by Shayn Bloom
I giggle despite myself and with effort finally wrench my attention from the screen. Switching off the iPad, I put it on my desk. “Nothing too modern. I’m reading The Great Gatsby. Studying, actually.”
Eyebrows rise. “Studying? You get an iPad and the first thing you do is study? You’re the alien, Nora.” Stowing her cello beside her bed, she turns to face me again. “Have you had a good day?”
I think of Dr. James’ harassment. I don’t want to sound too whiny to a new friend, but that’s what friends do. Share. So I tell her what happened – about my not doing the homework and then getting called out. She manages to look surprisingly not guilty as I describe my hangover and why the homework didn’t get done.
“What an asshole!” Kiri says after I paraphrase what Dr. James said. “You don’t want a jerk like that around when it’s time for grades. We’re still in the drop/add period, Nora. You might consider it.”
Sighing, I stare out the window into the cloudy sky, still drizzling with commendably wet tenacity. “I don’t know. If I switch I’ll be behind in some other class and I will have to find the textbook. I think I’ll sit tight with Dr. James and see what happens. Though I bet he’ll have it out for me now.”
“He will,” Kiri says. “Hey, want to go to dinner?”
I close my eyes and think about it, but as soon as I do I feel my stomach twist painfully. Food won’t be happening tonight. “No thanks,” I tell her. “I haven’t been feeling well since I arrived. I don’t know what’s wrong. Dad says it’s anxiety. I haven’t been able to eat anything. Maybe I should see a doctor.”
“You should,” Kiri tells me. “Soon.”
* * *
Next day I awake in panic, certain I’ve slept through class. My eyes dart for the alarm clock and I breathe a sigh of relief. I have plenty of time. Geez, it’s so tempting to go back to sleep. But I know I can’t. With a heave, I lift myself from bed and make my way to the bathroom.
Kiri – as usual – is gone.
For unflattering reasons it’s been two days since I took a shower. It won’t be three. Putting in my contacts, I gaze with satisfaction at my dulled eyes, their bizarre brightness compromised by the lenses. I take a long, luxuriating shower, allowing the hot water to caress me and wipe away memories of yesterday.
Clean, I towel off and get dressed. In jeans and a flowery camisole I look like summer. Drying my hair out in the bathroom does the trick. Clean and cute, I begin to feel better about everything, even while my stomach pains me. After applying perfume I grab my weightless backpack and I’m out the door, but not before I’ve stuffed my iPad in alongside my books and notes for class.
I glance guiltily at the dining hall as I pass it on my way to Red Square. I’ve had two meals in four days. One with Gabriel and one alone. I wonder if they keep track of students who aren’t eating. I bet it’s only a matter of time before the anorexia police come knocking. I hope they understand. It’s not that I don’t want to eat – it’s that I can’t! Physically can’t. If I do, bad things will happen.
Walking into the English 301 classroom I see Wolf sitting in the same seat as last time. Bizarre – somehow he slipped my mind. Revelations about one Gabriel White had driven the muscular, russet-skinned boy from my thoughts. In my defense I just learned that wizards exist. That’s kind of big. I take my seat next to Wolf and grin disarmingly over at him. I feel ecstatic all of a sudden.
“What’s up with you?” Wolf asks.
My grin dissipates in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“You look different today,” he muses, his black eyes thoughtful. “Changed.”
I pull a hair band from my pocket before affixing my hair into a neat ponytail. I can’t help but notice Wolf watching me with interest. Our eyes meet and I blush, although he does too.
“I love watching girls put their hair up,” Wolf says matter-of-factly. “The way you do it seems so intricate, so overcomplicated. Yet every girl out there does it perfectly. It’s fascinating.”
“If you say so,” I giggle.
“Morning class,” Dr. Tuten says to the room at large. “I hope you enjoyed your single homework-free day till the end of term.” There’s a collective groan. Dr. Tuten shakes his head. “I’m exaggerating, but you will have an essay due each week. How could you not? This is an essay writing class!”
“We have to write essays in here?” Wolf says in outrage. “I’m dropping!”
I giggle uncontrollably this time, unable to stop myself.
“Show of hands,” Dr. Tuten begins, “who likes to work in teams?” Four out of twenty plus students raise their hands. “That is typical,” Dr. Tuten adds. “But you must learn to work in teams. Life – when you think about it – is all about teams. Your family is a team, your marriage is a team, your relationships are teams, your corporations are teams, and your country is a team. Acquiring team skills is not only necessary but vital to success. I will require you to work in teams today. Two to an essay – there are twenty-five of you so the straggler gets to work with me. I expect thirteen essays by the end of class. You have an hour and fifteen minutes. Begin!”
I turn to Wolf. “Want to be a team?”
“I was going to ask you,” Wolf says.
“Too late,” I say despondently, but hiding a grin, “I asked first. In or out?”
Wolf grins, his very white teeth contrasting gorgeously against russet skin and full, maroon lips. “I’m in,” he says. “But perhaps I should find an essay mate who understands the intricacies of communication!”
The audacity of his words!
“Fine,” I say, faking wonderfully. “Find somebody else. Fail the essay assignment, which you will because you hate writing essays so much. See if I care. Don’t come crawling back for my help next time he assigns teamwork.”
Wolf arranges his face into such an adorable expression I can’t help but grin, despite my trying so hard to keep a straight face. “I was just testing your backbone, Nora,” he says. “No need to get upset. It seems everyone else has already found a mate, so now we’re stuck with each other.”
“Lucky you,” I tell him.
Wolf nods once. “Lucky me.”
He’s so cute! I’m so happy he’s with me!
Black eyes light my insides. “What should we write about?”
I’m trying not to look enraptured. I’m failing. “I’m not sure,” I say. “Not really in the essay writing mood right now.”
“Now you know how I always feel.”
“I told you to switch majors,” I remind him.
He’s frowning. “I told you I can’t do anything else.”
“You’re only taking one class,” I rebut.
“Yup,” he agrees, “what’s your point?”
Sighing, I gaze out the window. The sky is cloudy and dark, the drizzling rain so common in this part of the world seeming ready to pour at any second, unexpected, elusive, devious in its timing. Looking around the room, it strikes me that every other team is knee deep in their essay.
“Why don’t we write about –” I start.
“Werewolves!” he finishes, black eyes staring at me hard. “Why don’t we write about werewolves?”
“Werewolves?” I repeat in confusion. What the fuck? “I was going to say iPads. I don’t know anything about werewolves.”
“I do,” Wolf says. “You can be my scribe. I’ll talk and you write.”
“But –” I begin.
“We’re already behind,” Wolf says, gesturing to the class at large, most of who are paragraphs into their essays. “If we don’t get started we won’t finish and Tuten will give us a zero for the day.”
Shaking my head, I gesture my surrender. Opening my backpack, I pull pen and paper from inside.
“Don’t you have a computer?” Wolf asks. “This is the 21st century.”
“Yes, I know,” I answer gratingly. “I don’t have a laptop with me, no. I do have an iPad. A brand new iPad.”
“An iPad? Awesome! Pul
l that out.”
I grimace and shake my head. “I’ve tried typing on its keyboard,” I whine, “it’s misery. It’s okay for short stuff – like a poem or a cover letter – but daunting for an essay. Pen and paper will do.”
“If you say so,” Wolf says. “Ready?”
Aligning the page on my desk, I write my name at the top. If he’s nice to me I will consider adding his name, too. “Go ahead.”
“Title,” Wolfgang states, “Werewolves: the Sworn Protectors.”
Writing this across the top of the page, I try hard not to smile. What a disaster my imagination is becoming. Wizards, vampires, werewolves? What’s next? Zombies? The funny thing is everything seems possible now. But probably not to the professor. This paper is bound to fail.
“Done,” I tell him.
Wolf nods his acknowledgement. “Good – opening paragraph: Werewolves, often considered a menace to the safety of mankind, are in fact a breed of very ancient and sworn protectors of the human race. Our – their – aim is not to be the menace to human society, but to extinguish it. For werewolves notwithstanding, there exists a real threat to the safety and security of human beings.”
“This is a joke, right?”
Wolf frowns deeply. “No,” he states. “We – they – exist!”
“I don’t believe you,” I tell him, half lying. I sort of do believe him. After meeting Gabriel, a lot I considered impossible seems possible, as though a fairytale world revealed itself to me. Werewolves seem no more farfetched than wizards or vampires. I am an easy believer these days.
“I don’t care if you don’t believe me,” he says. “Write!”
“Next paragraph?”
Wolf leans closer to my desk. “The threat mankind faces is real. It exists in a single identity – that race of thirsty individuals who feed off their brothers and sisters and christens themselves vampire!”
I gasp involuntarily. Several people look around. “Sorry!” I say in hushed tones to Wolf, who looks annoyed. I gulp hard. “It’s just so crazy – all of this stuff. So crazy and unbelievable!”
Wolf is watching me with satisfaction. He says, “You better believe it. Ignorance leads to harm. Don’t be ignorant of the vampiric race!”
I nod and stare back at the page, my thoughts abounding in all directions.
“Ready for the next sentence?” Wolf asks.
“Yes,” I breathe. I realign my pen on the page.
“As it is the sole duty of werewolves to hunt and kill vampires, they have a tendency to group to areas populated by covens,” Wolf says. My pen quickly restates his words on the page. “The Olympic Peninsula, for example, is a part of the country famed for its vampire inhabitants. What is lesser known is many werewolf clans and tribes also populate its temperate, rainy shores and inlands.”
Wolf waits for me to finish writing before continuing. “So despite many fevered rumors and legends to the contrary, the werewolf is not a foe of mankind but the opposite – an ally of the weaker race. We – they – have only ever hunted vampires. In the ancient tales, when humans spoke and wrote about their fellows being attacked and bitten by werewolves, what they were seeing was not werewolves maiming humans but werewolves attacking vampires. From afar the two sights look similar.”
“Hold up,” I tell him, scribbling fast. “Okay – go ahead.”
“Conclusion,” he states. “Fear is an asset to the human race, as it is an asset to any race whose skin is not tough and whose claws and teeth are not sharp. Fear is the survival instinct that tells weaker races when to flee from stronger ones. But fear can be misplaced. The fear that keeps humans from understanding werewolves is misplaced. The fear driving humanity away from its sworn protectors is misplaced. Posterity dwells not on the side of such rampant misunderstanding and ignorance, but on the side of those who would do well to keep their protectors close. One can only hope with time and grace the human race will come to understand, appreciate, and cherish their werewolf protectors. But that happy time has yet to cross the threshold of existence into actuality.”
After getting him to repeat a line or two I’m finished. Rubbing my sore hand, I pass him the paper so he can put his name alongside mine. “Geez, you’re a good writer, Wolf. You said you can’t do anything else, but at least you can do this well. Why don’t you like doing something you’re so good at?”
He shrugs. “I find it tedious. I’d rather be hunt – err – sleeping,” he finishes, faltering and averting black eyes.
“It’s fascinating learning about werewolves,” I tell him. “They sound really cool. Sounds like humans should hang out with them more often. Like, when is a human safer then when she’s with a werewolf?”
Wolf gives me a wonderfully crooked grin. “Exactly!”
Chapter Four
Dr. Blakely walks into the History 145 classroom and blinks at the rows of students. “History 145: The American Revolution?” he mumbles, staring from face to face with genuine ignorance. A murmur of accent flows through the room. “Ah, good,” he says, and makes his way to his desk.
With wavy, shoulder length silver hair and a round age-spotted face, Dr. Blakely looks every inch the college professor, from his leather elbow pads to his patched briefcase. Setting it down on the desk, he opens it and begins to hand out syllabi. His movements are slow and faltering.
“I apologize,” Dr. Blakely begins, “for my absence on Tuesday. Had to have emergency eye surgery. Cataracts,” he remarks in disgust, “A symptom of age and looming doom. You must understand.”
The class gazes back at him in silence. On one hand, Dr. Blakely seems friendly enough. On the other, there is a somber note about him, as though he was mistreated as a child or else is secretly a member of the Addams Family.
“Welcome,” Dr. Blakely says nasally, “to History 145: The American Revolution. This class is about the roots of our country, about its humble beginning. We were not yet states but colonies, not yet sovereign individuals but subjects of George III, and not yet an undivided, indivisible nation but a hodgepodge collection of territories all of whom happened to speak the same language.”
Reaching up, I free my hair from its tie. I can tell this is going to be a long class, so I may as well get comfortable. Straightening my hair with my fingers, I curl it around my hand and toss it over my shoulder.
“I trust you’ve managed to get your textbooks for this class?” Dr. Blakely asks. Students begin looking at each other. Some nod, some shake their head, but most don’t answer. “You’ll need these,” he continues, holding up each book in turn. “They’re on the syllabus. We’ll be starting with David McCullough’s fabulous depiction of the early years of the war, 1776. Did anyone read John Adams or Truman?”
Silence.
“Oh well,” Dr. Blakely says sadly. “There’s always a chance. In any case, I think you’ll like this book. Try not to think of it as a textbook. I don’t. I try to choose books that transport you to the time of the subject matter rather than simply listing facts and dates. 1776 is an example of a transportational book.”
A boy near the back raises his hand. “Professor Blakely?”
“Yes?”
“Didn’t the traitor Benedict Arnold fight in the revolution?”
Dr. Blakely combs his silver hair with his fingers. “We’ll be talking about Mr. Arnold. Yes, he did fight in the revolution and despite popular slander was a great commander on the battlefield. Vastly unpredictable and Napoleonic in his approach to warfare. The details of his defection are complicated – we shall touch on them later. First things first,” Dr. Blakely continues, gazing around the room, “let’s start at the beginning. I like to ask some simple questions to gauge how much you learned in high school. For instance, who was the King of England during the Revolutionary War?”
Another boy raises his hand.
“Yes?” Dr. Blakely says.
“Charles III?”
* * *
I’m losing weight. I haven’t even been near a scale. I can
just feel it in my body, feel it in my clothes when I put them on in the morning – feel how the folds of my tank tops and camisoles have more space than before. Feel how everything I wear seems draped over me rather than on me.
In the mirror I don’t look unhealthy. I look radiant and beautiful, even while my skin is paler than I have ever seen it before.
It’s Friday morning. I have Fridays off, so every weekend is a three day weekend. That’s if you count having to do tons of homework as having a weekend. But I don’t mind the work. I’ve wanted this forever – the college life – so I’m not going to complain now I have it. I’m not that petty.
Kiri is gone for the weekend. She left early this morning to go home. What she had planned as a serious party weekend ended up being a go-home-and-get-stuff-I-forgot weekend, which is fine. I’m pleased to have time to do work.
I find myself on a Saturday morning lying in Kiri’s bean bag chair. Would it be lying in or lying on? I think lying in – it is a bean bag chair after all. It has a tendency to consume its occupant.
I’m debating whether to go to the dining hall and try to eat yogurt or not. Even the thought of one little yogurt makes me feel sick. I decide against the idea, noting I’ve been here six days and I’ve only had two meals so far. Yet I don’t feel hungry at all, just nauseas.
Grabbing my iPad, I begin reading again. I’ve been engrossed in The Great Gatsby. I’m more than halfway through the novel. It’s so much better than I remember. I find myself identifying with Nick’s moral struggles between right and wrong, friends and enemies, and dreams and reality.
I get lost in the novel and end up reading for the rest of the afternoon. By dinnertime I have only two chapters left.
Let Dr. James get on your case now, my alter ego remarks.
I have a feeling he will, I reply. I’m the scapegoat now. Officially assigned.
Taking a break, I go to the bathroom to refill my water heater. A kettle with a plug, my water heater is one of my best friends. She allows me to have tea whenever I want it. Without her I’d be forced to go to the dining hall. That’s too much walking for my lovely tea. At least I’m drinking if not eating.