Parallel U. - Sophomore Year

by Dakota Rusk

  Merri scowled in confusion. “Better than us? Who could that possibly be?”

  I shrugged. “She didn’t say. And we were interrupted before I could ask.” Actually, all the other witches had come flocking back to us at just that moment—almost as though Jocasta had summoned them to rescue her from any further inquiry. But she hadn’t called out to them, or even looked their way—so that couldn’t have been the case. Could it?

  Merri, Gerrid and Darius now put their heads together and talked in low tones about what their next move should be—whether to wait for the revelation of whatever Jocasta Foxglove had up her sleeve, or continue their campaign against the referendum unchanged.

  I was still sitting with them, but it was almost as if I was forgotten. The others spoke directly and urgently to each other, sometimes talking over each other, but no one asked my opinion, or looked at me or acknowledged me in any way.

  Eventually I got up and went to the bathroom in the hall to brush my teeth. By the time I returned the others had gone—Merri, too. Presumably they’d retreated across the hall to Gerrid and Darius’s room, since I’d made it very clear that I was tired and wanted to go to bed.

  And I did crave sleep. But the idea of them still talking—discussion information I’d given them, but without me there to take part—well, it hurt. I knew I could just go and knock on the door and they’d let me in…

  …But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to have to chase after them, begging to be included, when I was the one who was really at the center of all this.

  I felt my heart harden against them; and I thought, All right, then. Have it your way.

  I got under the covers, and after some furious tossing and turning managed to fall asleep. If I had dreams, I don’t remember them.My former friends (that’s how I thought of them now) might not have wanted me anymore; but it turned out that there were others to take their place.

  Donald MacDúngail was first on that list. We’d already established a kind of connection, and the more I saw of him, the more I liked his rebelliousness and fiery spirit. They reminded me of what I’d lost—but might regain, if I hung around him long enough. I’m not sure what he got out of our friendship; though I hoped it was more than just the attention he drew by attaching himself to someone as high-profile as me. (I’m not being boastful; everyone on campus really did know who I was.)

  I got a hint at what his motives might be one afternoon when we both skipped our last class of the day and met on the roof of the Gell-Mann Library. There was a small cafe up there that students frequented in the warmer months; but in this chilly October weather it was empty—closed for the season, so that we had a giddy sense of subversion just being there at all. Donald, possibly because he was from northern stock, seemed not to mind the bitter wind; but being from Egypt, I couldn’t help feeling it whip right through me. And I said so.

  “What ‘wind’?” he said with a friendly sneer. “ ’Tis no more than a wee breeze.”

  “An wee arctic breeze,” I corrected him, and I drew my leather jacket tighter around me.

  “Well, then,” he said, opening his own jacket, “this ought to help warm your blood.” He took a small copper flask from an inner pocket. “Scotch whiskey,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Single-malt. Smuggled here from my uncle’s cellars. He’d have my head if he found out.”

  I playfully narrowed my eyes at him. “You know as well as I do that alcohol is a dehydrant. It’s the worst possible thing for someone who’s cold. I could end up with hypothermia.”

  He snorted as he twisted off the cap. “At fifty-five degrees?”

  I checked the weather app on my phone. “It’s forty-one.”

  He shrugged. “Well, if you’re such a delicate flower, then.” And he took a swig from the flask. When he’d swallowed and wiped his lips against the back of his hand, he moved to put the flask back in his jacket pocket, but I gestured for him to give it to me.

  I wasn’t having anyone call me a delicate flower.

  I took a mouthful—more than I should have, but I wanted to put him in his place—and almost spat it out; it was so strong—so complex…of course it should only be sipped. But I forced myself to gulp it down—and what do you know, I did feel warmth spread through my trunk and limbs. I knew it was just an illusion, but somehow it did the trick.

  We passed the flask back and forth a few more times as we bantered happily about how terrible the classes we’d just skipped were, and how happy we were to be out of them, and what a bunch of numpty roasters our professors were (actually that was Donald; I didn’t know was a numpty roaster was, but was pretty sure I’d agree if I did).

  And then Donald made a bet that he could jump from the Gell-Mann roof to the roof of Koyabashi Hall. “You’re crazy,” I said, and even as I said it I realized I shouldn’t have, because of course that would only make him more determined to do it.

  He got up and went to the edge. I joined him, and we both looked down at the space below. There was a small cul de sac, but at one end of it the roofs of both buildings almost met over a narrow alleyway where some dumpsters lurked in darkness.

  “There,” he said.

  “It’s still too far,” I insisted. “You’re letting perspective fool you. Imagine yourself on the ground. You couldn’t jump across that distance down there.”

  “Hell if I couldn’t,” he said, as he strode over to the point in question.

  I followed him, and as I tried to keep his pace I realized my head was swimming a little from the scotch. And if that was true of me, it must be truer of Donald, who’d had even more.

  “Maybe if you were sober, you could manage it,” I said, catching up to him as he scuffed his shoes on the roof, as if to gain traction for his jump. “But you’ve put away at least half a pint of whiskey.”

  “For a Scotsman, that’s energizin’.” He flashed me his roguish grin, then said, “No sneakin’ a look, if my kilt flies up.”

  “Why? You don’t want me to see your underwear, you big baby?”

  He gave me an are-you-stupid look, and I realized what he’d meant. “Oh,” I said, suddenly embarrassed—and yet curious despite myself. “Doesn’t…that get cold?”

  He laughed again; then he launched into a run, sprinted over to the edge of the roof, hurled himself into the air—

  —and landed neatly on the roof opposite.

  “Nothin’ to it!” he called across to me as he smoothed out his kilt (which had, in fact, flown up while he was in midair, revealing a very furry, but very nicely shaped, bum). “All it takes is some bollocks—but I forgot, you haven’t got any!”

  Well, that was all I had to hear. I wasn’t about to let this—this numpty roaster show me up.

  I backed up…ground my heels into the gravel on the roof…took a deep breath…

  …And then I ran.

  My legs pumped like pistons as I approached the edge, and I knew intellectually that I’d built up enough momentum to propel me across the gap.

  But my heart wasn’t quite as convinced. And at the last possible second, just before I leapt, I balked—pulled back just a bit, out of fear—and then I was in the air and it was too late to do anything about it.

  I came near enough to the Koyabashi roof to get one foot onto it—but it was clear the rest of me wouldn’t be able to follow. I was going to tumble backwards, down into the alleyway, and die in a crumpled heap atop a garbage dumpster. The indignity of it was almost the worst thing.

  But then—and it all seemed to be happening in slow motion—Donald reached out, grabbed my arm, and pulled me toward him, so that my center of gravity shifted from over the alleyway, and over onto the roof—

  —and I was safe.

  I sort of stumbled into him, and rested my head against his chest, gasping for breath for a few moments, till I trusted myself to stand upright again.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I owe you one.”

  And I tried to push away from him.

  But…he wouldn’t let
me.

  I was confused; certainly he couldn’t think I was so weak or traumatized that my legs wouldn’t support me. I turned my face up to his, ready to challenge him—

  —and when I saw his expression, what he was feeling was unmistakable.

  He didn’t want to let go of me.

  He must have caught the look on my face as I realized this; because he got all flustered and released me and asked about a dozen times if I was sure I was all right, as if that would cover up what I’d seen in him.

  I reassured him, and tried not to feel too girlishly flattered. I might even have given him a little encouragement, if I’d had a few moments more.

  But I didn’t; because it was just then that Donald, who’d been looking around the roof, slapped his hand against his forehead and groaned.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “We’re a couple of jakey wallopers, that’s what,” he said. “There’s no way to get down from here.”

  “There must be,” I said.

  “Well, there is—but it’s locked. The whole building closes at four every day.”

  I started laughing. “So you mean, we’re stuck up here. Unless—”

  “Unless we jump back.”

  And so we did.The other person to take the place of my former friends was Ntombi. The track-and-field season had finally ended, and we wouldn’t begin training for the next one until after the winter holiday, so our rivalry was on hiatus. I really hadn’t expected to see much of the glamorous, long-legged princess after we showered and dressed following our last official meet.

  But she surprised me by going out of her way to speak to me whenever our paths crossed on campus, even to the point of making friendly overtures. I admit I was suspicious; though I discovered the entirely harmless reason soon enough, when I finally accepted her offer to join her for a drink at the bar in the commissary basement (which, as the only official bar on campus, was always packed).

  “You see the way everyone is looking at us?” she said with pleasure as she stroked the cold, dewy bottle of beer before her. “Everyone in the place is super aware of this table. Everyone’s probably wondering what we’re talking about.”

  “Think how flattered they’d be to know we’re talking about them,” I quipped.

  She frowned. “We shouldn’t be, should we? We should be talking about…I don’t know. What do you and your other friends talk about?”

  It took me a moment to realize she meant Merri, Darius, and Gerrid. “Oh—everything, really. Though lately, we don’t seem to talk much at all.” I shrugged. “It’s kind of stupid.”

  From the corner of one eye I noticed that a little clutch of guys was eyeing us with a sort of hungry interest—though they were clearly too intimidated to do anything about it. I also saw Ntombi become aware of them a moment later, and she seemed to perk up with pleasure…though instead of meeting their eyes, she slowly turned her back on them.

  It didn’t make sense to me, at first. She’d come to the commissary looking like a goddess, wearing a cerulean blue tunic and matching slacks that were the perfect shade to set off her skin, which was as dark and richly hued as a hazelnut. (She smelled like a goddess, too; her intoxicating jasmine and spice scent even overrode the stale aromas that emanated from the rarely cleaned floor and tabletops.) And while the light in the bar was dim and milky, she wore a gold choker that reflected it back about a thousand times more brilliantly than it really was. And gold sandals too, so thin and slender it was almost like they were just silken strings on her feet.

  So of course she wanted to be looked at. She couldn’t possibly have dressed like that and expected to go unnoticed. I mean, I couldn’t help it; people looked at me because I was so tall and muscular, and because they knew who I was and what I’d done. There was nothing I could do to avoid it. But Ntombi…they looked at her because she made them do it. She was streamlined and elegant, and splashed with color; she was a self-made work of art.

  And yet she still made this ridiculous show of being too lofty for the eyes of others.

  And just like that, it hit me: she was desperate for reassurance. In this bar—this squat little low-ceilinged no-place—she craved recognition and reverence. But she also wanted to seem like she couldn’t care less about such things.

  She was lonely, I realized; she was insecure. How could that possibly be? She was an actual princess.

  “Do you have a boyfriend back home?” I asked, deciding to barge right over her royal reserve and see where that got me.

  She curled her lip in disdain. “If only! No, a marriage has been arranged for me, with the son of a caliph who’s allied with my grandfather.”

  “Is he at least handsome?”

  She started peeling the label off her bottle; I recognized it as a nervous gesture. “I’ve only seen pictures. I won’t really find out for a few years yet.” She turned and gave me a get-ready-for-this look, then said, “He’s only twelve.”

  I almost spat out my beer. “You’re joking! You actually have to wait for your fiancé who you don’t even know to grow up before you can get married?” A thought occurred to me. “Are you allowed to date, in the meantime?”

  She pursed her lips in a playful way. “Not officially.”

  “Unofficially, then?”

  “Unofficially, who’s to know?” She gave a flickering glance over her shoulder at the clutch of guys, who were still watching us. “But…I’m not sure how one goes about it.”

  I snorted a laugh. “I’m not the best person to ask. Being a postulant nun, and all.”

  She brightened. “So we’re sort of in the same situation!”

  “I guess we are.” I cocked my head in the direction of the guys. “You want to go over and talk to them? Unofficially, I mean.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.”

  “Why not? You don’t have anything to be ashamed of.” I took another brief glance at our potential victims, who were a pretty substandard lot, I had to admit. “I’m not sure they can say the same.”

  But she seemed to freeze up the more I urged her on. “It’s just, I don’t know how to talk to people. I don’t know how to talk to anybody. I never had to before. Everybody always approached me. They introduced themselves to me. And it was up to me whether I wanted to respond or not.”

  “Well,” I said, turning to the jar of pretzels and nuts (which was a bad idea, because it would make me want another beer), “you talked to me.”

  “Just barely,” she said. “And the only reason I spoke to you at all was that I respected you as a rival. And also as…well, it’s absurd. You’re kind of royalty on this campus, is the thing. I was jealous of that; but I also thought maybe it gave us something in common.”

  I blinked in surprise. It wasn’t the kind of admission I’d expect someone as proud as Ntombi to make. “You’re not real used to drinking, either, are you?” I asked.

  She shook her head, then looked at the bottle of beer as though it had betrayed her. “It kind of makes you talk too much, doesn’t it?”

  I grinned. “Don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  She pushed the bottle away. “I should probably go. While I can still walk.”

  This was kind of adorable; I mean, she’d only had one-and-a-half beers. “Let’s leave together,” I said. “It’ll give them all something to talk about.”

  This brightened her up. So we rose from our chairs, linked arms, and headed for the door. And people did seem to make way for us, as though we were a two-person parade or something…especially the guys who’d been ogling us, who backed away like they were unworthy of even brushing against us.

  I was glad Ntombi hadn’t wanted us to get to know them. Now that I thought about it, I already had someone I was interested in.

  Unofficially, of course.

  9

  It didn’t take long for Donald and Ntombi to meet, and to my immense relief they immediately hit it off. Donald like to tease Ntombi about her exalt
ed status; he called her “your highness,” but in a deliberately exaggerated way—he rolled his R’s on the first word, then went all flutey and falsetto on the second, so it came out “yuirrrrr hiiigh-ness.” The first time he did it, I held my breath, thinking she’d be offended; but he had such rascally charm, she couldn’t help laughing. I think she kind of liked being reminded of her royalty, even while being democratically mocked for it.

  And it wasn’t like she didn’t hold her own—or try to, anyway; her wit wasn’t quite as sharp as his. She referred to him as my “hairbrush,” because he was so bristly all over; she also talked around him to me, as though he were just an accessory I happened to have with me. “Well, Fabia,” she’d say, “I see you’ve brought your oversize talking hairbrush with you.” One of the first times she did that, however, Donald tried to play off the joke by running his beard through her carefully woven hair; the look of appalled horror on her face when he drew close to her stopped him cold. Ntombi might not mind being needled about being a princess; that didn’t mean you could just go up and touch her.

  That was really the only hiccup we had in our bonding as a threesome. After that, we were pretty much inseparable. I recognized that our dynamic was very different from the one I had with my other circle, and not necessarily in a good way. My original friends and I seemed to complement each other’s capabilities; each of us provided something the other three could rely on and draw strength from. We knew it, too; we often talked about it. We’d decided that Merri was our heart, Darius our conscience, and Gerrid our healthy skepticism; and though they tried to insist that I was our brilliant strategist, I knew I was really just the muscle. I was fine with it, too.

  Donald, Ntombi and I didn’t quite have the same pooling of superior qualities; in fact we all seem to share the same one: sheer, imposing physicality. Donald was as tall as me and even more massive, and Ntombi, while slightly shorter, was equally lean and athletic—as she’d proven every time she’d beaten me in a track meet. We seemed to triple up our weaknesses, too. We were all a bit reckless and proud, quick to anger and impatient with people who weren’t as capable or decisive or even as tough as we were.