TALES OF TERROR '09
These range from unfinished to really really unfinished and are of many fandoms and types! In two parts because of length.
"You've been to Argentina, right?" Shell asked.
"Yes," Sarah said, a little unnerved by the rapid change of subject. "Why?"
"Because they found this massive fucking raptor there. It's called a dromaeosaur and it could totally fuck your shit up. It's sixteen feet long. They have blade-like teeth. It's a monster raptor with knife teeth and scythe claws. Tell me that isn't fucking awesome."
"That sounds awesome." Sarah agreed. "Is it real?"
"Of course it's real. It was in National Geographic."
"You-- " Sarah stared. "Why?"
He shrugged. "It was on Robin's coffee table."
Shell looked entirely unconcerned with this, which was funny, because Sarah had so many questions that she couldn't decide which one to ask. She finally managed to say, "He keeps magazines on his coffee table?"
"Of course he does," Shell snorted, "Have you met the guy?"
"So," Sarah said, trying and failing to sound casual, "Why were you, um, reading his magazines?"
"Look, science girl," Shell said, "I know you're not frothing at the mouth for a boyfriend. I'll tell you this, though, sometimes you have to read whatever the hell's on their coffee table."
"I mean, you're… Going to his apartment?"
"Well, yeah."
"Why?"
"It's kind of what you do. He makes a shitty casserole, though."
this is all iambickilometer fault
I woke up that morning thinking that the day might not completely suck. Sure, I'd almost been blown up by a demon the size of a Hummer, but that had been nearly twenty hours ago. Besides, that demon was dead, and both my client and karma owed me some serious credit at this point. The way things were going, there should be a pack of beautiful women outside my front door just to even up my score with the universe. That's what I was thinking last week. As it turned out, there was a pack of women outside, and they were, for the five seconds that I saw them before I started screaming like a little girl, pretty beautiful. Unfortunately, as per my daily schedule, they were there to kill me.
this is all iambickilometer fault
I stared out of the windshield, intent on the man passing. The sun was just setting, the shadows starting to stretch out against the ground, and I had been waiting for this mark for two hours already. Medium build, dark hair, deeply tanned skin, an olive jacket with jeans. A lot like my mark, except this guy was maybe three inches too short, and his hair wasn't the crew cut I'd seen earlier. You can make yourself taller, make your hair shorter, but it's hard to go the other way. I gotta ask, what are the odds these two guys live in the same apartment building? Not saying it happened just to piss me off, but come on, a lot of things happen just to piss me off, right? Like right then. My mother was calling me, and I was ninety percent sure the universe was doing it just to screw with me. Mom was always calling me. Constantly. It wasn't good for stakeout. Twice now it had gotten me made, and I wasn't about to let that happen again. I opened it on the second ring, still staring out my window. "Hi, mom."
"Terence," she said in that shaky voice she uses when she wants me to feel bad about picking up on the first ring, "It's your old mother, just calling to catch up with you."
"Mom, I'd love to talk, really I would, but I'm on my way to Peru, so I won't be able to get on the phone for the next eighteen hours, or the plane might fall out of the sky and explode," I said quickly before hanging up.
She called back. I picked up and dragged the phone across the seat, then banged the glovebox open and shut a few times, throwing in some faint screams for good measure. I heard an angry, "Terence? Terence?" Then she hung up, probably to call the airport and scream at someone until she got a travel voucher. It had worked in the past.
She didn't call back. Nobody came out of the apartment. I picked up the sweater I'd left on the passenger seat and continued unravelling it. It was kind of a point of pride for me that I had managed to find a sweater this completely hideous. Now, I've been known to wear white after labour day, but even I could tell this was bad. It was a scummy orange, with thin lines of pea-green, and electric yellow star accents. I had unravelled the left sleeve and was starting on the right. The left sleeve was a neat orange ball on the backseat.
The night wore on without so much as a whiff of my mark. He was up in his fourth floor apartment. I could see his kitchen light still on, but my view was mostly obscured by his ridiculous and impressive window box. He had marigolds the size of my forearm. I hadn't known that was possible.
Around midnight, the kitchen lights went out, but I wasn't being paid to assume he was asleep. I stuck around. When I was done unravelling the sweater, I got my crochet hook out of the glovebox and started the base row for my new pair of socks. Socks are damned hard to crochet, but it's a great way to keep your hands busy on stakeout. My dad always gives me shit for the crocheting thing, thinks my seat covers are hilarious, but I'm not the one who starts fidgeting fifteen minutes into a stakeout. And even though he knows he gets bored, he's always asking to tag along. He brings audiobooks. I mean, who listens to an audiobook on a stakeout? Invariably, he falls asleep. I was kind of hoping at the time that the Peru thing would get him to leave me be for a while. Ideally, both my parents would think I was floating facedown in the Pacific.
The kitchen lights flickered back on, surprising me so much I pulled my next row way too tight. I hadn't expected much from this mark. It had seemed like your garden-variety paranoid investigation. His co-worker, the guy in the cubicle next to him, was the one paying me. He'd said he had overheard all kinds of crazy stuff, nighttime meetings and underground rooms behind secret doors, the whole nine yards. I'd taken the case for the money, because it seemed like a nice job, the kind where I'd get paid for teaching myself to turn a heel. I squirmed a little lower in my seat. The last thing I wanted to do was be seen now. The mark, with his medium build and deep tan skin and short black hair, went out of his door in what was not an olive jacket. He was wearing an expensive-looking grey business suit. It looked nicer than what I'd seen him wear to work.
He got in his car and started to drive. I waited thirty long, painfully tense seconds before I started to follow him. This wasn't a normal investigation. If I got lucky, this would be way, way better than learning to turn a heel. Maybe a real PI case, some Tracer Bullet stuff with pretty girls and a flask. The job I had thought I was headed for when I was eight years old.
this is all iambickilometer fault
"Thanks for coming out here," the brunette said apologetically. Dean was confused -- She'd sounded way hotter on the phone. Sure, she was cute in that hippie way, probably grew her own vegetables, but she also seemed way too sensible to sleep with him. Sam might get some for once.
"Are they here?" said the hot phone voice. Another woman poked her head out of the kitchen. She was drying her hands on a dishcloth. She looked about the same age as the brunette, fresh out of college, probably, but her hair was stark white. "Hey, guys."
"Hi," Dean said, charming smile at the ready. "I'm Dean, this is my brother, Sam. You called us about -- "
"Yeah, we have a 'ghost' here," the woman sighed. "I'm Anne, by the way. That's Con."
"Hi," said Con.
"A ghost? How do you know?" Sam asked. Usually their clients were a little less matter-of-fact. The other ones were frequently crazy.
"Scratching sounds, cold spots, voices, the whole fantastically cheesy nine yards. I told Connie not to worry about it, but she had me call you."
"Actually, she's the one who said there was a ghost in the first place," Con pointed out quietly.
"I may have claimed, in passing, that there was something resembling a spirit in this house," Anne said with dignity. "But I wasn't serious, sweetheart, couldn't you tell?"
"I know you think you were lying," Con said stubbornly, "But you were right."
"I'm always right," Anne said.
"Make up your mind," Con sounded cross. "Do you two want something? I made scones."
"We're f-" Sam began, before the elbow Dean planted in his ribs left him gasping.
"We would love scones," Dean said. He smiled. Anne smiled back.
"I like you," she said, "That's a good smile. Keep practicing, though, there's always room for improvement."
"Don't be rude," Con muttered.
"I'm not being rude, I respect him as a fellow artist."
this is all iambickilometer fault
Anne tipped back her fedora and looked up at the three men. The smallest was almost a foot taller than her, and probably could have lifted her in one hand. "Is this a shakedown, boys?"
"It's a start," the leader rumbled.
"I don't sell my friends out," Anne said. "You've got nothing."
"Do you think it'd be all that hard for us to get something?" That was followed by a meaningful (And, Anne thought, unnecessary) glance at Con, who was cleaning glasses by the bar.
"You wouldn't dare," she said loftily. It was no concern of hers if they decided to do something to Con. Con could take care of herself. Mostly.
"I think we would."
Anne had a comeback for that, but they were already leaving. As soon as they were gone, Con sighed and dropped the gun she'd been holding beneath the counter onto its polished surface. "Who were they?"
"Some guys," Anne said, "Where'd you get the piece?"
"Some guys," Con sniped.
Anne put a hand to her heart. "Ouch."
"It was a present from Keith. I don't like touching them, though."
"Aww. Did you do it for me, doll?"
"Who were they?"
She waved a dismissive hand. "A couple of torpedos. Nothing to worry about."
"Sounds like something to worry about."
"Come on, Mrs. Grundy. Pour me something. Where're those boys?"
"Keith and Aiden? They're off with that moll again."
Anne flipped the fedora off. "What's her name? Devika, right?"
"Yeah."
"Well, they just better not fight over her," Anne said, "I need them to work together."
"It'll probably be fine," Con said, thinking that it wouldn't be. It was always ugly when best friends fell for the same girl. She'd seen it happen.
this is all iambickilometer fault
I had just picked up her dry cleaning when the call came. "John?" she said. "Are you on your way back?"
I sighed. I still had to pick up Arabella's coffee. I was nowhere near the point where I could head back to the office. After coffee, there was still that massive pile of paperwork, a meeting to organize with the head of imports in Indochina, a body to get rid of, and I had to walk her dog.
I hated cleaning up Arabella's messes. She wasn't a very tidy person, which was strange, because during business meetings she conducted herself like one. She pulled her hair back in a perfect bun and smiled with her bright white teeth at everyone there, which made them generally nervous. I was probably the only one who knew the truth -- Arabella ended each and every day with an office that looked like a hurricane had just struck, and I was the one who had to clean it up. I lint-rolled her lapels; I found her barrettes when she lost them; I alphabetized her books. Arabella was not a neat and organized person. However, she was a genius, and people tolerate quirks for the sake of genius. The truth was, Arabella was a fantastic problem solver. That's her entire job, what it says on her business cards: Arabella Faire, Problems Solved. I'm her assistant, Jonathan LeGrange. I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing. I'm not as good as Arabella, but I'm glad to be able to help her. I'm not always sure if she'd get along without me. She's good with other people's problems. She's pretty bad with her own. That's why one of the piles of paperwork I'm filling out today is the documentation for her divorce with her third husband. Because there are things Arabella just can't do, and apparently one of them is be married.
I'm also pretty bad at being married, but it might be because I've never gotten a chance to try.
Arabella's dog is a Pekinese named Franklin Heights. I have no idea why she named him that. People tend to assume it's a band, but I honestly don't think it is. I think Arabella named him that so people would think he was named after a band, and maybe think that they knew which band it was. It seems like something she would do. She asks people if they know about the war in Desmofistan just so she can tell them there's no such country. She made buttons for a protest and everything. Arabella likes it when people try to act smart so that she can prove they are faking. She likes to show them that she's better than them. Some people think Arabella is kind of a bitch. I don't think so. I think Arabella is a genius.
So I walked Franklin Heights, who was sick all over a tree and tried to pee on my leg, and I realized that I did not want to do the paperwork at all, so I put it off by disposing of the body. I've only done it twice, and I didn't remember how to do it all that well, but Arabella left me clear instructions on my Blackberry, so it wasn't too hard to figure out. She even left a link to the Google Maps with all the hardware stores that stocked sulphuric acid. This time I remembered to go to more than one.
The body was a businessman. He was pretty fat; I think he'd let himself go. I knew him, or rather had met him once at a function. He had asked the kitchen to make him a steak specially. Maybe he should have laid off on the steak. Or the mistresses. I don't think he'd be dead if he hadn't had quite so many mistresses. Arabella says the absolute limit ought to be two for any reasonable person. Arabella is very smart about that kind of thing.
So as soon as I was done with that and had changed my shirt to a nice, crisp, blue one from Ralph Lauren, I went and filed for Arabella's divorce. I would have called the department in Indochina, but I get nervous when speaking over the phone to people with accents.
Arabella's latest ex-husband was named Richard. He was asking for a divorce because she had suggested he move his mother to a retirement home in Florida. Richard said Arabella was a frigid bitch with no sense of family. I know that isn't true. Arabella moved her mother and father to their own house in the Caribbean as soon as she had enough money. I talk to them on the phone every week when they call. Arabella is often too busy for personal time, so I pass their messages on to her.
The department in Indochina was actually very nice. The receptionist had hardly any accent and was extremely polite, which is more than you get when talking to desk clerks here in America, who generally don't so much as take the gum out of their mouths. Arabella doesn't approve of gum and is trying to find a way to fix it.
this is all iambickilometer fault
Annemarie had always wanted to fly. She'd spent most of her childhood trying to figure out how to do it. There were, when you really thought about it, a ton of ways to fly. There were balloons, fake wings, kites, zooming around like an airplane, jumping off a roof -- The list went on and on. Annemarie had tried all of them (broken arm, dislocated wrist, black eye, broken leg) and they had universally failed her. The last thing she had tried was an umbrella, right after seeing Mary Poppins. It hadn't worked, of course. She had been disappointed once again, and after that had decided not to try and fly again. Clearly it wasn't working out. She got older, and settled for taking a lot of airplanes and parasailing when she was on vacation. She tried to get her pilot's license, but was too shortsighted to qualify. Annemarie was heartbroken, but she never told anyone. Instead, she married a nice man named Peter and had two children. Her children did not want to fly. Wendy was scared of heights. John shot at birds with his BB gun. Annemarie despaired.
One day, she was sitting outside, watching the clouds, when she saw the oddest thing up above her. There was a small black speck. She knew it wasn't a bird or an airplane. It was rounder than either of those, and the wrong size. It was very high up. Annemarie, who was in the habit of doing this sort of thing anyway, waved to it. The speck got larger and larger as she waved. Soon she was able to see that it wasn't a black speck, it was a red speck. And then she saw it was a red speck with blue jeans and blonde hair and big goggles. The boy, who was wearing a thick leather bomber jacket, touched down in front of her, closing his umbrella as he landed. "Hi!" he said brightly.
"Hi," Annemarie said.
"Why'd you flag me down? You don't look like air control," he asked. He didn't seem angry that she had called him down. He was smiling very nicely. He looked only slightly older than John, slightly younger than Wendy, possibly sixteen or so. He had a soft British accent and good boots.
"I'm not air control," Annemarie said, "I was just wondering what you were. I know for a fact people cannot use umbrellas to fly."
"They can, actually," the boy said.
"They cannot," Annemarie informed him. "I've tried it."
The boy puzzled over this. He scratched his head and walked around in a circle two times, then said, "Aha."
"What is it?"
"Well, this is just a guess," he said, "But the issue is most probably that you weren't using a golf umbrella. They're quite large, see?" He held up his own red umbrella for inspection. It was really quite large.
"You use that to fly?" Annemarie was amazed.
"Indeed I do," the boy said. "My name is Harold, by the way."
"Harold," Annemarie said. "Wow. How did you get here?"
"I was flying across the ocean with my friends, but I was caught by a gust," Harold said, slightly embarrassed. "I'm turned around. Do you know which was Disneyland is?"
"Well, the Disneyland in California or the one in Florida?"
"There's only one Disneyland," he said sternly. "The other one is Disneyworld."
"Right," Annemarie said. "It's probably in that direction."
"Thanks!" Harold said. He shook her by the hand. "You've been terribly helpful, I can't thank you enough."
"You could, actually," Annemarie said. "Do you think you could, um, show me how to fly?"
"It's very easy," Harold said. "Would you like to come to Disneyland with me?"
"You know," Annemarie said, "I really, really would."
"Then go fetch a golf umbrella. A nicely coloured one."
As it happened, she had bought her husband a bright yellow golf umbrella. He never used it. She went and got it out of the mudroom.
"What a wonderful colour," Harold beamed.
"Thank you," Annemarie said. "Peter doesn't think so."
"People on the ground are not always very nice," Harold said, "It's rather depressing."
"Like people in the air are any different?" Annemarie said doubtfully.
"They are," he said. "Wouldn't you be happier if you could fly? Not in an airplane, but up in the sky, feeling the wind? People in the air are much nicer than people on the ground, or people in airplanes. Well, geese aren't, but geese are never very polite."
"Do you see a lot of birds?"
"Yes, but they haven't got much to say."
"You can talk to them?"
"You'll get the hang of it. It's a very simple language, bird. Tiny brains, you see. Once you understand it you'll wish you didn't." Harold laughed. It was a pleasant sound. Then he unfolded his big red golf umbrella. "So, are you ready?"
"Yes," Annemarie said decisively, "Yes, I am." She opened her yellow umbrella, which looked like the sun, and the wind caught them both, and then they were flying.
this is all iambickilometer fault
While Annemarie was delighted to finally be flying, there was one thing she was worried about. Annemarie had a tendency to compulsively check the weather, on the radio, the TV, or in the paper. It made her feel more like she knew what was going on in the sky. Hearing about cloudbursts and tornadoes nearby gave her thrills. She'd had those same exact thrills this morning. With a slow tremor growing stronger in her gut, Annemarie realized that they were heading into a storm. They had no protection. They were being carried by large umbrellas! It was going to be awful, they were going to be struck by lightning, and she was probably going to die.
When she told Harold all this, especially the part about the storm and dying. he laughed. "Don't worry, miss."
"Why not?" Annemarie asked, a note of panic in her voice. "Why wouldn't I worry? We could die!"
"Think about it for a second," Harold said. "What are we using to fly?"
"Golf umbrellas. We're going to be electrocuted."
"That's exactly it! We're using gold umbrellas. And what do you use umbrellas for?"
"To keep the rain off," Annemarie said, not comprehending.
"You're terribly smart," Harold said admiringly, I "I wish I were as smart as you."
"Well, what does the umbrella have to do with things?"
"We're not going to be hit by the storm. Our umbrellas will keep us toasty and dry, you see?" Harold said. There were thunderheads getting closer to them now, looming menacingly on the horizon. He pulled his goggles down.
"It's too bad you don't have eye protection, Annemarie, but it'll all be fine," he said. "Your shoes won't even get wet. There's no puddles up here."
"This is a terrible idea," Annemarie said, closing her eyes tight just as they sailed into the first thick, dark, ominous cloud.
Nothing changed.
"See?" Harold sounded slightly muffled. "Not a problem."
Annemarie opened her eyes. She was inside the cloud, surrounded by thick, wooly-looking, dark fog. It wasn't cold, though. The fog wasn't even touching her. The cloud stayed away, at the periphery of her bright sunny-yellow golf umbrella.
"Isn't this fun?" Harold asked as rain began sliding off both their umbrellas. Annemarie could hardly see him The rain was positively torrential, but Annemarie and Harold both stayed toasty and dry.
"Well... yes, actually," Annemarie admitted. "It is fun."
"See?" Harold said. "That's is why this is the best way to travel."
Annemarie looked around some more. She could see the rain that went off of her umbrella pouring down onto the ground below them. It was quite a drop, but Annemarie wasn't scared. She'd never been nervous about heights. You may be wondering why her arms didn't get tired, but it's not really worth worrying about.
"Isn't it beautiful up here?" Harold said gleefully. Annemarie had to agree. She was enjoying it even more than she had expected to. There was something cozy about just how the rain just fell around them and the way the light filtered through the top of her bright, cheerful umbrella. She wondered when she would learn bird-language.
"Look over there!" Harold cried out.
"What is it?" Annemarie said, just as she realized exactly what it was.
Lightning flashed not twenty feet away from her. Annemarie couldn't scream, not even as thunder rolled at almost exactly the same moment. All she could do was laugh, a little hysterically but mostly like a little girl, giving herself over to it, losing everything in her fear and exhilaration and how completely and utterly beautiful the storm was.
this is all iambickilometer fault
Keith had been really excited about moving into a dorm. He got along with people, for one thing, so it was a fantastic opportunity to make friends. And this might be his chance to room with Aiden for real. If they were rooming together, they would have so much fun. It'd be like those sleepover from grade school and high school, but every night. He had big plans for it. They could have parties. They could meet girls. Aiden could help him with homework.
So when he found out he wasn't rooming with Aiden, it came as sort of a shock. Instead, he was rooming with someone named Jaktplan, which didn't sound like a real name. Still, Keith was looking forward to getting to know him. People with names that didn't sound real usually had really cool stories about things that had happened to them! So there was a chance his roommate was a spy or worked for the Mafia. That would be awesome. Less awesome than rooming with Aiden, but still. Awesome.
He got to his room and dropped his duffel onto the bed on the right. It actually took him a second to notice that his new roommate was already there. The guy was sitting on the bed on the left, reading. He looked even more serious than Aiden on a bad day, which was saying something, but maybe he'd be fun, too. Aiden was fun. Keith leaned across the bed and proferred a hand to shake. "Hey! I'm Keith. You're Jaktplan, right? Cool name."
"Hey." His hand was, briefly, shaken.
"I'm glad you chose your bed," he continued, undaunted, "I wasn't sure which one you would want, but I guess it's not a problem."
"No."
"So!" Keith said after a long silence. "What do you like to do for fun?"
"I like reading," Jaktplan said. "In the quiet."
"I have a friend like that. He's been my friend since -- Kindergarten, actually. I kind of thought I'd be rooming with him, but this is cool, too. This is like a whole new thing. It's an adventure."
"Why don't you go bother him?"
"Um," said Keith, who was not used to people being mean to him.
Jaktplan glanced up from the book. "No, really."
"Are you okay? Are you nervous about being at a new school and having a new home? I was nervous, kind of," Keith, who hadn't been nervous at all, said. "But don't look at it that way! Think of it as a new thing to explore!"
"I'm really not."
"Besides, it's great to make new friends. You've been here for just a few minutes and you already have a friend. I think my friends will like you, too. You should come out with us."
"I'm just going to read this."
"Don't be a stick in the mud," Keith said, "Socializing is important for your health. Aiden is basically going to be a doctor and he told me that."
"You're kind of unreal," Jakt commented. "Did you come here to learn or talk?"
"I learn best by talking. It lets me get involved in the material."
Jakt was absolutely not looking forward to this.
this is all iambickilometer fault
"Con, are you coming?" Anne asked.
Constance had no idea what she was talking about. She had just met Anne White, who was dorming with her, and had immediately been nicknamed, darlin'd, and talked at to within an inch of her life. She was intimidated by the other girl, who looked like an art student with her long white hair, vintage shirt, and big, blue eyes. Anne had met Constance, tossed her bag into the closet, and then gone out of the room for about twenty minutes. She'd come back with two party invitations and a phone number. Constance had no idea what to make of her.
"Am I coming to what?"
"The party," Anne said. "The party I got invited to. It's for juniors and seniors only, but they said I could come and bring a friend if I wanted to. People are very nice, aren't they?"
"I don't really like parties," Con said.
"Have a drink there, loosen up! I'll buy."
"I don't drink," Con said.
"Well, then what DO you do?" Anne asked. She grabbed Con by the elbow and dragged her upright, then began rifling through her closet. "This is nice, wear this."
"That's my church dress," Con said nervously.
"Do people still have those? Just tug it down in front and don't wear the sweater, you'll look fantastic. If you wear stockings it'll be really librarian-chic."
Constance saw no other immediate mode of escape, and took the dress down off its hanger. "I'd really rather not go to this."
"Oh, stop," Anne said. "It's a party! It'll be fun. Think of all the people you'll meet!"
So that was how Constance ended up at the party, nonalcoholic lemonade in hand, standing on the outskirts and as close to the door as possible. She'd been there for twenty minutes, and was nearly ready to leave, when Anne emerged from the crowd. There was a boy with her. He didn't look like an upperclassman, either, and was almost radiating exhuberence.
"This is Julian," Anne said. "Julian, this is Con."
"Cool name," he said, grinning.
"It's Constance, actually," she said to the floor.
"What's a pretty girl like you doing near the wall?" Julian wanted to know. "Anne was looking for you. She wants you t -- "
"Dance," Anne cut in, "I want you to dance with me."
Con shook her head, turning pink. "I don't dance very well. At all, actually."
"It's easy," Anne said. "Come on."
Con sipped at her lemonade and thought, Well, maybe. She's nice. It won't kill me, except maybe I'll blush myself to death. She nodded.
Anne smiled hugely and tugged her away from the wall. The music was very, very loud and the room wasn't all that large. Con, who was getting way too hot, had some more lemonade. She realized she sort of COULD dance, if pressed, although she didn't really like how people were looking at her. She'd have been scared, except she wasn't, and she couldn't figure out why. Maybe because someone was there with her. Anne let off confidence in waves. It was hard to deny her anything, hard not to dance when she said dance, hard not to follow her like a planet in orbit.
Con pushed her way out of the crowd and went for some more lemonade. It was sweltering in the room. Julian was standing by the drinks table. He nodded at her. "Have fun with Anne?"
"Yes, actually," Con said. "It was very -- Um -- " It was good to have something to sip at in your hands when you couldn't think of quite what to say.
"You like that lemonade, huh?" he asked.
"I didn't at first."
Anne came after her, zeroed in on her and Julian, and bounced up to them. "Hey, what's going on?"
"Con was just telling me how she likes the lemonade," Julian said.
Con giggled.
Anne bit her lip, possibly suppressing a laugh. "Okay, darlin', let's get you home."
"D'you call everyone that, or just me?" Con asked. Anne didn't answer. She directed Con out of the room and got her across campus, back to their dorm. Then she held Con's hair back while she threw up in the toilet.
"Sorry, darlin'," she said, her hand soft and cupped agains the back of Con's neck. "Won't let it happen again."
this is all iambickilometer fault
PART TWO
"You've been to Argentina, right?" Shell asked.
"Yes," Sarah said, a little unnerved by the rapid change of subject. "Why?"
"Because they found this massive fucking raptor there. It's called a dromaeosaur and it could totally fuck your shit up. It's sixteen feet long. They have blade-like teeth. It's a monster raptor with knife teeth and scythe claws. Tell me that isn't fucking awesome."
"That sounds awesome." Sarah agreed. "Is it real?"
"Of course it's real. It was in National Geographic."
"You-- " Sarah stared. "Why?"
He shrugged. "It was on Robin's coffee table."
Shell looked entirely unconcerned with this, which was funny, because Sarah had so many questions that she couldn't decide which one to ask. She finally managed to say, "He keeps magazines on his coffee table?"
"Of course he does," Shell snorted, "Have you met the guy?"
"So," Sarah said, trying and failing to sound casual, "Why were you, um, reading his magazines?"
"Look, science girl," Shell said, "I know you're not frothing at the mouth for a boyfriend. I'll tell you this, though, sometimes you have to read whatever the hell's on their coffee table."
"I mean, you're… Going to his apartment?"
"Well, yeah."
"Why?"
"It's kind of what you do. He makes a shitty casserole, though."
this is all iambickilometer fault
I woke up that morning thinking that the day might not completely suck. Sure, I'd almost been blown up by a demon the size of a Hummer, but that had been nearly twenty hours ago. Besides, that demon was dead, and both my client and karma owed me some serious credit at this point. The way things were going, there should be a pack of beautiful women outside my front door just to even up my score with the universe. That's what I was thinking last week. As it turned out, there was a pack of women outside, and they were, for the five seconds that I saw them before I started screaming like a little girl, pretty beautiful. Unfortunately, as per my daily schedule, they were there to kill me.
this is all iambickilometer fault
I stared out of the windshield, intent on the man passing. The sun was just setting, the shadows starting to stretch out against the ground, and I had been waiting for this mark for two hours already. Medium build, dark hair, deeply tanned skin, an olive jacket with jeans. A lot like my mark, except this guy was maybe three inches too short, and his hair wasn't the crew cut I'd seen earlier. You can make yourself taller, make your hair shorter, but it's hard to go the other way. I gotta ask, what are the odds these two guys live in the same apartment building? Not saying it happened just to piss me off, but come on, a lot of things happen just to piss me off, right? Like right then. My mother was calling me, and I was ninety percent sure the universe was doing it just to screw with me. Mom was always calling me. Constantly. It wasn't good for stakeout. Twice now it had gotten me made, and I wasn't about to let that happen again. I opened it on the second ring, still staring out my window. "Hi, mom."
"Terence," she said in that shaky voice she uses when she wants me to feel bad about picking up on the first ring, "It's your old mother, just calling to catch up with you."
"Mom, I'd love to talk, really I would, but I'm on my way to Peru, so I won't be able to get on the phone for the next eighteen hours, or the plane might fall out of the sky and explode," I said quickly before hanging up.
She called back. I picked up and dragged the phone across the seat, then banged the glovebox open and shut a few times, throwing in some faint screams for good measure. I heard an angry, "Terence? Terence?" Then she hung up, probably to call the airport and scream at someone until she got a travel voucher. It had worked in the past.
She didn't call back. Nobody came out of the apartment. I picked up the sweater I'd left on the passenger seat and continued unravelling it. It was kind of a point of pride for me that I had managed to find a sweater this completely hideous. Now, I've been known to wear white after labour day, but even I could tell this was bad. It was a scummy orange, with thin lines of pea-green, and electric yellow star accents. I had unravelled the left sleeve and was starting on the right. The left sleeve was a neat orange ball on the backseat.
The night wore on without so much as a whiff of my mark. He was up in his fourth floor apartment. I could see his kitchen light still on, but my view was mostly obscured by his ridiculous and impressive window box. He had marigolds the size of my forearm. I hadn't known that was possible.
Around midnight, the kitchen lights went out, but I wasn't being paid to assume he was asleep. I stuck around. When I was done unravelling the sweater, I got my crochet hook out of the glovebox and started the base row for my new pair of socks. Socks are damned hard to crochet, but it's a great way to keep your hands busy on stakeout. My dad always gives me shit for the crocheting thing, thinks my seat covers are hilarious, but I'm not the one who starts fidgeting fifteen minutes into a stakeout. And even though he knows he gets bored, he's always asking to tag along. He brings audiobooks. I mean, who listens to an audiobook on a stakeout? Invariably, he falls asleep. I was kind of hoping at the time that the Peru thing would get him to leave me be for a while. Ideally, both my parents would think I was floating facedown in the Pacific.
The kitchen lights flickered back on, surprising me so much I pulled my next row way too tight. I hadn't expected much from this mark. It had seemed like your garden-variety paranoid investigation. His co-worker, the guy in the cubicle next to him, was the one paying me. He'd said he had overheard all kinds of crazy stuff, nighttime meetings and underground rooms behind secret doors, the whole nine yards. I'd taken the case for the money, because it seemed like a nice job, the kind where I'd get paid for teaching myself to turn a heel. I squirmed a little lower in my seat. The last thing I wanted to do was be seen now. The mark, with his medium build and deep tan skin and short black hair, went out of his door in what was not an olive jacket. He was wearing an expensive-looking grey business suit. It looked nicer than what I'd seen him wear to work.
He got in his car and started to drive. I waited thirty long, painfully tense seconds before I started to follow him. This wasn't a normal investigation. If I got lucky, this would be way, way better than learning to turn a heel. Maybe a real PI case, some Tracer Bullet stuff with pretty girls and a flask. The job I had thought I was headed for when I was eight years old.
this is all iambickilometer fault
"Thanks for coming out here," the brunette said apologetically. Dean was confused -- She'd sounded way hotter on the phone. Sure, she was cute in that hippie way, probably grew her own vegetables, but she also seemed way too sensible to sleep with him. Sam might get some for once.
"Are they here?" said the hot phone voice. Another woman poked her head out of the kitchen. She was drying her hands on a dishcloth. She looked about the same age as the brunette, fresh out of college, probably, but her hair was stark white. "Hey, guys."
"Hi," Dean said, charming smile at the ready. "I'm Dean, this is my brother, Sam. You called us about -- "
"Yeah, we have a 'ghost' here," the woman sighed. "I'm Anne, by the way. That's Con."
"Hi," said Con.
"A ghost? How do you know?" Sam asked. Usually their clients were a little less matter-of-fact. The other ones were frequently crazy.
"Scratching sounds, cold spots, voices, the whole fantastically cheesy nine yards. I told Connie not to worry about it, but she had me call you."
"Actually, she's the one who said there was a ghost in the first place," Con pointed out quietly.
"I may have claimed, in passing, that there was something resembling a spirit in this house," Anne said with dignity. "But I wasn't serious, sweetheart, couldn't you tell?"
"I know you think you were lying," Con said stubbornly, "But you were right."
"I'm always right," Anne said.
"Make up your mind," Con sounded cross. "Do you two want something? I made scones."
"We're f-" Sam began, before the elbow Dean planted in his ribs left him gasping.
"We would love scones," Dean said. He smiled. Anne smiled back.
"I like you," she said, "That's a good smile. Keep practicing, though, there's always room for improvement."
"Don't be rude," Con muttered.
"I'm not being rude, I respect him as a fellow artist."
this is all iambickilometer fault
Anne tipped back her fedora and looked up at the three men. The smallest was almost a foot taller than her, and probably could have lifted her in one hand. "Is this a shakedown, boys?"
"It's a start," the leader rumbled.
"I don't sell my friends out," Anne said. "You've got nothing."
"Do you think it'd be all that hard for us to get something?" That was followed by a meaningful (And, Anne thought, unnecessary) glance at Con, who was cleaning glasses by the bar.
"You wouldn't dare," she said loftily. It was no concern of hers if they decided to do something to Con. Con could take care of herself. Mostly.
"I think we would."
Anne had a comeback for that, but they were already leaving. As soon as they were gone, Con sighed and dropped the gun she'd been holding beneath the counter onto its polished surface. "Who were they?"
"Some guys," Anne said, "Where'd you get the piece?"
"Some guys," Con sniped.
Anne put a hand to her heart. "Ouch."
"It was a present from Keith. I don't like touching them, though."
"Aww. Did you do it for me, doll?"
"Who were they?"
She waved a dismissive hand. "A couple of torpedos. Nothing to worry about."
"Sounds like something to worry about."
"Come on, Mrs. Grundy. Pour me something. Where're those boys?"
"Keith and Aiden? They're off with that moll again."
Anne flipped the fedora off. "What's her name? Devika, right?"
"Yeah."
"Well, they just better not fight over her," Anne said, "I need them to work together."
"It'll probably be fine," Con said, thinking that it wouldn't be. It was always ugly when best friends fell for the same girl. She'd seen it happen.
this is all iambickilometer fault
I had just picked up her dry cleaning when the call came. "John?" she said. "Are you on your way back?"
I sighed. I still had to pick up Arabella's coffee. I was nowhere near the point where I could head back to the office. After coffee, there was still that massive pile of paperwork, a meeting to organize with the head of imports in Indochina, a body to get rid of, and I had to walk her dog.
I hated cleaning up Arabella's messes. She wasn't a very tidy person, which was strange, because during business meetings she conducted herself like one. She pulled her hair back in a perfect bun and smiled with her bright white teeth at everyone there, which made them generally nervous. I was probably the only one who knew the truth -- Arabella ended each and every day with an office that looked like a hurricane had just struck, and I was the one who had to clean it up. I lint-rolled her lapels; I found her barrettes when she lost them; I alphabetized her books. Arabella was not a neat and organized person. However, she was a genius, and people tolerate quirks for the sake of genius. The truth was, Arabella was a fantastic problem solver. That's her entire job, what it says on her business cards: Arabella Faire, Problems Solved. I'm her assistant, Jonathan LeGrange. I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing. I'm not as good as Arabella, but I'm glad to be able to help her. I'm not always sure if she'd get along without me. She's good with other people's problems. She's pretty bad with her own. That's why one of the piles of paperwork I'm filling out today is the documentation for her divorce with her third husband. Because there are things Arabella just can't do, and apparently one of them is be married.
I'm also pretty bad at being married, but it might be because I've never gotten a chance to try.
Arabella's dog is a Pekinese named Franklin Heights. I have no idea why she named him that. People tend to assume it's a band, but I honestly don't think it is. I think Arabella named him that so people would think he was named after a band, and maybe think that they knew which band it was. It seems like something she would do. She asks people if they know about the war in Desmofistan just so she can tell them there's no such country. She made buttons for a protest and everything. Arabella likes it when people try to act smart so that she can prove they are faking. She likes to show them that she's better than them. Some people think Arabella is kind of a bitch. I don't think so. I think Arabella is a genius.
So I walked Franklin Heights, who was sick all over a tree and tried to pee on my leg, and I realized that I did not want to do the paperwork at all, so I put it off by disposing of the body. I've only done it twice, and I didn't remember how to do it all that well, but Arabella left me clear instructions on my Blackberry, so it wasn't too hard to figure out. She even left a link to the Google Maps with all the hardware stores that stocked sulphuric acid. This time I remembered to go to more than one.
The body was a businessman. He was pretty fat; I think he'd let himself go. I knew him, or rather had met him once at a function. He had asked the kitchen to make him a steak specially. Maybe he should have laid off on the steak. Or the mistresses. I don't think he'd be dead if he hadn't had quite so many mistresses. Arabella says the absolute limit ought to be two for any reasonable person. Arabella is very smart about that kind of thing.
So as soon as I was done with that and had changed my shirt to a nice, crisp, blue one from Ralph Lauren, I went and filed for Arabella's divorce. I would have called the department in Indochina, but I get nervous when speaking over the phone to people with accents.
Arabella's latest ex-husband was named Richard. He was asking for a divorce because she had suggested he move his mother to a retirement home in Florida. Richard said Arabella was a frigid bitch with no sense of family. I know that isn't true. Arabella moved her mother and father to their own house in the Caribbean as soon as she had enough money. I talk to them on the phone every week when they call. Arabella is often too busy for personal time, so I pass their messages on to her.
The department in Indochina was actually very nice. The receptionist had hardly any accent and was extremely polite, which is more than you get when talking to desk clerks here in America, who generally don't so much as take the gum out of their mouths. Arabella doesn't approve of gum and is trying to find a way to fix it.
this is all iambickilometer fault
Annemarie had always wanted to fly. She'd spent most of her childhood trying to figure out how to do it. There were, when you really thought about it, a ton of ways to fly. There were balloons, fake wings, kites, zooming around like an airplane, jumping off a roof -- The list went on and on. Annemarie had tried all of them (broken arm, dislocated wrist, black eye, broken leg) and they had universally failed her. The last thing she had tried was an umbrella, right after seeing Mary Poppins. It hadn't worked, of course. She had been disappointed once again, and after that had decided not to try and fly again. Clearly it wasn't working out. She got older, and settled for taking a lot of airplanes and parasailing when she was on vacation. She tried to get her pilot's license, but was too shortsighted to qualify. Annemarie was heartbroken, but she never told anyone. Instead, she married a nice man named Peter and had two children. Her children did not want to fly. Wendy was scared of heights. John shot at birds with his BB gun. Annemarie despaired.
One day, she was sitting outside, watching the clouds, when she saw the oddest thing up above her. There was a small black speck. She knew it wasn't a bird or an airplane. It was rounder than either of those, and the wrong size. It was very high up. Annemarie, who was in the habit of doing this sort of thing anyway, waved to it. The speck got larger and larger as she waved. Soon she was able to see that it wasn't a black speck, it was a red speck. And then she saw it was a red speck with blue jeans and blonde hair and big goggles. The boy, who was wearing a thick leather bomber jacket, touched down in front of her, closing his umbrella as he landed. "Hi!" he said brightly.
"Hi," Annemarie said.
"Why'd you flag me down? You don't look like air control," he asked. He didn't seem angry that she had called him down. He was smiling very nicely. He looked only slightly older than John, slightly younger than Wendy, possibly sixteen or so. He had a soft British accent and good boots.
"I'm not air control," Annemarie said, "I was just wondering what you were. I know for a fact people cannot use umbrellas to fly."
"They can, actually," the boy said.
"They cannot," Annemarie informed him. "I've tried it."
The boy puzzled over this. He scratched his head and walked around in a circle two times, then said, "Aha."
"What is it?"
"Well, this is just a guess," he said, "But the issue is most probably that you weren't using a golf umbrella. They're quite large, see?" He held up his own red umbrella for inspection. It was really quite large.
"You use that to fly?" Annemarie was amazed.
"Indeed I do," the boy said. "My name is Harold, by the way."
"Harold," Annemarie said. "Wow. How did you get here?"
"I was flying across the ocean with my friends, but I was caught by a gust," Harold said, slightly embarrassed. "I'm turned around. Do you know which was Disneyland is?"
"Well, the Disneyland in California or the one in Florida?"
"There's only one Disneyland," he said sternly. "The other one is Disneyworld."
"Right," Annemarie said. "It's probably in that direction."
"Thanks!" Harold said. He shook her by the hand. "You've been terribly helpful, I can't thank you enough."
"You could, actually," Annemarie said. "Do you think you could, um, show me how to fly?"
"It's very easy," Harold said. "Would you like to come to Disneyland with me?"
"You know," Annemarie said, "I really, really would."
"Then go fetch a golf umbrella. A nicely coloured one."
As it happened, she had bought her husband a bright yellow golf umbrella. He never used it. She went and got it out of the mudroom.
"What a wonderful colour," Harold beamed.
"Thank you," Annemarie said. "Peter doesn't think so."
"People on the ground are not always very nice," Harold said, "It's rather depressing."
"Like people in the air are any different?" Annemarie said doubtfully.
"They are," he said. "Wouldn't you be happier if you could fly? Not in an airplane, but up in the sky, feeling the wind? People in the air are much nicer than people on the ground, or people in airplanes. Well, geese aren't, but geese are never very polite."
"Do you see a lot of birds?"
"Yes, but they haven't got much to say."
"You can talk to them?"
"You'll get the hang of it. It's a very simple language, bird. Tiny brains, you see. Once you understand it you'll wish you didn't." Harold laughed. It was a pleasant sound. Then he unfolded his big red golf umbrella. "So, are you ready?"
"Yes," Annemarie said decisively, "Yes, I am." She opened her yellow umbrella, which looked like the sun, and the wind caught them both, and then they were flying.
this is all iambickilometer fault
While Annemarie was delighted to finally be flying, there was one thing she was worried about. Annemarie had a tendency to compulsively check the weather, on the radio, the TV, or in the paper. It made her feel more like she knew what was going on in the sky. Hearing about cloudbursts and tornadoes nearby gave her thrills. She'd had those same exact thrills this morning. With a slow tremor growing stronger in her gut, Annemarie realized that they were heading into a storm. They had no protection. They were being carried by large umbrellas! It was going to be awful, they were going to be struck by lightning, and she was probably going to die.
When she told Harold all this, especially the part about the storm and dying. he laughed. "Don't worry, miss."
"Why not?" Annemarie asked, a note of panic in her voice. "Why wouldn't I worry? We could die!"
"Think about it for a second," Harold said. "What are we using to fly?"
"Golf umbrellas. We're going to be electrocuted."
"That's exactly it! We're using gold umbrellas. And what do you use umbrellas for?"
"To keep the rain off," Annemarie said, not comprehending.
"You're terribly smart," Harold said admiringly, I "I wish I were as smart as you."
"Well, what does the umbrella have to do with things?"
"We're not going to be hit by the storm. Our umbrellas will keep us toasty and dry, you see?" Harold said. There were thunderheads getting closer to them now, looming menacingly on the horizon. He pulled his goggles down.
"It's too bad you don't have eye protection, Annemarie, but it'll all be fine," he said. "Your shoes won't even get wet. There's no puddles up here."
"This is a terrible idea," Annemarie said, closing her eyes tight just as they sailed into the first thick, dark, ominous cloud.
Nothing changed.
"See?" Harold sounded slightly muffled. "Not a problem."
Annemarie opened her eyes. She was inside the cloud, surrounded by thick, wooly-looking, dark fog. It wasn't cold, though. The fog wasn't even touching her. The cloud stayed away, at the periphery of her bright sunny-yellow golf umbrella.
"Isn't this fun?" Harold asked as rain began sliding off both their umbrellas. Annemarie could hardly see him The rain was positively torrential, but Annemarie and Harold both stayed toasty and dry.
"Well... yes, actually," Annemarie admitted. "It is fun."
"See?" Harold said. "That's is why this is the best way to travel."
Annemarie looked around some more. She could see the rain that went off of her umbrella pouring down onto the ground below them. It was quite a drop, but Annemarie wasn't scared. She'd never been nervous about heights. You may be wondering why her arms didn't get tired, but it's not really worth worrying about.
"Isn't it beautiful up here?" Harold said gleefully. Annemarie had to agree. She was enjoying it even more than she had expected to. There was something cozy about just how the rain just fell around them and the way the light filtered through the top of her bright, cheerful umbrella. She wondered when she would learn bird-language.
"Look over there!" Harold cried out.
"What is it?" Annemarie said, just as she realized exactly what it was.
Lightning flashed not twenty feet away from her. Annemarie couldn't scream, not even as thunder rolled at almost exactly the same moment. All she could do was laugh, a little hysterically but mostly like a little girl, giving herself over to it, losing everything in her fear and exhilaration and how completely and utterly beautiful the storm was.
this is all iambickilometer fault
Keith had been really excited about moving into a dorm. He got along with people, for one thing, so it was a fantastic opportunity to make friends. And this might be his chance to room with Aiden for real. If they were rooming together, they would have so much fun. It'd be like those sleepover from grade school and high school, but every night. He had big plans for it. They could have parties. They could meet girls. Aiden could help him with homework.
So when he found out he wasn't rooming with Aiden, it came as sort of a shock. Instead, he was rooming with someone named Jaktplan, which didn't sound like a real name. Still, Keith was looking forward to getting to know him. People with names that didn't sound real usually had really cool stories about things that had happened to them! So there was a chance his roommate was a spy or worked for the Mafia. That would be awesome. Less awesome than rooming with Aiden, but still. Awesome.
He got to his room and dropped his duffel onto the bed on the right. It actually took him a second to notice that his new roommate was already there. The guy was sitting on the bed on the left, reading. He looked even more serious than Aiden on a bad day, which was saying something, but maybe he'd be fun, too. Aiden was fun. Keith leaned across the bed and proferred a hand to shake. "Hey! I'm Keith. You're Jaktplan, right? Cool name."
"Hey." His hand was, briefly, shaken.
"I'm glad you chose your bed," he continued, undaunted, "I wasn't sure which one you would want, but I guess it's not a problem."
"No."
"So!" Keith said after a long silence. "What do you like to do for fun?"
"I like reading," Jaktplan said. "In the quiet."
"I have a friend like that. He's been my friend since -- Kindergarten, actually. I kind of thought I'd be rooming with him, but this is cool, too. This is like a whole new thing. It's an adventure."
"Why don't you go bother him?"
"Um," said Keith, who was not used to people being mean to him.
Jaktplan glanced up from the book. "No, really."
"Are you okay? Are you nervous about being at a new school and having a new home? I was nervous, kind of," Keith, who hadn't been nervous at all, said. "But don't look at it that way! Think of it as a new thing to explore!"
"I'm really not."
"Besides, it's great to make new friends. You've been here for just a few minutes and you already have a friend. I think my friends will like you, too. You should come out with us."
"I'm just going to read this."
"Don't be a stick in the mud," Keith said, "Socializing is important for your health. Aiden is basically going to be a doctor and he told me that."
"You're kind of unreal," Jakt commented. "Did you come here to learn or talk?"
"I learn best by talking. It lets me get involved in the material."
Jakt was absolutely not looking forward to this.
this is all iambickilometer fault
"Con, are you coming?" Anne asked.
Constance had no idea what she was talking about. She had just met Anne White, who was dorming with her, and had immediately been nicknamed, darlin'd, and talked at to within an inch of her life. She was intimidated by the other girl, who looked like an art student with her long white hair, vintage shirt, and big, blue eyes. Anne had met Constance, tossed her bag into the closet, and then gone out of the room for about twenty minutes. She'd come back with two party invitations and a phone number. Constance had no idea what to make of her.
"Am I coming to what?"
"The party," Anne said. "The party I got invited to. It's for juniors and seniors only, but they said I could come and bring a friend if I wanted to. People are very nice, aren't they?"
"I don't really like parties," Con said.
"Have a drink there, loosen up! I'll buy."
"I don't drink," Con said.
"Well, then what DO you do?" Anne asked. She grabbed Con by the elbow and dragged her upright, then began rifling through her closet. "This is nice, wear this."
"That's my church dress," Con said nervously.
"Do people still have those? Just tug it down in front and don't wear the sweater, you'll look fantastic. If you wear stockings it'll be really librarian-chic."
Constance saw no other immediate mode of escape, and took the dress down off its hanger. "I'd really rather not go to this."
"Oh, stop," Anne said. "It's a party! It'll be fun. Think of all the people you'll meet!"
So that was how Constance ended up at the party, nonalcoholic lemonade in hand, standing on the outskirts and as close to the door as possible. She'd been there for twenty minutes, and was nearly ready to leave, when Anne emerged from the crowd. There was a boy with her. He didn't look like an upperclassman, either, and was almost radiating exhuberence.
"This is Julian," Anne said. "Julian, this is Con."
"Cool name," he said, grinning.
"It's Constance, actually," she said to the floor.
"What's a pretty girl like you doing near the wall?" Julian wanted to know. "Anne was looking for you. She wants you t -- "
"Dance," Anne cut in, "I want you to dance with me."
Con shook her head, turning pink. "I don't dance very well. At all, actually."
"It's easy," Anne said. "Come on."
Con sipped at her lemonade and thought, Well, maybe. She's nice. It won't kill me, except maybe I'll blush myself to death. She nodded.
Anne smiled hugely and tugged her away from the wall. The music was very, very loud and the room wasn't all that large. Con, who was getting way too hot, had some more lemonade. She realized she sort of COULD dance, if pressed, although she didn't really like how people were looking at her. She'd have been scared, except she wasn't, and she couldn't figure out why. Maybe because someone was there with her. Anne let off confidence in waves. It was hard to deny her anything, hard not to dance when she said dance, hard not to follow her like a planet in orbit.
Con pushed her way out of the crowd and went for some more lemonade. It was sweltering in the room. Julian was standing by the drinks table. He nodded at her. "Have fun with Anne?"
"Yes, actually," Con said. "It was very -- Um -- " It was good to have something to sip at in your hands when you couldn't think of quite what to say.
"You like that lemonade, huh?" he asked.
"I didn't at first."
Anne came after her, zeroed in on her and Julian, and bounced up to them. "Hey, what's going on?"
"Con was just telling me how she likes the lemonade," Julian said.
Con giggled.
Anne bit her lip, possibly suppressing a laugh. "Okay, darlin', let's get you home."
"D'you call everyone that, or just me?" Con asked. Anne didn't answer. She directed Con out of the room and got her across campus, back to their dorm. Then she held Con's hair back while she threw up in the toilet.
"Sorry, darlin'," she said, her hand soft and cupped agains the back of Con's neck. "Won't let it happen again."
this is all iambickilometer fault
PART TWO