Chapter Text
It's dark.
Then: color.
With the bang of spotlights like gunshots, the world comes to life. Blotches of reds, blues, yellows splatter each side of the path of dirt and dust: wild lights, a symphony of sounds, savory scents—is that, hot dogs?
Carefully, the labyrinth of sensory overload is navigated; chock-full, now, with cotton candy, rotting rides dolled up in strobes, Tilt-A-Whirls and Gravitrons and games impossible to win and foods that really shouldn't be fried but are.
It's hard to see; the sky's still inky-black, closing in, a stark contrast to all the erratic hues. Every step is cautious, calculated, and it should be. There's that creeping feeling that it's got to be.
A box.
Almost out of nowhere. In the middle of the clearing, now, like it's meant to be found; purple, decked with peeling stars, a figure trapped inside and bent in half, every little thing inexplicably attractive.
It should be there, something's screaming. It's meant to be touched.
That's why there's creeping forward. That's why a hand reaches, to insert the loonies being so rightly begged for.
A wrong step.
Inches away, suddenly dust and dirt gives way to total, utter black, and tumbling. Tumbling down, down, away into the floor, through every crack in the earth and blaze of the light and whiff of canola oil, for what might be forever, or possibly less than a blip in time, until there's the ground.
It's hit, hard.
Looking up, in a daze: a warehouse.
Rejections of machinery, stacks on stacks of crates crammed and jammed with God-knows-what, weakly wobbling marquee lights above a grand archway. Letters, still flashing, cracked and unused in a far-off corner—a C, Y, an O, something.
And there's the box again.
Against all human reason, scurrying up from the cold, hard floor, just to get closer. Just to wonder why.
The line's crossed, and something jerks into consciousness.
In its cage of a box, one of those mechanical genies, raveled turban and all—which is, a choice.
"YOUR LUCKY NUMBER," it booms and crackles, "IS—"
Sparks fly. An instinctual jump back.
"YOU WILL SO-SO-SOAR TO—GRE-AT HEIGHT-S. BE SURE TO— TO— TO—"
Something is wrong.
The wires come alive, blazing white and harsh. They ravel around the room, closing in—there's not much time. It's almost over.
The fortune-teller, smoking, doubled-over, behind those four walls, cranks his mouth wide. Then, the words come in perfect clarity.
"The Six who knot themselves into one must cut their string, in order to free the threads."
It's dark.
Today is a new start.
There were some bumps in the road, of course—as there were for all the greats in this world. Jesus Christ, Pierre Trudeau, Oprah, Margaret Thatcher, the Stepmother from Cinderella.
But they rose, like phoenixes from ashes, as did she: Ocean O'Connell Rosenberg, future Prime Minister of Canada.
The past year has been something of a trial—a test of strength from above—sure. Bustling to extracurriculars, maintaining flawless scores, embarking on philanthropic efforts, almost dying. But it's no big deal, now—no, no, doesn't have to matter one bit, because that was yesterday.
It paid off, the long nights bent over the rickety old desk fashioned from the oak in the backyard; subsisting on backyard-grown cherry tomatoes and plant-based granola bars; doing laundry with nothing but river water, a bucket, and a dream. It was all worth it, because of this very day. Today is the beginning of the rest of her life.
Today, Ocean O'Connell Rosenberg leaves for university.
The taxi's outside, to head to the airport, so she can go on a plane for the first time—the plane the university paid for. Nobody gets taxis, or rides planes, or gets them paid for by a full-ride in Carrot River, Saskatchewan, but when you're loud enough, persistent enough, strong enough, for long enough, they'll come. Phone calls to On Cab-batical Transportation Services at three o'clock every weekday on the dot and a dozen well-sent emails will get you going anywhere.
Ocean hauls one duffel's worth of her eighteen years, down the steps, along the deeply stained carpet, across the creaking, rotting floorboard to the front door, inches from the exit, and hesitates.
For the smallest of seconds. For the faintest of heartbeats.
"Mom, Dad," she calls over a shoulder, fingers hovered over the knob she duct-taped over in grade five, so it'd stop giving her splinters. "I'm leaving, now."
From the living room floor—that same stained, stained carpet, that was probably once in another world white but is now a hearty forest green—their heads turn, slow as molasses. They don't believe in chairs, of course. It's a wonder they believe in carpets.
Their eyes blink, almost in perfect, impassive unison. "Where y' goin', sunshine?" asks Dad, after about a minute.
"I, I told you. Yesterday." Ocean's hand falls, from the tape. "And last week. And two months ago. And, um, at the end of last semester." She takes a deep, deep breath. "I'm going to university."
Another blink—slower, this time.
Then: "Don't adhere to the plutocratic agenda," reminds Mom.
And they roll back around.
It doesn't sting.
It shouldn't, which is why Ocean is completely fine and calm and good when her hand flies to the knob—tape and all—twists, and shoves hard enough to hit the wall, because the hinges are broken, and of course they are, everything's always broken. Her legs nearly trudge herself straight out right then and there.
But they don't.
One foot still stops, despite it all, halfway across the threshold.
"Your laundry's hung up outside," she hollers, one last time. "And dinner for the week. In, in the pantry. You just, have to add water, and put it on the stove, but, if you light a match and use the fire, that'll—"
Uproarious laughter. Then, the distinct, household rank of earth, as a puff of smoke swallows the room.
Coughing, croaking, Ocean ducks out of the O'Connell Rosenberg residence and slams the door on everything before today.
Because it doesn't matter.
The taxi's waiting, so she takes it into tomorrow.
* * *
Funnily enough, no amount of research prepares you for an airplane.
Or airport. Or any aspect of travel whatsoever, for that matter. Cars weren't allowed within fifty feet of the O'Connell Rosenberg residence, on account of the air pollution; in other words, Mom and Dad might have spontaneous strokes if they were ever coherent enough to know she were boarding the CO 2 Emitter 5000.
But veiled beneath the secrecy of the Carrot River Public Library's Windows XP desktops, plenty of research was done, regarding safety procedures, and security screenings, and maps of the Saskatoon International Aiport, and crash statistics—just in case—because by God, if Ocean's not going to be the most efficient traveler YXE's ever had the pleasure of seeing.
None of it was sufficient.
Airports are H-E-double-L, security is the worst (because how is anyone supposed to know you have to take off your shoes?), and nobody tells you—not even the safety manual you read front-to-back twice over—the planet sounds like it's about to explode when you take off.
Sufficiently harrowed, for three hours and fifteen minutes everything is the worst.
And then they're there.
"Fasten your seatbelts, folks," fizzles the captain over the intercom. "We're beginning our descent."
Maybe out of morbid curiosity, or disregard for own sanity, for the first time Ocean dares to snap the window cover open.
And it's another world.
Suddenly, jack pines are skyscrapers, infinitely taller and grayer. There's a constellation of buildings; all shapes, sizes, colors, arranged in a perfect collage of criss-crossing streets. And if she squints, the people swarm like ants about their daily lives; so, so many of them, a Carrot River's worth on every sidewalk, and this is home. Tomorrow is today.
Ocean is going to university.
The journey off and out is about half as perilous as the journey on and in. Entire life carried in one hand, one bag, Ocean steps outside, to a parade of taxis all down the street.
She fought for them all. The world she was perpetually shaping—but real.
She slides in a car and says, never surer: "Callwood University, please."
It takes her there.
Twenty minutes, and it's grinding to a stop in front of a movie.
Like, Legally Blonde. Ocean steps out, luggage in hand, to a real campus, teeming with parents, RAs and orientation leaders and employees all in bright sunny shirts, students, everyone. People. All here not because they support the nonobservance of the plutocratic agenda, but a higher education, higher status, higher purpose.
This is the next mountain to climb.
It's just got to be, Ocean's sure. Another frenzied scramble to the top of a maze of papers, activities, tests and flashcards and office hours and internships. Ocean rose above Carrot River, Saskatchewan, and proved them—all four-hundred of them. Next step: Callwood, she decides, here and now.
After that: The world.
All but racing (speed-walking, because the laws of pedestrian traffic don't dissipate no matter your enthusiasm), Ocean checks in, drops her eighteen years of belongings at Hansen Hall, and books it to orientation.
"Alright!" Auditorium safely reached, the group leader—MOLLY McCONNOR, SCHOOL OF HEALTH SCIENCES, if her nametag and personal introduction were any indication—smacks her hands together. "Now, let's go around and do a fun little icebreaker! Name, major, and class you're most excited for here at CU. And remember: Undeclared is okay! Any volun—"
Ocean shoots her hand in the air.
Molly McConnor blinks a little, then smiles. "Awesome! You are?"
"My name is Ocean O'Connell Rosenberg," she projects to the room, in perfect clarity, standing tall. "I am pursuing a bachelor of arts in political science on the prelaw track. My most anticipated class is a graduate seminar, which, you know, I should take within the next two years, if things go according to plan: PCS 560, or Ancient Greek Politics and Political Thought."
Everything is quiet.
No uproarious applause. Molly blinks some more.
Ocean blinks back. Maybe stands a little shorter.
Then: "Awesome!" Molly says again, smile just one tooth too toothy. "You've got it all figured out, huh, Ocean? Okay!" Another slap of the hands. "Who's next?"
Ocean sinks back down in the rickety auditorium chair. No standing ovation, but icebreakers don't matter, anyway. None of this has to matter.
And everyone knows undeclared is for hippies and baristas.
After that, Molly McConnor leads them all on a tour of campus. Ocean goes—why wouldn't she?—and everywhere is littered with signs, posters, jaunty grinning people, sporting slogans like "See YOU at C-U!" She takes every flyer she's offered, asks every question, walks at the front and never loses pace.
On the way through the plaza, though, something compels her to sneak a glance over one shoulder.
Everyone behind has flocked into little groups. Their heads are tucked in close, chattering and chortling and punching in numbers on their cells. Amicable, together.
Against all will, something like a frown creases Ocean's lips.
"And here's the sacred, spo-o-o-oky seal!" says Molly, through a crackling mouthpiece, walking backwards. "Legend has it, if you step on it, you won't graduate on—"
Just as one girl, in that flock to the side, must say something supremely funny, because she starts giggling, Ocean trips on her own foot.
A visceral yelp escapes her, one shoe scuffing right over said sacred, spooky seal.
Everyone stops, and everyone looks. Ocean freezes.
Molly blinks again, eyelashes fluttering, and coughs. "Don't worry," she assures, through a stiff laugh. "Just a rumor!"
Ocean tells herself that for the next several hours.
That evening, the sky is dark. She finds Hansen Hall, after taking about three wrong turns before realizing the entrance is at the back of the building. (Who does that?) She slaps her ID to the reader, which doesn't work, and she'll have to get it replaced tomorrow, so an RA comes outside to buzz her in. She plods up four flights of stairs, because the elevator's out of service, and apparently has been since last semester, so this is the trek home for the forseeable future. She stumbles down the hall, once again sufficiently twisted because conveniently enough, the 9 on the directory had slipped off its hinge and flipped upside-down to a 6. And she stops, in front of room 405.
When she shoves her key in the lock, it doesn't snap off inside, by some grace of God. Ocean twists, and pushes. Softly, the door clicks behind her.
Her half-lidded eyes wheel around the room, for the first time, properly.
To the right: her roommate's, it has to be.
There's a puffy, strawberry-tinted duvet sprawled on the bed, atop fitted sheets and pillowcases patterned with Jimmy sprinkles. Plush toys of various foods with dots for eyes and semicircles for smiles are clumped in a horde at the foot. Framed family photos covering every spare inch of desk; posters on the wall with gibberish words, ordering her to do such audacious things as panicking at a disco, or even fight some kind of "foo"; on the cotton-candy shag carpet, well-loved slippers shaped like unicorns whose multicolored manes are matted beyond belief.
It's—homely, is the only way to put it. Loud, crowded, colorful, but, comfortable. Kind of. In a way.
To the left: Ocean's.
Or, a blank slab of a blue mattress, an empty desk with a chair that looks like an impediment to her physical safety, and a closet with nothing but cobwebs on the hangers.
Quietly, she bends to her knees to rifle through the duffel of her eighteen years. There's about six outfits to replace the cobwebs with. And, her stationery collection, for notes, to take up some space on the desk. Wrapped carefully in her woolen sweaters, her life's achievements: awards and accolades, trophies and ribbons and medals.
She goes to tack all those up, at least, on whatever surface possible, loud and proud and glinting in the harsh LEDs. Ocean steps back, hands on hips, admires the scene like one of those home makeover shows on HGTV—maybe the same magic will take effect here.
It does not.
Everything still looks cold.
Buried at the bottom of the bag, though, she knows, is the patchwork quilt from home.
It's ripping at the seams, hand-stitched in janky zigzags with fabrics that clash completely, and when she pulls it out, it reeks of earth.
It reeks of home.
Ocean pulls on pajamas and clambers onto the unadorned lump of mattress. The quilt is debated, for a split moment, then tossed to the foot of the bed. This is fine. Everything is fine. None of this matters. She's slept in and through far, far worse, so surely, it's—
The door creaks. Her head swivels to the sound.
Sweet.
That's what the girl across the threshold looks like. Her face, features, hands, hair, her everything is soft and round—save the big, boxy frames fastened on the bridge of her nose, angles stark against the curve of her cheeks. The tips of her jet-black coils are dyed a royal pinkish-purple, hanging off her shoulders a too-big T-shirt that asserts: No Whisk, No Reward.
When she sees her, she smiles, and it's with an appropriate amount of teeth. "Hi," she says, sweet as everything else. "Thought I wasn't gonna have a roommate for a second, there!" The giggle she snorts loose has the cadence of someone gently joking, probably. "Ocean? Am I super wrong?"
"Um," says Ocean, for lack of anything better in her brain, "how did you know that?"
"Our names are on the door."
Officially un-stupefied, Ocean slips off the cinder block of a mattress to peel open the door, jut her head through the crack, and gape at the other side.
Right. A pair of laminated photos, one a cookie and the other a glass of milk, plastered to the outside. Constance is right, by the looks of the name printed beneath the cookie.
Ocean, what feels like a little ungracefully, pulls the door shut and turns back around. "Constance?" she verifies, to be sure.
"You got it." Constance, yes, hands on hips in a similar HGTV-esque stance, appears to glance over her side of the room. "Oh, man," she suddenly frets. "Have you not had time to settle in yet?"
Ocean bristles. What, is the distinct lack of grinning plush macarons somehow offensive? "I'm settled," she insists, even though whatever on this planet she was doing before on the slab of concrete was definitively not settling.
Constance frowns, creased all over. "You don't have a mattress cover?" she asks, taking a tiptoe ever so slightly closer. "Or, like, sheets? A pillow?… Anything?"
"I'm perfectly comfortable," says Ocean, instead of an answer to any of those particular questions.
Constance creases even more, if it were possible, and for whatever reason, it's gut-twisting. Worry, sympathy, almost. "Are you sure? You know, you can totally borrow—"
"I'm fine!"
It comes out tighter, and louder, and harder, than really intended. Something flashes across Constance's soft, round face, that briefly blunts her even more.
Then, her edges sharpen, by an inch.
"Okay. Sure. I won't bug you, then," Constance says, coolly.
She strides to her side of the room, slips into the bed that's comfortable, snaps off the light, and flips to face the wall.
This doesn't sting, either.
It shouldn't, which is why Ocean turns over, too, and is fine. She's fine. It's all fine. University is going to go fine—no, greater than fine.
Fine people aren't worried about this room being particularly nippy, or the fact their forearm is falling asleep because it's functioning as an ad hoc pillow, or the fact there's a strange, pulling sensation in their gut that might, on some planet, in some manner—if they weren't completely fine, of course—be considered "stinging."
But none of it has to matter.
Not when you're destined to be great, fated for success. Not when you've climbed every mountain and this is just another Everest. Not when tomorrow's a brand new day, and you're no longer living in yesterday.
Everything will be just perfect.
That is, so long as these weird dreams would cut it out.