EIGHTEEN
“Do you just hang out here now?” Nick pushed his library cart to her table.
“Just trying to write,” Cath said, closing her laptop before he started peeking at her screen.
“Working on your final project?” He slipped into the chair beside her and tried to open the computer. She laid her arm on top of it. “Have you settled
on a direction yet?” he asked.
“Yep,” Cath said. “Lots of them.”
He frowned for a second, then shook his head. “I’m not worried about you.
You can write ten thousand words in your sleep.”
She practically could. She’d written ten thousand words of Carry On in one night before. Her wrists had really hurt the next day.… “What about you?” she asked. “Done?”
“Almost. Well … I have an idea.” He smiled at her. It was one of those smiles that made her think he might be flirting.
Smiling is confusing, she thought. This is why I don’t do it.
“I think I’m going to turn in my anti-love story.” He raised his Muppet eyebrows and stretched his top lip across his teeth.
Cath felt her mouth hanging open and closed it. “The story? Like … the story we’ve been working on?”
“Yeah,” Nick said excitedly, raising his eyebrows high again. “I mean, at first I thought it was too frivolous. A short story is supposed to be about something. But it’s like you always say, it’s about two people falling in love —what could be bigger than that? And we’ve workshopped it enough, I think it’s ready.” He pushed his elbow into hers and tapped his front teeth with the
tip of his tongue. He was watching her eyes. “So what do you think? It’s a good idea, right?”
Cath snapped her mouth shut again. “It’s … it’s just that…” She looked down at the table, where the notebook usually sat. “We worked on it together.”
“Cath…,” he said. Like he was disappointed in her. “What are you trying
to say?”
“Well, you’re calling it your story.”
“You call it that,” he said, cutting her off. “You’re always saying that you feel more like an editor than a cowriter.”
“I was teasing you.”
“Are you teasing me now? I can’t tell.”
She glanced up at his face. He looked impatient. And let down. Like Cath was letting him down.
“Can we just be honest?” he asked. He didn’t wait for her to answer. “This story was my idea. I started it. I’m the only one who works on it outside the library. I appreciate all of your help—you’re a genius editor, and you’ve got tons of potential—but do you really think it’s your story?”
“No,” Cath said. “Of course not.” She felt her voice shrink into a whine.
“But we were writing together. Like Lennon–McCartney—”
“John Lennon and Paul McCartney have been quoted multiple times saying they wrote their songs separately, then showed them to each other. Do you really think John Lennon wrote half of ‘Yesterday’? Do you think Paul McCartney wrote ‘Revolution’? Don’t be naïve.”
Cath clenched her fists in her lap.
“Look,” Nick said, smiling like he was forcing himself to do it. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done. You really get me, as an artist, like nobody else ever has. You’re my best sounding board. And I want us to keep showing each other our stuff. I don’t want to feel like, if I offer you a suggestion, it belongs to me. Or vice versa.”
She shook her head. “That’s not…” She didn’t know what to say, so she pulled her laptop toward her and started wrapping the cord around it. The one Abel had given her. (It really was a good gift.)
“Cath … don’t. You’re freaking me out here. Are you actually mad about this? Do you really think I’m stealing from you?”
She shook her head again. And put her computer in her bag.
“Are you angry?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered. They were still in a library, after all. “I’m just…”
Just.
“I thought you’d be happy for me,” he said. “You’re the only one who knows how hard I’ve worked on this. You know how I’ve poured myself into this story.”
“I know,” she said. That part was true. Nick had cared about the story; Cath hadn’t. She’d cared about the writing. About the magic third thing that lived between them when they were working together. She would have met Nick at the library to write obituaries. Or shampoo packaging. “I’m just…,” she said. “I need to work on my story now. It’s almost finals week.”
“Can’t you work here?”
“I don’t want to waterboard you with my typing noises,” she murmured.
“Do you want to get together one more time before we turn in our stories,
just to proof them?”
“Sure,” she said, not meaning it.
Cath waited until she got to the stairs to start running, and ran all the way home by herself through the trees and the darkness.
* * *
On Wednesday afternoon, after her Biology final, Cath sat in front of her computer. She wasn’t going to leave the room or get on the Internet until she finished her Fiction-Writing project.
She wasn’t going to stop typing until she had a first draft. Even if that meant typing things like, I don’t know what the fuck I’m typing right now, blah, blah, blah.
She still hadn’t settled on a plot or characters.… She spent an hour writing a conversation between a man and his wife. And then she realized there was no rising or falling action; the man and his wife were just arguing about Brussels sprouts, and the Brussels sprouts weren’t a
metaphor for anything deeper.
Then she started a story about a couple’s breakup, from the perspective of their dog.
And then she started a story where a dog intentionally destroys a marriage.
And then she stopped because she wasn’t all that interested in dogs. Or married people.
She thought about typing up everything she remembered writing from Nick’s anti-love story. That would get Professor Piper’s attention.
She thought about taking one of her Simon/Baz stories and just changing the names. (She probably could have gotten away with that if Professor Piper wasn’t already on to her.) Maybe she could take a Simon/Baz story and change all the material details. Simon is a lawyer, and Baz is a spy. Simon is a cop, and Baz owns a bakery. Simon likes Brussels sprouts, and Baz is a dog.
Cath wanted, desperately, to escape to the Internet. Just to check her e- mail or something. But she wouldn’t let herself open a browser window, not even to check whether the b in “Brussels” should be capitalized.
Instead, she shoved away from her desk and went to the bathroom. She walked slowly down the hall, trolling for distractions, but there was no one milling around trying to be friendly. Cath went back to her room and lay on her bed. She’d stayed up too late the night before studying for Biology, and it was easy to close her eyes.
It was almost a nice change of pace to be stewing about Nick instead of Levi. Had she actually liked him? (Nick, that is. She’d definitely liked Levi.) Or had she just liked everything he represented? Smart, talented, handsome.
World War I handsome.
Now just thinking about Nick made her feel so ashamed. She’d been taken.
Grifted. Had he planned to steal the story all along? Or was he just desperate?
Like Cath was desperate.
Nick and his stupid story.
It really was his story. It was nothing Cath ever would have written on her own. Stupid, quirky girl character. Stupid, pretentious boy character. No dragons.
It was Nick’s story. He’d just tricked her into writing it. He was an unreliable narrator, if ever she’d met one.
Cath wanted to work on her own story now. Not the one for class. Carry On.
Carry On was Cath’s story. Thousands of people were reading it.
Thousands of people wanted her to finish.
This story she was supposed to be writing for class? Only one person cared if she finished it. And that one person wasn’t even Cath.
* * *
She fell asleep with her shoes on, lying on her stomach.
When she woke up, it was dark, and she hated that. It was disorienting to fall asleep in the light and wake up in the dark, instead of the other way around. Her head ached, and there was a circle of drool on her pillow. That only happened when she slept during the day.
Cath sat up, miserably, and realized her phone was ringing. She didn’t
recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Cather?” It was a man’s voice. Gentle.
“Yes, who is this?”
“Hey, Cather, it’s Kelly. Kelly from your dad’s work.”
Kelly was her dad’s creative director. The panda bear guy. “Fucking Kelly,” her dad called him. As in, “Fucking Kelly is making us start over on the Kilpatrick’s campaign.” Or, “And then fucking Kelly got it in his head that the robot should be dancing.”
Kelly was the reason her dad still had a job. Every time Kelly switched agencies, he talked Cath’s dad into following him.
Kelly chalked up all her dad’s extreme behavior to “the creative mind.”
“Your dad’s a genius,” he’d told the twins at one Christmas party. “His brain was specifically designed to make ads. He’s a precision instrument.”
Kelly had a soft, wheedling voice—like he was trying to talk you into something or sell you something, every time he opened his mouth. “Have you girls tried the cocktail shrimp here? The cocktail shrimp are amazing.”
Hearing Kelly’s soft-sell voice now sent an unpleasant chill scrabbling up
Cath’s spine.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hey, Cather. I’m sorry to call you at school. It’s finals week, right? My
Connor tells me it’s finals week.”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Look, I got your number from your dad’s phone, and I just wanted to tell you that he’s perfectly okay, he’s going to be fine. But he’s spending tonight —maybe the next day or two—here at the hospital. Here at St. Richard’s
Hospital—”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened, he’s okay. I mean it. He just needs to get his balance back.”
“Why? I mean, what happened? Why did you take him there—did you take him there?”
“Yeah, I did. I brought him here myself. It wasn’t that anything happened.
It’s just that he was really caught up in work, which you know, we all are. It’s a fine line sometimes for all of us … but your dad didn’t want to leave his office. It had been a few days since he’d left his office.…”
How many days? she wondered. And was he eating? Was he going to the bathroom? Had he shoved his desk up against the door? Had he thrown a stack of ideas out the seventh-floor window? Had he stood in the hallway and shouted, You’re all limp-dicked sellouts! Every one of you! And especially you, Kelly, you fucking brainless hack! Did they have to carry him out? Was
it during the day? Did everyone watch?
“He’s at St. Richard’s?” she asked.
“Yep, they’re just checking things out. Helping him get some sleep. I think that’s really going to help.”
“I’m coming,” she said. “Tell him I’m coming. Did he hurt himself?”
“No, Cather—he’s not hurt. He’s just sleeping. I think he’s going to be fine. It’s just been a rough couple of months.”
Months. “I’m coming, okay?”
“Sure,” Kelly said. “I’m probably going to head home soon. But this is my
cell number. You call me if you need anything, okay?”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it. Anything at all. You know how I feel about your dad, he’s my lucky penny. I’d do anything for the guy.”
“Thank you.”
She hung up before Kelly did. She couldn’t stand any more.
Then she immediately called Wren. Wren sounded surprised when she answered the phone. Cath cut to the chase—“Dad’s at St. Richard’s.”
“What? Why?”
“He lost it at work.”
“Is he okay?”
“I don’t know. Kelly said he wouldn’t leave his office.”
Wren sighed. “Fucking Kelly?”
“Yeah.”
“Dad’s going to be mortified.”
“I know,” Cath said. “I’m going up there as soon as I can figure out a
ride.”
“Did Kelly tell you to come?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s finals week, and you know that Dad is probably tranqed into oblivion right now. We should call tomorrow and see how he’s doing.”
“Wren, he’s in the hospital.”
“St. Richard’s isn’t exactly a hospital.”
“You don’t think we should go?”
“I think we should finish our finals,” Wren said. “By the time we’re done, he’ll be just coming out of the haze, and we can be there for him.”
“I’m going,” Cath said. “I’m gonna see if Grandma will come get me.”
“Grandma’s in Chicago.”
“Oh. Right.”
“If you really have to do this, I know that Mom would drive you. If it’s
that important to you.”
“No. Are you kidding me?”
“Fine. Whatever. Will you call me when you get to the hospital?”
Cath wanted to say something mean, like, “I’d hate to interrupt your studies during finals week.” But instead she said, “Yes.”
She called Reagan next. Reagan had a car; Reagan would understand.… Reagan didn’t answer.
Cath crawled onto her bed and cried for a few minutes.
For her dad. For his humiliation and his weakness. And for herself— because she hadn’t been there to keep this from happening, and because even something this shitty couldn’t bring her and Wren together. Why was Wren being so cool about this? Just because it had happened before didn’t mean it wasn’t serious. It didn’t mean he didn’t need them.
Then she cried over the fact that she hadn’t made more friends with cars.
…
And then she called Levi.
He answered right away. “Cath?”
“Hey, Levi. Um, how are you?”
“Fine. I’m just … working.”
“Do you usually answer your phone at work?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, um, later when you get off, is there any chance you could drive me to Omaha? I know it’s a big hassle, and I’ll give you gas money. It’s just, sort of, a family emergency.”
“I’ll come get you now. Give me fifteen.”
“No. Levi, it can wait, if you’re at work.”
“Is it a family emergency?”
“Yeah,” she said quietly.
“See you in fifteen.”
There was no way Snow would see him here, up on the balcony. Snow was too busy trying to learn his steps for the ball. Too busy stamping all over Agatha’s silk boots. She looked lovely today—all golden white hair and creamy pink skin. That girl is opaque, Baz thought.
Like milk. Like white glass.
Simon took a bad step forward, and she lost her balance. He caught her with a strong arm around her waist.
Don’t they just shine together? Weren’t they every shade of white and gold?
“He’ll never give her up, you know.”
Baz wanted to whip around at the voice, but he caught himself. Didn’t even turn his head.
“Hello, Penelope.”
“You’re wasting your time,” she said, and damned if she didn’t sound tired. “He thinks she’s his destiny—he can’t help himself.”
“I know,” Baz said, turning into the shadows. “Neither can I.”
—from “Tyrannus Basilton, Son of Pitch,” posted December 2009 by FanFixx.net authors
Magicath and Wrenegade
