasn’t even that cute. His forehead was lined even when he wasn’t making a face. Sun damage, probably.
“Okay,” she said.
He grinned and started to say something.
“Shut up.” She held up her left hand. “Don’t make me change my mind. Just … let me find something.…”
She opened the Simon/Baz folder on her desktop and scrolled through it, looking for something suitable. Nothing too romantic. Or dirty.
Maybe … yeah. This one’ll do.
“All right,” she said, “you know how, in the sixth book—”
“Which one is that?”
“Simon Snow and the Six White Hares.”
“Right, I’ve seen that movie.”
“Okay, so Simon stays at school during Christmas break because he’s trying to find the fifth hare.”
“And because his dad has been kidnapped by monsters in creepy costumes—so no happy Christmas dinner at the Snow house.”
“They’re called the Queen’s Ogres,” Cath said. “And Simon still doesn’t know that the Mage is his dad.”
“How can he not know?” Levi demanded. Cath was encouraged by how indignant he sounded. “It’s so obvious. Why does the Mage show up every time something important happens and get all weepy, talking about how ‘he knew a woman once with Simon’s eyes—’”
“I know,” Cath said, “it’s lame, but I think Simon wants so badly for the Mage to be his dad that he won’t let himself accept the overwhelming evidence. If he were wrong, it would ruin him.”
“Basil knows,” Levi said.
“Oh, Baz totally knows. I think Penelope knows, too.”
“Penelope Bunce.” Levi grinned. “If I were Simon, I’d be all-Penelope, all the time.”
“Ech. She’s like a sister to him.”
“Not like any of my sisters.”
“Anyway,” Cath said. “This story takes place during that Christmas break.”
“Okay,” Levi said, “got it.” He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, holding Cath’s pillow. “All right. I’m ready.”
Cath turned to the computer and cleared her throat. (Then felt stupid about clearing her throat.) Then glanced back at Levi one more time. She couldn’t believe she was doing this.…
Was she really doing this?
“If you keep pacing like that,” Baz said, “I’m going to curse your feet into the floorboards.”
Simon ignored him. He was thinking about the clues he’d found so far, trying to see a pattern … the rabbit-shaped stone in the ritual tower, the stained glass hare in the cathedral, the sigil on the drawbridge—
“Snow!” Baz shouted. A spell book sailed past Simon’s nose.
“What are you thinking?” Simon asked, genuinely surprised. Flying books and curses were fair game in the hallways and classrooms and, well, everywhere else. But if Baz tried to hurt him inside their room—“The Roommate’s Anathema,” Simon said. “You’ll be expelled.”
“Which is why I missed. I know the rules,” Baz muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Did you know, Snow, that if your roommate dies during the school year, they give you top marks, just out of sympathy?”
“That’s a myth,” Simon said.
“Lucky for you I’m already getting top marks.”
Simon stopped pacing to really look at his roommate. Normally he liked to pretend that Baz wasn’t here. Normally, Baz wasn’t here. Unless he was spying or plotting, Baz hated to be in their room. He said it smelled like good intentions.
But Baz had hardly left the room in the last two weeks. Simon hadn’t seen him in the caf or at football, he’d seemed drawn and distracted in class, and his school shirts—usually pressed and bright white—were looking as manky as Simon’s.
“Because he’s a vampire, Simon!” Levi interjected.
“In this story,” Cath said, “Simon doesn’t know that yet.”
“He’s a vampire!” Levi shouted at her laptop. “And he’s hunting you! He stays up all night, watching you sleep, trying to decide whether to eat you whole or one chunk at a time.”
“Simon can’t hear you,” Cath said.
Levi sat back, hugging the pillow again. “They are kind of gay, aren’t they? What with all the watching each other sleep … and the ignoring Penelope.”
“They’re obsessed with each other,” Cath said, as if this were one of life’s absolute givens. “Simon spends the entire fifth book following Baz around and describing his eyes. It’s like a thesaurus entry for ‘gray.’”
“I don’t know,” Levi said. “It’s hard for me to get my head around. It’s like hearing that Harry Potter is gay. Or Encyclopedia Brown.”
That made Cath laugh out loud. “Big Encyclopedia Brown fan?”
“Shut up. My dad used to read them to me.” He closed his eyes again. “Okay. Go on.”
“Is … something wrong?” Simon asked, then couldn’t believe he’d asked it. It’s not like he really cared. If Baz said yes, Simon would likely say “Good!” Still, it seemed cruel not to ask. Baz may have been the most despicable human being Simon had ever met … but he was still a human being.
“I’m not the one pacing the room like a hyperactive madman,” Baz mumbled, his elbows on his desk, his head resting in his hands.
“You seem … down or something.”
“Yes, I’m down. I’m down, Snow.” Baz raised his head and spun his chair toward Simon. He really did look terrible. His eyes were sunken and shot with blood. “I’ve spent the last six years living with the most self-centered, insufferable prat ever to carry a wand. And now, instead of celebrating Christmas Eve with my beloved family, drinking mulled cider and eating toasted cheese—instead of warming my hands at my ancestral hearth … I’m playing a tortured extra in the bloody Simon Snow Show.”
Simon stared at him. “It’s Christmas Eve?”
“Yes…,” Baz groaned.
Simon walked around his bed glumly. He hadn’t realized it was Christmas Eve. He’d have thought that Agatha would have called him. Or Penelope …
Levi sighed. “Penelope.”
Cath read on.
Maybe his friends were waiting for Simon to call them. He hadn’t even bought them gifts. Lately, nothing had seemed as important as finding the white hares. Simon clenched his square jaw. Nothing was as important; the whole school was in danger. There must be some pattern he wasn’t seeing. He quickened his step. The stone in the tower, the stained glass window, the sigil, the Mage’s book …
“I give up,” Baz whined. “I’m going to go drown myself in the moat. Tell my mother I always knew she loved me best.”
Simon stopped pacing at Baz’s desk. “Do you know how to get down to the moat?”
“I’m not actually going to kill myself, Snow. Sorry to disappoint.”
“No. It’s just … you use the punts sometimes, don’t you?”
“Everyone does.”
“Not me,” Simon said. “I can’t swim.”
“Really…,” Baz hissed with a hint of his old vigor. “Well, you wouldn’t want to swim in the moat anyway. The merwolves would get you.”
“Why don’t they bother the boats?”
“Silver punt poles and braces.”
“Will you take me out on one?” It was worth a try. The moat was one of the only places left in the school that Simon hadn’t searched.
“You want to go punting with me?” Baz asked.
“Yes,” Simon said, tilting his chin up. �
��Will you do it?”
“Why?”
“I … want to see what it’s like. I’ve never done it—why does it matter? It’s Christmas Eve, and you obviously don’t have anything better to do. Apparently even your parents can’t stand to be around you.”
Baz stood suddenly, his grey eyes glinting dangerously in the shadow of his brow. “You know nothing about my parents.”
Simon stepped back. Baz had a few inches on him (for now), and when Baz made an effort, he could seem dangerous.
“I’m … look, I’m sorry,” Simon said. “Will you do it?”
“Fine,” Baz said. The flare of anger and energy had already faded. “Get your cloak.”
Cath glanced over at Levi. His eyes were still closed. After a second, he opened one. “Is it over?”
“No,” she said. “I just didn’t know if you wanted me to go on. I mean, you get the idea.”
Levi closed his eyes and shook his head. “Don’t be stupid. Keep going.”
Cath looked at him for another second. At the lines in his forehead and the scruff of dark blond hair along his jaw. His mouth was small, but bowed. Like a doll’s. She wondered if he had trouble opening it wide enough to eat apples.
“Your madness must be catching,” Baz complained, untangling a rope.
The boats were stacked and tied off for the winter. Simon hadn’t been thinking about the cold.… “Shut up,” he said anyway. “It’ll be fun.”
“That’s the point, Snow—since when do we have fun together? I don’t even know what you do for fun. Teeth-whitening, I assume. Unnecessary dragon-slaying—”
“We’ve had fun before,” Simon argued. Because he didn’t know how to do anything with Baz but argue—and because surely Baz was wrong. In six years, they must have shared some fun. “There was that time in third year when we fought the chimaera together.”
“I was trying to lure you there,” Baz said. “I thought I’d get away from the thing before it attacked.”
“Still, it was fun.”
“I was trying to kill you, Snow. And on that note, are you sure you want to do this? Alone with me? On a boat? What if I shove you over? I could let the merwolves solve all my problems.…”
Simon twisted his lips to one side. “I don’t think you will.”
“And whyever not?” Baz cast off the last of the ropes.
“If you really wanted to get rid of me,” Simon said thoughtfully, “you would have by now. No one else has had as many opportunities. I don’t think you’d hurt me unless it played into one of your grand plans.”
“This could be my grand plan,” Baz said, shoving one of the punts free with a grunt.
“No,” Simon said. “This one is mine.”
“Aleister Crowley, Snow, are you going to help me with this or what?”
They carried the boat down to the water, Baz swinging the punt pole lightly. Simon noticed for the first time the silver plating at one end.
“Snowball fights,” he said, following Baz’s lead as they settled the boat in the water.
“What?”
“We’ve had lots of snowball fights. Those are fun. And food fights. That time I spelled gravy up your nose…”
“And I put your wand in the microwave.”
“You destroyed the kitchen,” Simon laughed.
“I thought it would just swell up like a marshmallow Peep.”
“There was no reason to think that.…”
Baz shrugged. “Don’t put a wand in the microwave—lesson learned. Unless it’s Snow’s wand. And Snow’s microwave.”
Simon was standing on the dock now, shivering. He really hadn’t considered how cold it would be out here. Or the fact that he’d actually have to get into a boat. He glanced down at the cold, black water of the moat and thought he saw something heavy and dark moving below the surface.
“Come on.” Baz was already in the punt. He jabbed Simon’s shoulder with the pole. “This is your grand plan, remember?”
Simon set his jaw and stepped in. The boat dipped beneath his weight, and he scrabbled forward.
Baz laughed. “Maybe this will be fun,” he said, sinking the pole into the water and shoving off. Baz looked perfectly comfortable up there—a long, dark shadow at the end of the punt—as elegant and graceful as ever. He shifted into the moonlight, and Simon watched him take a slow, deep breath. He looked more alive than he had in weeks.
But Simon hadn’t come out here to watch Baz—God knows he had plenty of other opportunities. Simon turned, looking around the moat, taking in the carvings along the stone walls and the tile at the water’s edge. “I should have brought a lantern…,” he said.
“Too bad you’re not a magician,” Baz replied, conjuring a ball of blue flame and tossing it at Simon’s head. Simon ducked and caught it. Baz had always been better than he was at fire magic. Show-off.
The tile glittered in the light. “Can we get closer to the wall?” Simon asked. Baz obliged smoothly.
Up close, Simon could see there was a mosaic that stretched beneath the water. Wizard battles. Unicorns. Symbols and glyphs. Who knew how far down it went.… Baz guided them slowly along the wall, and Simon held the light up, gradually leaning over the side of the boat to get a better look.
He forgot about Baz in a way he normally wouldn’t allow himself to do outside the protection of their room. Simon didn’t even notice at first when the boat drifted to a stop. When he looked back, Baz had stepped toward him in the punt. He was curled above Simon, washed blue by his own conjured fire, his teeth bared and his face thick with decision and disgust.…
The door flew open.
Reagan always kicked it as soon as she had it unlocked; there were dusty shoe prints all over the outside of their door. She swept in, dropping her bags on the floor. “Hey,” she said, glancing over at them.
“Quiet,” Levi whispered. “Cath’s reading fanfiction.”
“Really?” Reagan looked at them with more interest.
“Not really,” Cath said, shutting her laptop. “Just finished.”
“No.” Levi leaned over and opened it. “You can’t stop in the middle of a vampire attack.”
“Vampires, huh?” Reagan said. “Sounds pretty exciting.”
“I’ve got to finish my biology essay,” Cath said.
“Come on.” Reagan turned to Levi. “Plant Phys. Are we doing this?”
“We’re doing it,” he grumbled, sliding off Cath’s bed. “Can I use your phone?” he asked her.
Cath handed him her phone, and he punched a number in. His back pocket started playing a Led Zeppelin song. “To be continued,” he said, handing it back to her. “Solid?”
“Sure,” Cath said.
“Library?” Reagan asked.
“Hi-Way Diner.” Levi picked up his backpack and opened the door. “Fanfiction makes me crave corned beef hash.”
“See ya,” Reagan said to Cath.
“See ya,” Cath said.
Levi ducked his head back at the last minute to flash her a wide grin.
If you wanted to meet other Star Trek fans in 1983, you’d have to join fan clubs by mail or meet up with other Trekkies at conventions.…
When readers fell for Simon in 2001, the fan community was as close as the nearest keyboard.
Simon Snow fandom exploded on the Internet—and just keeps exploding. There are more sites and blogs devoted to Simon than to the Beatles and Lady Gaga combined. You’ll find fan stories, fan art, fan videos, plus endless discussion and conjecture.
Loving Simon isn’t something one does alone or once a year at a convention—for thousands of fans of all ages, loving Simon Snow is nothing less than a lifestyle.
—Jennifer Magnuson, “Tribe of Simon,” Newsweek, October 28, 2009
THIRTEEN
Cath wasn’t trying to make new friends here.
In some cases, she was actively trying not to make friends, though she usually stopped short of being rude. (Uptight, tense, and mildly misanthropic? Yes.
Rude? No.)
But everyone around Cath—everybody in her classes and in the dorms—really was trying to make friends, and sometimes she’d have to be rude not to go along with it.
Campus life was just so predictable, one routine layered over another. You saw the same people while you were brushing your teeth and a different set of the same people in each class. The same people passing you every day in the halls … Pretty soon you were nodding. And then you were saying hello. And eventually someone would start a conversation, and you just had to go along with it.
What was Cath supposed to say, Stop talking to me? It’s not like she was Reagan.
That’s how she ended up hanging out with T.J. and Julian in American History, and Katie, a nontraditional student with two kids, in Political Science. There was a nice girl in her Fiction-Writing class named Kendra, and she and Cath both studied in the Union for an hour on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, so it made sense to sit at the same table.
None of these friendships spread into Cath’s personal life. T.J. and Julian weren’t inviting her to smoke weed with them, or to come over and play Batman: Arkham City on the PlayStation 3.
No one ever invited Cath to go out or to parties (except for Reagan and Levi, who felt more like sponsors than friends). Not even Nick, whom Cath was writing with regularly now, twice a week.
Meanwhile Wren’s social calendar was so crowded, Cath felt like even calling her sister was an interruption. Cath had thought they were over the bar-tastrophe, but Wren was acting even more irritable and remote than she’d been at the start of the year. When Cath did try to call, Wren was always on her way out, and she wouldn’t tell Cath where she was going. “I don’t need you to show up with a stomach pump,” Wren said.
In some ways, it had always been like this.
Wren had always been the Social One. The Friendly One. The one who got invited to quinceañeras and birthday parties. But before—in junior high and high school—everyone knew that if you invited Wren, you got Cath. They were a package deal, even at dances. There were three years’ worth of photos, taken at every homecoming and prom, of Cath and Wren standing with their dates under an archway of balloons or in front of a glittery curtain.
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