Calliope: Voice of the Writers
The Great Novel Race 2008:
Shattered Places
by Emily Craig
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Chapter 6: Faye
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It wouldn’t have been much of a stretch. She had done worse…
The hall was still cold, but she somehow felt re-energized. Andrew had talked about her.
She pulled her sweater tighter and tried to keep her breath even. It was hard to walk straight now, yet it was hard to be distracted; students carrying hundreds of books passed her by and knocked her on both sides; Dr. Carmichael shut the classroom door behind him, stood a moment, then walked off, his shoes clunking in the echoing building; But she didn’t notice any of it, not a thing. She didn’t notice that her book bag was half open and her notes were about to spill out, or that her hair was coming undone. As she hurried down the stairwell, the red blazed out from underneath the blue scarf wrapped around it, and a pencil fell from its pouch and rolled and rolled down step after step after step. She stopped, her haste now but a faint whisper that bounced off all the walls. Over the rail she looked to the next floor at the skinny pencil that lay in the dust. It was magnificent! A vibrant sunshine burst from a huge round window at the top of the stairwell and bleached the whole tower white. Slowly, slowly, Kae walked through it with caution. Most students took the elevators, so except for the deviants trading pot at the bottom, she was the only one here – and if she hurried, if she made any sudden noises, her haste could crack the…
It wouldn’t have been much of a stretch, she told herself so very quietly so she couldn’t admit to listening – not much of a stretch, because not very long ago daydreams were normal. Not very much of a stretch, because you’ve done worse…
Pat…pat…pat…she descended the steps, bent down, and picked up her pencil. It was thin, light in the palm of her hand – but hard plastic and a dull pink in this light.
She was a student.
Below her were other students whispering and laughing and humming. She didn’t know their names, not like Mrs. Brandrick, or Dr. Carmichael, or even Ted – but most especially Andrew Windsor. Most names she knew were an old collection, like a basket full of old letters; names with history and story and memories, but names she no longer had a need to use, like stamps below the current postage price.
Her name was like that, too… no one had a need to use it. But Andrew had talked about her…
Her heart thumped unsteadily, but she continued to walk down the stairs, this time with a new kind of caution. No… her hopes weren’t much of a stretch, but this was a world outside books and magazines she’d soaked up for so many years, and this was a world outside (so very far outside) childhood itself and all the silly daydreams tucked inside. Everything that happened now were things that couldn’t change… were things she could not erase in bed at night as she tried to think how she wanted tomorrow. Everything now had consequences.
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2
It was like yesterday, only his secretary was no longer standing by the door to welcome her to go into the office. For a moment, she waited, her hand raised to knock. It had been silly to get excited about coming down here to his office, smelling his tea brew as he sat across the desk and dipped the teabag down again and again. She was used to feeling lonely, so used to it that she no longer felt it… until now. She tapped on the door.
“Come in,” she heard, and marveled that he was able to call out without really raising his voice.
The musty smell of books seeped through the door as the old hinges cranked opened. “Hi,” she said, aware of how hard she tried to keep her voice steady, firm, like nothing could faze her. He couldn’t know, he couldn’t discover this panicky feeling underneath her skin – she had to play it out smoothly. Years had changed her, and he must see that.
“Come on in,” he said again, looking at her over reading glasses.
She accepted the invitation, and took the chair she had previously. It was strange now to have him behind the desk, the professor and she the student. Yesterday had only been a formality, hadn’t it? Some safe transference from the old world to the new.
“So -- ” they started at the same time, and he raised his hand to let her finish.
“So…” She looked around as though there was something new and exciting to see, but her eyes only looked at the rug.
“So, you wanted me? Did I come too soon?” Hmm… what a belated statement, she should have asked that at the door.
But he shook his head, closed the books he had been studying and a folder full of homework – already he had homework to grade, on the very first page? She had once heard – or read in a letter? – that he was a challenging professor. It would have been interesting to have taken one of his courses, but she almost felt glad she had not. It would have been strange to see Peter Pan all grown up, every single day, scribbling on a squeaky board about citation and plagiarism and things Peter Pan never once cared about. Already it was so odd to see him here – again, the professor and she the student – but he was quiet here, never talking much here, in his own mind, a mind that might be just like it was before. She couldn’t really tell, and she liked it that way. But in a classroom, she would know. In a classroom, she would know he was someone new.
At first she wondered if he would answer. Instead, he stood, grabbed his coat and reached for his keys. “How would you like a ride?”
She looked up and her eyes followed him as he walked around the desk and stood over her with a questioning look. “A ride?” she asked. “To where?”
He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
She stood, too, and eyed him. If she eyed him long enough she might be able to pull it out of him – not through words, of course, because that’s not how Andrew worked… something else, some mind-reading type of communication they used so very long ago. “Sounds mysterious,” she said.
“Well, unless you’ve figured it out, I guess it is mysterious.”
She dared a step forward, so close to his, and twisted her lips in deep thought. “Always ambiguous,” she informed him teasingly.
His lips curved softly. “Magicians can’t be obvious,” he answered, turning away for the door.
She raised a finger and pondered aloud, “Unless they’re just that good.”
He got the door, pulled it opened and looked back at her, his eyebrow barely raised. He was curious, but not that curious.
He was too smart to be that curious.
“You know what I mean?” she tried as she yanked her book bag over her shoulder and stepped out into the hall. The door shut behind them, and his keys jangled as he locked it.
“You mean to say, Miss Danner, that magicians are obvious if they are very good magicians? Now doesn’t that seem a bit twisted?”
He walked beside her, taller than he actually was. It felt good to look up at a man again, to feel his strength wavering beside her. She grinned, her stomach tickly inside her, and answered, “Yes. Twisted is the point. No one expects the twisted.”
He looked down at her so quickly that she turned her head away. “And? And what do you expect?”
Expectations flared up – silly dreams and ideas she knew could not come true. But then she caught herself, made sure she didn’t answer immediately. “From what?” she checked. “What do I expected from what?”
They made it to the elevator, and he pressed the button for her. He never liked elevators as a child, she considered. It was stairs… stairs all the way, even five stories down. Peter Pan no longer liked to fly. She looked up at him and he had an answer in his eyes, an answer to her question, but she knew he wouldn’t tell. He liked secrets, and he wouldn’t want to spoil anything, if not for her, then for himself – because he never worked in an obvious way. He worked offstage, in the back, with the props. “It’s all in the props,” a younger Andrew had lectured years before the here and now. “It’s all in the props… if you get the props right, then you’ll pull out the rabbit every time.”
“You mean you’ll pull out the rabbit,” she had answered him.
“No… I mean you. True magicians don’t have to be the ones holding the hat, necessarily. In fact, I prefer not to hold the hat.”
“And why’s that?”
She remembered how he had turned to her, half-smiled such a warm half-smile, and said with a wink, “Because I’d rather watch your face when you pull it out.”
Content with his silence, she stepped inside the elevator and he stepped in behind her. The silver doors slid closed and down they went.
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3
As beautiful as the drive was, it was somewhat of a letdown. She struggled against the disappointment, tried to enjoy the simplicity of it all… but the trees overhead strained the sunlight so that it fell onto the crumbly gray road in a soft, leaf-shaped pattern and he sped through it, carefree, as though it was nothing but litter. At first she was concerned because his turns were sharp, and his stops uncomfortably sudden. This driver who steered the SUV was reckless, unlike the normal Andrew. Then one instant, when he checked his right at an intersection, she remembered that off scene in his office when he had abruptly mentioned the bicycles. Seems we were always riding…fast…away from life.
She watched out her window as though it was a big screen with pictures flashing on it. They sped past the trees, and telephone poles, and street signs and houses, and all of them were so very impersonal. Here was a long stretch of land where no fliers were posted, and no colorful drawings were framed. It was just a stretch of land, and nothing more. She leaned back comfortably again in her seat. It was almost like a magic act… he was the magician, the road was his wand, and the speed of the vehicle was the trap door.
Never before had she thought reckless driving so peaceful as she did now. Oh, that they might switch on the radio, play some old tunes… And then they could pull off into an interstate and drive forever, without speaking, without thinking. They could escape.
Then Andrew spoke – “Miriam will be glad to meet you.”
It was as though he had slipped right into her head, and could see her thoughts as clearly as he could see the road before him. Embarrassed, she smoothed out her shirt and fixed her loose hair. “I can’t wait,” she lied. No…but it was not a lie. How perfect Miriam must be. How perfectly wonderful she must be, and Kae would be honored to meet her some time.
She started and looked at him with a sutle frown. “Wait, will I meet her… now?”
His eyebrows raised at the tone of her voice. “I…I’m sorry. You’re tired, of course. You probably want t unpack, get settled in, and rest up.” He bit his lower lip, and she wondered at his nervousness. “There’ll be plenty of time later for socializing,” he said finally with a quick look at her and the flash of a smile.
She stared at the sudden warmness, so pristine. Almost like this lemony sunshine. She looked away, and thought, Or even Christmas, glanced at him, uncertain. How very far away the interstate seemed now! She lay her head back with a surrendering sigh. “Tired… yes, I am. Very tired.”
For a couple of minutes he just kept driving, and she absent-mindedly noticed how lighthearted the rhythm of tires on the road felt beneath her. Then he said, “Maybe… maybe we will have you over for dinner some night. Sort of a welcoming party, if you will.”
A party? Did they still throw parties? She moved slowly, as though she might forget his words otherwise. “A dinner… I don’t think I’m cut out for that kind of thing. Not your kind of dinner, anyways,” she laughed uncomfortably. How different she had become – to throw herself into the kind of group Andrew and Miriam might invite to social event would be… above
her. So very much above her.
Except for the mundane rumble of the SUV flying over the road and jerking at every stop, everything was hushed for a while, almost like when actors forget all of their lines. Then shyly he answered, “Well.” And then he didn’t say anything else for a while, not until they bounced over the bridge and swerved off onto a narrow, torn-up road, “Well, I didn’t mean anything big.” His words were quiet when he spoke, as though he didn’t really want her to hear them. It was strange, because he knew how to word his thoughts, didn’t he? How would he word them in his class, before all of his students?
The unvoiced question was a silent threat, and it seemed that he might feel it just as much as she thought it. Finally the explanation came, slowly and dull – “We… we are far to busy to throw anymore dinner parties, Miriam and I.”
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