Chapter Text
Spring blooms fell and summer fruits came forth, decorating the world with a mix of cool greens and warm yellows, helped along by the hot summer sun. Though, the blistering heat wasn’t the only nuisance that followed me to Erdmann’s that year. A new arrival would soon accompany our group; a quickly unwelcomed one.
Andre had turned nine, and as soon as he did Father was quick to get him enrolled into Erdmann’s West Coast. I remember standing on the side of the road, right between Aunt Georgia and Andre as we waited for a train to take us down to the peninsula. Standing at my left, Aunt Georgia had held up a small round mirror, looking into it as she applied a thick layer of clear purplish lip gloss.
Georgia was an older lady—older than Father old— though it wasn’t as presently obvious due to all of the skin healers, health products, and hair dye she used to cover it up. She always dressed modishly, even within the comforts of her own home, and that day wasn’t any different. A fitted bodice, making her seem slimmer than she actually was, with a fine jacket over top, despite the heat of the day likely making it unbearable to wear. I mostly just remember how overdown her hair was; multiple braids knitted together until tying together into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, resembling the rolled up thread of a spool.
Andre, in comparison, was extremely underdressed—even by my standards. He wasn’t even wearing the Erdmann vest he was expected to sport over top of his long bunchy dress shirt, which was clearly too large for him. His hair was cut far shorter than usual—after Georgia had complained constantly about his longer hair, and then Father came for a visit in order to handle Andre’s enrollment—Father demanded it be cut before arriving at the school. Which it was. To Andre’s evident despair. It was blatantly obvious from Andre’s expression he hated the shorter hair. His hand constantly reached up to pat the cut sides, even tugged at the longer strands at the top as though pulling at it would grow it out faster. Each time he did so I held back the urge to smack his hand away; to snap him out of his weirdness.
I would have done so if Georgia wasn’t there to see.
Now, I’ve always had a fairly, let’s say, complicated relationship with my brother. When we were younger he followed me everywhere, as most younger siblings do. He would watch me rough house with the other boys on our street, chase girls around the block, throw and dribble balls on the playground courts–but he would never join in. Andre much preferred to watch and keep to the sidelines rather than play on the courts or chase around girls. He never cared much for what I enjoyed, with him leaning toward more domestic interests, as Mother used to put it. Games like “House”, “Court”, or even to my utter bewilderment, “Tea Party”. It’s easy to admit that I was not fond of any of these sorts of games.
I’d seen other boys with brothers. Every one of them had a lapse in interest or the occasional rivalry, but they always at least had something that could bridge the gap between them; something that they could both agree on. I could not say the same for me and Andre. He was just so foreign to me in a way that I couldn’t quite grasp. No matter how much I tried to understand him, there was always something that kept me from doing so.
So, when I left, I stopped trying.
I had my own problems to think about; I couldn’t be constantly worrying about whatever my brother was dealing with. His problems were his own. I wasn’t going to let them ruin me.
An ear-splitting screech sounded as a long gray sleek train slid in place in front of us. It slowed and stopped with a sputtering groan, a light exhaust of steam spilling out from the wheels’ crevices. The door opened and people began to shuffle out. Beside me, Andre finally moved his hand away from his hair and grabbed onto the handle of his suitcase, his knuckles turning pale against it. As the street cleared and no other person slipped through the door, I stepped forward, passing Andre; leaving him behind. Reaching the top step, I could just about hear the release of a small, shivering, exhale and the sound of clumsy footsteps scrambling after me. As he stopped at the top, he turned back around to look down at Georgia.
“Bye Aunt Georgia,” Andre spoke, his voice soft as a mouse.
The door closed before any reply was heard.
I was already seated once he began to move down the center corridor, his body just squeezing enough through the large static figures blocking his way. He slid his luggage beneath the seat and then placed himself beside me.
Through it all, I kept my head turned away, scrupulously studying the world beyond the glass. Brooks was an urban area, but not as squished together as cities like Delphie, nor as spread out as other communities, such as the ones along the Prince River. Brooks was lined with apartments, all spattered about like the cut stumps of lumbered forests, colored in various shades of umber and cedar. The buildings, all pressed tightly together, usually housed up to twenty people—which was how it was with Aunt Georgia’s place. I neglected getting to know anyone who lived in her complex; I never stuck around long enough, nor had interest enough, to do so.
Their forms sped by, passing blurs like the age lines which swirled and stretched over wood. As Brooks slipped away to barren fields and newly grown forests, its lumber yards far away, I could sense Andre’s hazel eyes occasionally peering at the side of my head. They would watch me intently, then swiftly look away, only to look back again. I assumed, because of this, that he wanted to say something.
He did not—and neither did I.
***
I was filled with fizzy excitement as I stepped from the transport to the front of Erdmann’s; a different one from the transport that had driven us from Brooks, with it being smaller and only able to hold me and Andre in its back. I almost rushed inside the Institute, to leave Andre behind in exchange for catching up with my friends, but an unfortunately familiar face stood ahead of me, blocking my way.
Nolen Cao strode forward, his arms crossed behind his back and his expression blank. Despite being the same height as before, he seemed to have shrunk since last I saw him. His hair had lost that fluffiness from before, and he had grown out a thin mustache which split into two at his cupid's bow.
It was not a good look for him.
Cao was clearly aware of my distaste: his eyes bounced skittishly from left to right, and his lips had thinned to a straight line. He stepped forward, shortening the distance between us, keeping his focus specifically on Andre, who was poorly attempting to get his luggage out of the transport. The suitcase’s handle jiggled, stuck beneath the backseat. Andre let out a single humph of effort as he gave one final pull to the luggage’s handle. The case fell with a loud thud on the concrete driveway, the force from the fall causing Andre to stumble and crash flat on his back. I felt my cheeks and ears flush; my hand lifted to my brows, shadowing my eyes in a poor attempt to not be associated. Cao had reached us by then, and waited in silence as Andre rose up and stood beside me, his case pressed tightly to his chest. It took Andre a while before he could meet anyone’s eyes; the same could’ve been said with myself.
Especially once I remembered he still hadn’t put on his mandatory vest uniform.
Cao looked between us until clearing his throat and finally landing his gaze onto Andre, “Good afternoon Andre Acrates, welcome to Erdmann’s West Coast Institution for Boys. One of the top ten Institutes in, not just the region, but the whole country,” Cao’s face began to beam as he spoke his nonsense, “A shining beacon of education and progress! I’m sure your brother could say as such, having been a student here for over the last two years.”
I realize after a moment that they’re both looking at me.
“Um… Yeah, this school is fine.”
Andre’s brows scrunched together and his lips worried at their corners, meanwhile Cao’s lips disappeared all together. I cursed them both silently. What do you two want from me? Do you expect me to wax poetic on my undying love and adoration towards a SCHOOL? You may be willing to embarrass yourself, NOLEN, but I’m not as inclined to.
“Well…” Cao sucked in a bout of air as he spun and hustled toward the Institute’s front doors, “Trust that you’ll get the best possible educational experience here! I mean, especially within the last decade or so, with our kingdom's current shift in focus towards the arts, along with the establishment of more progressive programs, you’ll have access to a plethora of fascinating subjects to learn and explore!”
I held back the urge to roll my eyes at all the frivolous talk—and finally did when I turned to see Andre’s eyes bulging out of their sockets.
“W-What kind of subjects are there?” It took him a moment to find his voice, and when he did, it was softer than the sound of a fallen leaf.
Cao looked over his shoulder, his surprise painted obviously on his face, “Oh. Uh—there are many I could list. Though, most of the more interesting subjects are for boys over your brother's age,” he laughed a bit, his discomfort from before slowly edging away, “You’ll get to learn more in-depth about each of the different kinds of sciences; the histories of not just Norta, Piedmont, Lakelands, and other far off countries, but even the civilizations of the Old Era! Oh—and if you’re interested in archeological research, there will be special programs that will take you on trips to real dig sites! You’ll get to meet leading researchers who are discovering more of the old forgotten world as we speak!”
I could feel my soul slowly being called away as he yabbered on, and felt myself on the verge of completely losing it just as we reached the front doors of the school and stepped into the now-familiar stirile foyer.
Unlike when I first came to the school, the foyer was filled wall to wall with students and teachers; even the sporadic parent, here and there. From palest silver to darkest obsidian, people crowded together wriggling; discussing their schedules, room setup, and other such trivial subjects.
My eyes scanned the room, searching for a few particular faces. Curly black hair atop light brown skin caught my eye immediately. I surged forward, maneuvering through the throng, ignoring the quickly disappearing sound of Cao and Andre’s voices.
After swerving and dodging through, with a few close calls in between, I finally reached the familiar figure.
Rohan stood up straight, face as impassive as always, standing between an older couple. He shared many of their features: strong, outward curving noses, thick brows, pitch black hair, and brown skin. Rohan’s coloring more resembled the man’s, though the woman certainly shared his disposition.
“Rohan!” I grabbed his shoulder and shook it a bit, “Good to see you. Do you know where Arlo and Quin are?”
Rohan’s expression barely changed, though the corner of his lips did rise ever so slightly, betraying the honest excitement beneath his constantly apathetic display, “Mhm. They’re getting their schedules and room keys. We’re finally getting to move to the actual dorms along the beach,”—Rohan turned towards the people behind him—“Mother, Father. This is Anthony Acrates. We shared History and Literature together last year.”
Rohan’s father nodded at me, a thick full mustache covering his mouth, making it hard to tell whether he was smiling or not. Rohan’s mother didn’t move. The only acknowledgment of my existence being her pressing brown eyes.
The raspy voice of his Father spoke, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Acrates,” he stuck his hand out, and I took the shake in return, “I must say, your name is awfully familiar. Do you by chance have a parent, or relative, I may know about?”
My whole body stiffened slightly, as though threatened, and I felt both my hand and polite smile fall away. I was late to respond, my throat having become dry, “Yes. You are likely thinking of my father. He works at Archeon. Specifically in dealings about state affairs.”
“Ahhhh… Yes, I can recall him now! Leonidas H. Acrates, he’s got a great reputation among the elite and commoners—able to appeal to nobility while simultaneously raising standard of living for the average citizen! You’ve got quite the father to live up to, boy.”
“Yes. I know,” my voice was monotone, covering up the bitterness souring my tongue. Oddly though, Rohan’s mother’s brown eyes seemed to spark at that moment. Her eyebrow raised slightly, arching with curiosity, and then lowered as she turned to her son, interrupting her husband just as he was about to open his blabbering mouth.
“We’ve kept you long enough, dear. We’ll be going now,” she took Rohan’s chin in her hand, leaning over to peck his forehead. Her lips and head pulled away, but her eyes held, lingering on his own with a warmth I barely recognized. I swallowed against the tightness in my throat, helping like a drop of water to a desert. Her brown hand dropped from his chin and passed over to the arm of her husband, turning him away from us both.
Over his shoulder, Rohan’s Father spouted, “We’ll see you in the fall, Rohan.” Their two figures slipped into the crowd and quickly disappeared within, melding into the mass until they were little more than specks dipping in and out of sight, and then at last nothing.
“Have you gotten your schedule and room key yet?” Rohan asked absentmindedly as he began to walk toward a line of other students—likely standing in wait for their own schedules and room keys. A heavy sigh I had been holding back spilled out from my lungs at the unintentional shift in conversation, and I felt my smile return as I followed him.
“No, I haven’t. I wanted to catch up with the rest of you first. Do you think Arlo and Quin have picked up theirs by now?”
“Arlo, yes. Quin? No. He’s probably picking on that Norman kid again.”
“Please! You sell me short Rohan! Why would I only pick on that water-slug Norman, when I could do that and get my schedule and room key at the same time?”
We twisted around to confront a familiar white speckled face displaying a smug crooked grin; his lead-gray eyes alight with the same smugness. A subtle clink, clink, clink, sounded as he spun his newly acquired room key lazily around his finger. I held back the instinctive urge to roll my eyes.
Quin liked to flaunt his ability. A cloner was what he was; an ability rarer than most Nortan’s (not even having an ancient Noble line to correspond with it) and extremely valuable, both for the cloner themself and any potential employers. I suppose this fact gave him the “confidence” to use his ability towards more questionable behavior. His tendency towards bullying, to be more specific. An action I found to be plain laughable.
To me, the targeting of someone weaker than yourself was one of, if not, the absolute weakest action a person could ever undergo. It was a childish response to insecurity. To pick on the weak meant to be cowardly in the face of the strong.
Yet, despite this conviction, I didn’t feel any drive to help the people who dealt with the brunt of that insecurity—like Norman in this case. It wasn’t my obligation to help them; I was not the reason they were being targeted; that’s their own problem to deal with.
The world would be a much more efficient place if people handled their problems alone instead of expecting others to handle it for them.
“Quin,” I acknowledged, dawning a familiar mask, “It’s nice to know some things never change,” despite my humorous tone, and his unchanging smirk, Quin’s eyes hardened at the insinuation.
“Do you know where Arlo is?” I asked, revealing far more interest.
Quin flipped the key with a final woosh, and swiped it mid swing, tightening the steel firmly in his grip, “Yeah, of course I do. The big-guy is in the North Hall, talking with Sean and Conner. I’ll tell him that you’re here.”
Quin’s eyes glazed over for a moment, relaying information between himself and his clone—or his actual self. It wasn’t always clear whether it was the real Quin you were talking with or a copy. Though both felt equally fake.
“I’m leading him to us right now. He’ll be here soon,” Quin’s blank expression fell and the smugness returned, “Now,”—Quin threw his arm around my shoulder—“let’s get that schedule and room key of yours.”
Converging into line, we began to divulge what we did over our break. Erdmann’s, like the majority of Nortan schools, had a school year lasting from the beginning of the summer to the beginning of next year's summer, with a week-long break in between (though I’ve heard of some schools which have longer break periods—Erdmann’s was a year-long school, which was considered far more professional).
Quin talked about spending his week in his hometown, Summerton—the Summerton—bragging about how he and his family took a ferry ride down the Capital River and played games at the Early Summer Festival (Summerton officiated one every year, on the day the royal family arrived at the Summer Palace). Rohan, on the other hand, had spent his break with his family, specifically with his grandparents, traveling all the way to the Regent State to see them. They lived along Queen's Lake, so he spent most of his time on the water, swimming with his cousins.
Pins of jealousy pricked and stabbed my insides, a sting for each and every individual tidbit they detailed. I pictured Father, likely flying all over the country on his own private jet, not even considering letting his own son join him.
I was careful to mention as little as possible about my own break, as it was nowhere near as interesting as theirs. Andre and I spent most of it in Georgia's apartment, watching a murder documentary series about The Poison Bride, while Georgia was gone at one of her book seminars, discussing whatever vomit-inducing romance novel she was reading that week.
After a few minutes of deftly avoiding discussing my break—mostly by keeping the conversation on Quin—air was suddenly rushed out of my lungs as a tough grip encircled my neck. My knees buckled beneath me, my pride being the only thing keeping me off the ground. The unusual strength of the pressure was enough to tell me exactly who held me in a chokehold.
I chucked my fist backward into his gut, making him pull back with a groan, his now free arm reaching for his stomach. My head whipped around to face him, a crazy grin already plastered on my face, as he stood bending with his own face turned upwards to me, displaying the exact same toothed grin.
“Arlo, you son of Lakelander!” I pulled him in, my arm wrapping around him and smacking his back, “Next time you do that I’ll give you a bruise somewhere you won’t be able to hide it!”
“Don’t give yourself too much credit, I was just putting on a show for you,” he rose up, already several inches taller than me, and smacked his own hand against my back, forcing out another wheeze. We both laughed, mine breathy and his full, and out of the corner of my eye two separate Quin’s meld back into one, looking between us with narrowed eyes.
“It’s great to see you, Anthony!” Arlo looked up and flipped his head back and forth, looking up and down the line we were in, “Are you still waiting in line for your room key and schedule?”
I chuckle, nodding, “Yeah, came here late it seems. I wanted to catch up with you all beforehand, but I really should’ve just forgotten about you guys. Since I’ve gotten here all you’ve done is waste my time.”
“Pfffft—Come on Ant!” Arlo jokingly pleads, “We’ll make it up to you!”
“I won’t…” Quin mutters. A high pitch yelp escapes Quin’s throat as Rohan elbows him in the gut, Rohan’s expression as passive as always.
I snort, smiling easily until Arlo turns and suggests ignorantly, “So, what did you do for your break?”
I swallow against the sudden lump in my throat.
“I’m done hearing about school breaks,” the words slip quickly over my tongue, flowing through like a gust of wind. Arlo’s eyebrow lifts, confused. To salvage my dignity I turned over to Quin crookedly, “I’ve heard enough of Quin’s break by now, it’s about time we talk about something else.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha…” Quin drawled. Any smirk he had worn was long gone, having transferred onto my face and Arlo’s, the two of us snickering; even Rohan’s cheeks lifted with a slight grin.
“W-what are you all laughing about?” something peeped up from below.
We all turned in the direction of the tiny stuttering voice. My eyes closed tightly in response, as though that would somehow stop the image before me from becoming a reality.
There Andre stood, holding his case close to his chest, and watching me with wide skittish eyes. He tried to smile, but it was awkward and wobbly, melting sloppily at its edges.
“What do you want, pipsqueak?” Quin snarled, not holding back his distaste. Andre’s smile fell and he looked over to me, expecting some sort of sanctuary. My mouth stayed resolutely shut. Seemingly noticing Andre’s desperate glances, Quin turned his scowl on to me, “Do you know this kid, Anthony?”
Everyone’s quizzical eyes turned to me, and I cursed Andre silently once again. Two times today; might as well start counting!
“Yeah. He’s my…” I exhale a huffy sigh, “brother.”
“Brother? You never told us you had a brother,” Again, Arlo asked his question ignorantly. In the corner of my eye Andre deflated, his eyes fell to the ground and his hands began to slowly rub the shining steel handle of his luggage case.
“Well, it must’ve slipped my mind.” I rushed the words out, my voice high. I spun over to Andre, hissing, “I thought you were talking with Cao? That he was going to give you a tour?”
Andre stuttered and hiccuped, “I-I was going to stay with you! You were supposed to s-show me around, y-you’re supposed to help me…”
“The staff is supposed to help you,” my fingers grappled his arm and pulled him away as I stomped out of line, my friends’ intrigued and confused stares following, “Go bother Cao again, or one of the other teachers—not me!”
“But, A-Anthony!” Andre continued to protest, his eyes fearful as he looked into the heaving crowd: a bustling stampede of beasts ready to crush any tiny mouse foolish enough to try and pass through.
I groaned. Come ON! When I first came here, I didn’t bother any older students or demand for their help! So why should I have to help you? Just do it on your own! Out of desperation I lifted my head over the crowd, searching. Looking over top of the bustling and rolling heads. On the other side of the room a short round man stood, wearing a trade-mark green Erdmann’s vest, a gleaming name tag embedded onto its left side.
I bent back down to Andre, “Look, there’s a staff member over in that direction. Just walk straight through the crowd…” —I squinted, and leveled my hand to point in the exact direction the man stood—“ here.”
Andre glanced at me, his nose twitching and beginning to drizzle, “But, Anthony—”
“Shush! Just… walk through the crowd. Here.”
The heels of his shoes reluctantly skirted against the floor as I pushed him forward in the direction of the worker. He twisted to look at me a final time, his mousy eyes wide, and then with one extra push slipped through the roaring horde. Finally disappearing.
Blowing out a deep tense sigh, my feet spun around and joined back up with my friends. Their eyes were as large and piercing as owls, feelings and opinions unclear within their gazes.
“Thanks for saving my spot, that should hopefully not happen again.”
Arlo glanced between Rohan and Quin, and then looked back over to me with empathically confused eyes, “It’s… alright? He could have stayed with us, Ant. We wouldn’t have minded, right guys?”
Arlo turned back to Rohan and Quin: Rohan, who’s expression portrayed nothing, and Quin, who seemed ready to burst out laughing.
“Pfft—Yeah,” Quin choked, holding back his snickering, “I’m sure we would love to have a little baby mood-killer trailing after us! Do you think he’ll be back for you Anthony? Whining for his big-broder?”
“He won’t. Not for long, at least. He’ll make friends,” I asserted, “After a month's time he won’t bother us; he’ll do his own thing and we’ll do ours. Then we should never have to deal with him again.”
It was easy to tell myself that. I thought maybe if I said it enough times, it may actually become true.
But I had never believed in something as foolish as superstition.
***
A week passed, and then a month. Then five months…
Andre hadn’t made a single friend.
Each time I saw him through the succeeding months, he spent it wandering aimlessly through the field during his recess and fitness period, or sitting in a small corner of the library alone. He never shared a table with anyone during lunch, rather eating his food in silence at an empty table while all around him groups of boys sat and roared together through the rest of the cafeteria. He was a ghost slinking among the living—not even attempting to act alive.
It wasn’t like he was incapable of making friends. He had quite a few when we lived along the Prince River, even one in Brooks, a girl who lived a few floors down from Georgia's apartment. I assumed that was it, that it was the fact that the majority—no, not the majority—that all of his friends were or had been girls. That for some unexplainable reason or another he just couldn’t make friends with a boy—despite being one.
I wanted to laugh at the absurdity, the pickiness, but I could only feel seething frustration. I didn’t understand; how hard could it be to just make one friend? If he did it would’ve saved me months of embarrassment of having to hear Quin mockingly ask, “Is that your brother over there?” while Andre sat in a shadowy corner, hiding from every other boy tossing around balls on the court, or even the more socially inept boys who played unnecessarily complex card games over in the grass fields.
I didn’t know what would have been worse: letting him stay that way for the rest of our school lives, or what ended up happening.
***
One day, in late October, when everyone was out in the field and Arlo, Quin, Rohan, and I were all going over to watch another of J.R. Cambell’s matches, Arlo decided to take pity on Andre, inviting him to join us (despite my attempts to convince him otherwise).
“You…” Andre sat in a shadowy corner again, a favorite place of his it seemed, with his legs curled up to his chest and his back against the red brick wall of the building, “are alright with me b-being there?”
“Of course, we would love for you to come along!” Arlo smiled at him—obviously just to be polite, I couldn’t see how his smile could ever be genuine, “You’ll like it, J.R. Cambell’s fights are almost as fun as the actual Feats!”
“Arlo’s right,”—Quin added, not even trying to pretend to look nice, with his iconic cat-like grin plastered obviously on his face—“they’re certainly entertaining enough to be so.”
Arlo shoved him, the force causing him to stumble and crash to the dirt; a low chuckle slipped between my teeth. Arlo turned back to Andre, “Do you want to come? I promise it’ll be fun!”
Andre’s eyes shifted from the fallen Quin back to Arlo, filled with apprehension, then skipped over the earth between his feet. His hands rubbed up and down his bent legs, smoothing down wrinkles with little success. His hazel eyes roved back and forth, glazed over with indecision, until… landing on me.
His eyes against my own were like the coming winter, sending a shivering chill over me. Though this wasn’t the natural chill of the seasons, or even the chill of a shivers touch. No, this was something different; something deeply discomforting. An earnestness coated his expression, one which punched right to my core.
The sudden ache was strange to me. I believed it must have been a challenge, a threat—what else could it have been?
“What are you looking at me for? He asked you,” my tone was distant, separate from the situation. It was the only way I could think of that wouldn’t show my discomfort, that wouldn’t let Andre think his tricks were working on me. To think, I could be uncomfortable, or afraid. What was there to be afraid of in a little boy's eyes?
Andre's shoulders dipped and his eyes fell from mine, spilling a pleasant pool of relief over my skin. The suddenness of that relief brought yet another wave of discomfort. He looked back to Arlo, his tongue wiping along his lips in an attempt to rid them of their dryness. Arlo continued to show his pleasant smile—which is why I believe Andre decided to say what he said.
“I-I suppose,” Andre flustered, “if it’s alright with you…”
“Great!” Arlo’s smile widened, and his white teeth glistened along with it.
His arm stretched out forward in invitation, and after a moment of Andre looking between Arlo’s face and his outstretched hand, he took it. We moved out from the shade and walked further into the field, passing the other boys as they stared. Arlo chattered over their whispers; he introduced Andre to Quin and Rohan, asked him how he’s taken to Erdmann’s, and encouraged other friendly conversation.
Andre was extremely quiet at first, maybe mumbling one or twice in response, but began to pipe up more and more as they went along. Immediately, once Arlo asked his mandatory question of the week, Andre’s shell split right open, becoming as loud as a newly hatched songbird in spring.
Arlo loved debate, and his enthusiasm for the subject seemed to rub off on Andre, encouraging a boldness in him I had never seen before. He seemed in his element then, discussing and debating hypothetical topics.
Though, that didn’t change my attitude. I believe it may have actually made it worse. I stayed stubbornly silent for the whole walk to the hill—more so than even Rohan, which was a feat of its own; only making any sort of noise whenever Andre was close to spilling out something personal about our lives outside of school. I’d loudly clear my throat and glare at him to get the point across—the action got him to shut up each and every time.
I had hoped that this wouldn’t end up a pattern. That this would be the first and final time Andre would be dragged along, but I was sorely mistaken. Arlo continued to invite Andre along, and Andre continued to follow. By the beginning of the new year he had become a permanent addition to our group. It was extremely frustrating, but I never said anything; never alluded to my grievances.
What would I even say? What reason could I give that wouldn’t make me sound… scared.
Of course, I knew I wasn’t.
How could I ever be intimidated by Andre? But I was not willing to risk the potential of even hinting towards such an implication, especially with Quin breathing down my neck. So I said nothing. Not to my friends, nor to Andre.
Not for a long time.
***
I glared at the clock, the black line just a few ticks off from the number I so desperately wanted it to be on. To my left Arlo sat, his attention seemingly on the teacher at the front of the class, but I knew better. I could just about see obsidian colored irises flicker up at the clock from time to time, and the bounce of a knee in anticipation beneath his desk.
It was April 6th, better known to me as Arlo’s birthday. His thirteenth in fact, which all of us had been waiting in bated breath for. Arlo was the first of us to turn thirteen, and this would be the day that marked our first breakthrough into teen-hood. Something we were all collectively ecstatic over (besides Andre, if you included him—which I didn’t). We decided that for this important milestone we’d spend it outside of Erdmann’s in the nearby town of Cape Tide, and go to the fair that was running at its docks.
Though, as fun of a time as it sounded, we still had to wait till school ended, and then wait again for the staff to approve it so we could go down there without adult supervision. A plain annoyance in everything but the word, and I wanted to get them both over with as quickly as possible—but the first one seemingly would not END.
It was History and the teacher was babbling something about Piedmontese and Nortan relations: how our alliance began; how it had evolved; that sort of background noise.
He was talking about the Greenway, the road connecting Piedmont and Norta together, and the recent incident that happened on the Red side of the roadway. The king himself had to go down there to get the situation under control, meeting up with one of the Piedmont Princes who had authorization over the Greenway to establish a restoration project to fix the damages.
Explosions, sporadic and small, had blown up and destroyed the road along the Piedmont side. There were no discernable origins for any of the blasts, nor any clear residue of bomb material left behind. Only an oblivion’s touch could have enacted such damages without leaving a trace—though why an oblivion would ever be on the Red side of the Greenway was certainly peculiar. Most speculated that it was Lakelanders; that they had sent over oblivion spies to distract from the war front, but the king’s experts and spies found no evidence of foul play and no major Lakelander attack preceded the event.
Conspiracy still kindled however, running through the whole country like wildfire.
The prince had been there as well, leaving his training at the front to join the king. The prince was young, about two years older than me, making him about fourteen or fifteen at the time. His age and his training was all I really knew about the prince, his training specifically being a fact I found completely unfair.
So he can train and learn actually useful skills, while I have to sit here and do nothing? Double standards, much?
Despite my father’s work, I had very little interest in politics. Politics were all about words, the only thing politicians and nobility did was: talk, talk, and talk, and talk. The most I knew about present politics was from what I had overheard from Georgia—with how obnoxiously she spoke her opinions, how could I not?
The king was more into statecraft, focused on keeping the foundation of the country strong: advancing its cultural and economic values. While the queen’s concerns were split, leading both the war effort and the arts initiative. I also heard a bit about another party, a prince of sorts (a consort, was the word they used; though I heard far less flattering names given to him by Georgia and especially Father) who co-led the arts development alongside the queen.
Outside of this I didn’t know much, nor did I care to.
Art, culture—those things didn’t matter if there was a whole war happening. Those things were irrelevant when at any point the war could shift and the Lakelanders could invade and destroy any and every remnant of that art and culture. And there we were, sitting around just talking about that fact without doing anything about it!
Honestly, I wasn’t shocked at the conspiracies, the spreading suspicions. Who or what else could have caused those explosions—and for what other reason? The attack being on the Red side was certainly odd, but that only made me more suspicious. They were playing with us. Toying with us.
Not for long. I thought. Not once I finally stepped onto the Choke.
Then, I’ll show everyone exactly what I can do.
The back of Arlo’s hand smacked my shoulder lightly, bringing me back to reality. A high pitch ring pinged over and over just as the black line finally fell onto 14:30. Reaching for my textbook and notebook (completely empty of notes) I rushed out of the room behind Arlo, almost stepping on his heels a few times in the process. The teacher’s droning quickly faded as the clinking ring of the bell and drumming pound of feet clamored over his voice.
In the absence of the teacher’s jabberings and the reinvigoration of my excitement for Cape Tide, the topic from the lecture slipped away like sand between my fingers. Yet there were some beads of sand which stuck; tiny specks still clinging to the crevices and folds of my hands and fingers. Leaving behind an itch I could never wash away.