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jasonbehrs · 3 years ago

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let me be your guarantee

by airauralintensity (aka me, jasonbehrs!)

"You could stand to be a bit more selfish, you know."

"You could stand to be a bit more courteous in general, so I guess we both have things we need to work on."

fandom: kpop, super junior characters: ryeowook, kyuhyun ship: kyuwook genre: friendship, romance themes: genderbent, rule 63, high school, a day in the life, fluff (arguable) word count: 5.2k

read it below or on ffnet, wattpad, aff, or (new!) ao3

A/N (8.27.2021): I have no heterosexual explanation for the effects Ryeowook and Kyuhyun in drag have on me (or my creative process, evidently).

Rating for mildly suggestive language and graphic depictions of geometry. Title comes from Poster Girl by the Backstreet Boys. Cover art made by me. Thanks to Amy for the beta! (Even though you're already so over high school, haha.)

Uploading this as part of kyuwook month on twitter! I actually was gonna publish it wayyy back on July 21, but I waited so I could participate in ryeonamickyuo's #kyuwooksaturdays event on twitter lol. #marketing

~~~

A soothing chime alarm wakes Ryeowook up before dawn. She lets herself stretch in bed, enjoying the warm comfort of her blankets for a moment longer before getting up for a shower. She changes into the outfit she had prepared the night before: a sparkly white sweater and a pink skirt fluffed with tulle, and she painstakingly dries and curls her long lavender hair just the way she likes it before applying some light makeup. After scrutinising her appearance for another minute, she decides to add a small braid to her hair for fun.

With ease and minimal noise, Ryeowook flits through the kitchen to make enough breakfast for her and her parents. She's feeling like sweet potatoes and tofu this morning. She leaves her parents' portions in the oven to stay warm before serving herself, and she mentally checks through yesterday's to-do list to make sure she's all set for today while she chews.

Her homework is printed and neatly filed in their own plastic sleeves as a sustainable alternative to staples.

The cinnamon rolls she made the night before, with a small batch of gluten-free versions set aside, are individually packed in a tin waiting in the fridge.

After she brushes her teeth and puts on her silver flats, she'll be all ready for the walk to school.

Satisfied with her preparations, Ryeowook hums softly to herself as she washes the dishes after eating. With the sink by the kitchen window, she is able to catch the first rays of sunlight streak across the brightening sky, and she smiles. Today is going to be a good day.

~~~

Today is already a shit day.

The alarm blares once again after snoozing it for the third time just as someone bangs on her door, and the annoying sunlight shining through her bedroom window manages to directly hit her eyes. Kyuhyun frowns into her pillow. She was having an excellent dream about kimchi ramen that is already slipping out of her grasp the more she joins the land of the conscious.

She spares a second to flip the bird in Ahra's direction, knowing full well her older sister won't see it through the closed door, before rummaging through her unruly closet for whatever passes the sniff test. She changes into a pleather bodycon skirt (just long enough to meet the school's dress code, but no longer) and a long-sleeve red crop top in a half-awake daze.

Kyuhyun offhandedly recalls she left her homework in the printer last night. Hopefully she remembers to stuff that in her bag before she leaves.

Not one for morning showers, she simply runs a brush through her silky blonde hair a few times just to get the birds' nests out, wipes the oil off her face, and swipes on a thick cat eye to complete her look.

At the breakfast table, Kyuhyun eats in silence while ignoring the looks her dad gives her, no doubt at her mildly revealing outfit. She gives him a side hug anyway before leaving her dishes in the sink for later. She finishes her morning routine, grabs her keys and homework, and shuts the door behind her when she leaves for school.

~~~

Ryeowook cheerily pushes open the school doors with plenty of time left before the first bell. Instead of her locker, she walks purposefully through the hallways for the principal's office.

"Good morning, Ryeowook!" the matronly receptionist-cum-secretary greets when she sees Ryeowook sweep in.

"Good morning, Mrs. Oh!" Ryeowook chirps. "How has your hypoglycemia been treating you?" she asks as she gathers the paperwork she needs for her homeroom duties.

"Probably better if I remembered to eat breakfast in the mornings," Mrs. Oh responds with good humour, pushing her butterfly-themed sunglasses further up the bridge of her nose.

"I thought you might say that," Ryeowook says while rummaging through her bag. "Here, I made these last night. It's gluten-free, and you can't even tell!" She offers a cinnamon roll from her tin, and she smiles at the way Mrs. Oh lights up at the sight.

"Oh, Ryeowook! You're such a dear!" Mrs. Oh effuses.

Ryeowook bows in acknowledgement and waves goodbye, the papers for homeroom loose in her hand. She finally makes her way to her locker—the inside decorated with magnets, pictures, and a helpful calendar—so that she can get the books she'll need for all her pre-lunch classes.

In the hallways, she is greeted at every turn.

"Hey, Ryeowook! I hope you had a great weekend!" "I did, thanks! Happy Monday!"

"Oh my god, your outfit is completely adorable. It really brings out the lavender of your hair." "Wow, you think? I'll invest in more pink then~"

"Thanks so much for helping with the banner last week! It was a hit at our event; everyone wanted a photo with it." "No problem; I'm so glad to hear that! Like I always say, there's no such thing as too much glitter!"

These microtransactions of joy she gets while walking through the halls energise her like nothing else. She loves being helpful and knowing people care about her enough to say hi. It makes her life as a member of the school's community and as a student leader so fulfilling.

She makes it into homeroom with a minute to spare, sets her stuff at her desk, then places the tin of cinnamon rolls on the teachers' desk for everyone's enjoyment.

The bell rings, and the wattage turns up on her smile. "Good morning!" she calls out, easily cutting through the chatter with her high and bright voice. "There are cinnamon rolls at the front for everyone. Feel free to grab some while I take attendance. The ones swirled in a clockwise pattern are gluten free, so please save them for those with that dietary restriction!"

The typical gratitudes spill out—"Oh my god, these taste amazing." "You're so thoughtful, Ryeowook!" "Please marry me."—and she preens at the praise as she goes down the list in her hand.

It isn't until she gets to a specific name near the top, until she doesn't hear the typical 'Present!' that should follow, that she gives her first frown of the day.

She quickly shakes it off and finishes up, returning to her seat with every intention to rehearse her presentation one more time before the bell ending homeroom rings.

~~~

Kyuhyun steps into school right after the warning bell for first period rings, and she seamlessly joins the throngs of people hustling to their first class.

Well, she would join them, if there were throngs to join. Students stop in their tracks and fall silent as soon as they sense her presence, causing nearby students to quiet in confusion then in understanding such that a bubble of non-motion and non-noise follows her as she walks. The typical morning chatter resumes at a lowered volume from a safe distance of six feet behind her, and she is vain enough to presume at least 40% of those conversations are about her.

The stares go unacknowledged of course. So do the hapless love declarations from desperate freshmen and presumptive date offers from cocky upperclassmen. They might as well have said, "Kyuhyun, I bet you don't have better things to do with your time than stroke my ego and go dutch on an oily dinner at a chain restaurant after school." As if.

While leaving another potential suitor in the dust, a janitor accidentally turns on an industrial fan facing her direction just as she takes off her sunglasses. Coupled with the paused state of her classmates, her languid pace through the hall looks like a slow-motion runway walk that even Naomi Campbell in her prime would envy.

Kyuhyun's locker is empty save for the jacket she just shoved into it, then she goes straight to her first class of the day. She slides into her seat—not all the way in the back; cliche, much?—and, as if on cue, the whispers start.

"Do you think her hair is natural?' "Of course not, look at her eyebrows." "She could be dyeing her eyebrows!"

"I heard she drives to school? I thought only third-years and up were allowed to do that!" "I don't think allowances are all it takes to stop someone like her."

"Cho Kyuhyun in red should be one of the seven deadly sins." "That sin already exists, and it's called 'lust,' bro." "No no no no no. There's lust, and there's Cho Kyuhyun in red."

Strangers referring to you by your full name in some sort of layman's equivalent of a celebrity mononym has such a satisfying, powerful feel to it. Alas, save for a sly smirk, these too are ignored.

The smirk is promptly wiped off her face as soon as the teacher walks in, as if their life's greatest joy is teaching 16 year-olds about Korean peninsular history at 8:30 in the morning, and Kyuhyun already lolls her head back in disinterest.

~~~

Ryeowook snaps her hand up, a lone beacon of preparedness in a sea of bored or anxious faces.

"Thanks for volunteering, Ryeowook! Whenever you're ready." The teacher gestures to the podium with a sweep of their hands, pleased with the student's enthusiasm.

Ryeowook flounces out of her seat to the front of the classroom and loads up her presentation on the laptop hooked up to the projector. "S.E.S. as a Pop Culture Juggernaut" appears on screen in bold letters, and the subtle sounds of rustling fill the classroom as students sit up in interest.

"Good morning, everyone! Today I'm going to present on the seminal idol girl group S.E.S. Through interdisciplinary and anthropological analysis, I will illustrate how the mark they've left on Korean culture at the time of their debut carries ripple effects on the entertainment industry that can be observed to this day."

She takes a moment to look over the surprised and interested faces of her classmates and teacher, then smiles internally. She's going to crush this.

She clicks to the next slide. "S.E.S. is a girl group that debuted in 1997 under SM Entertainment. That may seem like a fairly innocuous sentence on its own; in which case, I'll inform you that they are the first girl group ever debuted in K-pop history…"

When the class learned their Forensics and Communication midterm assignment would be free-form, many of her classmates asked if she'd partner with them for a debate. Their topics were interesting enough. She would have customarily had little problem arguing on the cost-benefit analysis of a college education or the validity of prison sentences served overseas (to name a few).

But she graciously turned them all down. In her heart, she knew she'd simply enjoy it more if she gave a presentation on something more personal… and studies show passion for your work drives results. She expects nothing less than an A+.

Thanks to the confident excitement lacing her voice and a powerpoint that took her two weeks to perfect, she handily grabs the interest and attention of every student in the class, even the ones typically uninterested in idol culture. She winds up leading the class in a discussion on the inherent greater interest the Korean general public reserves for girl groups in contrast to the supersaturated boy band market, and the teacher has to regretfully cut them short to allow for the other midterm assignments that had to be seen that day.

"Thanks again, Ryeowook, for that illuminating and impassioned presentation! Why don't we keep that energy going, hmm? I know it may seem like a tough act to follow, but who's ready to present next?"

Expecting the worst, the teacher is pleasantly surprised when a majority of the class raises their hands to volunteer. The teacher looks over at Ryeowook and sends a quick wink in thanks, and Ryeowook gives a thumbs up in acknowledgement.

~~~

Kyuhyun clicks 'downvote' on a thread in the r/poppunk subreddit. As if Retrieve Me the Skyline has anything on Querying Quinn.

Just then, she senses a presence walk up to her desk. She lifts her eyes up from her phone—hidden behind an obviously strategically upright notebook in a semblance of respect for the teacher—to find said teacher looking at her disapprovingly. She sighs without remorse and puts her cellphone away, not one to fight once she's caught red-handed.

"Thank you, Ms. Cho. Now, as I was saying: Just like how Korean borrows from Chinese and English words, English borrows words from many other cultures. This is part of why their grammar rules are so inconsistent. Therefore, it may be helpful to learn the etymology of certain words to reinforce these rules. For example, 'geese' is the plural form of 'goose' because 'goose' was borrowed from German, and Proto-Germanic grammar does allow for plural forms for their nouns. On the other hand, 'moose' does not pluralise to 'meese' because it was borrowed from an Indigenous American language which did not pluralise their nouns."

Kyuhyun barely has the presence of mind to suppress a groan. If this is supposed to be an English class, why is the teacher talking about German all of a sudden? She isn't gaining any more while paying attention as she was while scrolling on her phone! This is why she doesn't bother. It would take her less time and less effort to simply read the textbook.

Honestly, that's how she usually spends her classes. She's not against learning necessarily—if she has to be here, she might as well—but she is against the fluff shit that most teachers feel the need to sprinkle in to keep people's attention or reinforce learning. If it's not going to be on the national exam at the end of the year, it's just a waste of time.

It doesn't help that Kyuhyun's a whole league above the mouthbreathers in this high school anyway. What other people need several hours of studying to understand sinks in for her after a single lecture. She has the makings to be every teacher's dream student, but she's made it very clear: Don't make her participate in class, and she won't eviscerate their self-esteem in exchange. It's an elegant system with an 87.5% success rate.

As her schedule has it, the only class where it doesn't work is her next one. The phys ed grade is almost entirely predicated on participation; and unfortunately for her, the venn diagram of men who have already had their insecurities abused to the point of desensitisation by their superiors during conscription and men who decide to become high school PE teachers seems to be a circle.

Her solution for this class is admittedly less elegant.

Even as the next period is just about to begin and the halls thin out, Kyuhyun still manages to easily breeze past the bumbling office receptionist trying to prevent her from leaving the grounds during school hours.

(Hey, she's gonna get a 0 for participation whether she's wasting time sitting on the bleachers and bored out of her mind or whether she's going to the mall to grab the new Napping with Nixies album. Might as well do the fun one. Bonus: instead of paying the Korean public school system for the rehydrated prison rations they consider 'food,' she can grab lunch at the foodcourt!)

~~~

Ryeowook spends her lunch period like a jetsetting CEO, the precious few minutes taken up by meetings with various teachers, students, and—today—even an administrator.

"Thanks so much for taking the time to meet with me, Ryeowook."

"Of course, Mr. Park! I'm happy to represent the needs of my class. Let me know if I can help with this initiative again later once it gains more momentum."

"I certainly will. Have a good rest of your day, Ms. Kim," Mr. Park replies warmly, his deep voice and barrel-chested physique radiating authority and paternity.

The administrator walks her out of his office, and they bow to each other at the door. The clock in the hallway tells her there is barely any time to make it to the cafeteria and eat a meal, so she sighs and resignedly walks back to her locker to exchange her books with the ones she'd need for her post-lunch classes.

She remembers there is a vending machine along the way to her next classroom, so she pivots her route slightly so that she can pick up a granola bar and a bottle of water. They'll be easy to finish before class starts.

"You know, you'd have time to eat a real lunch and attend your precious meetings if they just expanded our lunch hour to be an actual hour," a voice says from behind her just as she feeds a paper bill into the machine.

"I don't mind. It means we have more time spent in our classes."

She bends at the knee to retrieve her purchases then gracefully hops back up to twirl on her heel, steadfastly ignoring the other's presence as she continues on her way.

"I think we can definitely stand to spend less time in class. Come on; we already sacrifice the most formative years of our lives confined to these 'hallowed halls,' and they can't even let us digest our meals properly?" her nuisance heckles as Ryeowook is followed.

"I bet the Student Council would love to have an impassioned, opinionated person such as yourself on the panel. If you have ideas for change, you're free to share them with people who are empowered to do something about it," Ryeowook comments mildly, gaze trained forward even as the other pulls up beside her.

"The student council is a mockery of democracy and only serves as a mere figurehead for the students' collective political and bartering power to the school administration, and you know it."

Finally, Ryeowook stops. She squares her shoulders and looks her antagoniser in the eye. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mock an extracurricular about which I'm very passionate to my face, Kyuhyun-ssi."

The taller smirks. "As much as you'd appreciate time to sit and eat lunch with your friends for once?"

They are not alone in the hallway they've entered into. With an almost imperceptible turn of her head, Ryeowook can even see some students eavesdropping on their conversation, eager to hypothesise with their friends what the two most popular girls in school yet for completely opposite reasons are doing talking to each other.

"Hey, isn't that Kim Ryeowook?" "Talking to Cho Kyuhyun?" "Hold up, they know each other?"

If she could hear them, then they could certainly hear her, and that reminder is enough to reign in her annoyance. She allows herself ten seconds to collect her composure.

When she speaks again, her voice is airy and pleasant. "Well, if that's all, I have to go and spend what's left of my lunch period doing something a little more constructive than arguing with someone who'd rather complain than make the best of a situation. If you'll excuse me."

"You should have gotten fig newtons!" Kyuhyun calls as Ryeowook moves around her. Ryeowook counts it as a small blessing that the other does not follow. "They're easier to eat in class! Less noisy."

"You're not allowed to eat food in class," Ryeowook retorts plainly without even turning her head.

She can feel the other's eyes on her as she walks away, but she ignores it as she takes a swig of her water.

(She finishes her bar before crossing the threshold of the classroom, arriving before even the teacher does and finding a half of a sandwich wrap from the deli across the street waiting on her desk.)

~~~

The surface of Kyuhyun's desk is empty save for her arms and elbows organised to support her languid daydreaming. Outside the window, she watches as three red cars pass by.

More so than her other subjects, math just makes sense to her without even trying. There's less up for interpretation, there are consistent and logical rules, and patterns are clearer with numbers.

If she doesn't need to try, then why would she? So she hands in passable attempts at homework, texts throughout lecture, and is generally unresponsive during the class. Ms. Kang would love nothing more than to suspend her for insubordination and churlishness; but Kyuhyun is her best student by far, and they both know it.

"If the altitude of right triangle ABC intersects with the hypotenuse at D, what equation is always true?"

In fact, Kyuhyun would want to skip this class too, but there's just something about its specific learning environment that keeps her attending lesson after lesson.

In her periphery, the student in front of her and one row over hurriedly draws out the question in her notebook to analyse it. She raises her hand in excitement a moment later.

"Yes, Ryeowook?" "AD over AC is equal to AC over BD!"

Kyuhyun suppresses a scoff. The teacher smiles sympathetically, knowing that Ryeowook is doing her best, and says, "Sorry, but no."

Ryeowook pouts. "Aigoooo," she intones as she looks back at her drawing, no doubt trying to understand where she went wrong.

Encouraged by Ryeowook's attempt, more students try their hand at the problem.

"AC over AD equals BD over BC?" "Nope."

"AD over CD equals DB over CD!" "If you bothered to write that down, you'd immediately see why that cannot possibly be the correct answer."

The class lapses into silence, and Ms. Kang begins calling out desperately. "Anyone? Anyone else?" When it was apparent no one else knew the answer, she sighs. "Kyuhyun?"

"AD over AC is equal to CD over BC," she recites boredly, gaze still trained beyond the window. Forget being capable of immediately answering a direct question; if anyone had been observing her during this lesson, they would have thought she wasn't even paying attention at all.

"That is correct," the teacher admits begrudgingly. "Remember class, due to the AA Similarity Postulate…"

Kyuhyun lets the teacher's words drift in one ear and out the other, heeding no further sounds until the bell rings.

The end of the school day is finally upon them.

As much as she looks forward to this point every day, she sits in her chair and lets every other student file out first before packing her things. She's in no rush.

Kyuhyun drops her bookbag off at her locker and wanders the halls aimlessly instead, spending extra time in the art corridor to see the latest student works. The freshmen are working on watercolours, apparently.

After an unfortunate encounter in the bathroom, she beelines for the cafeteria, which happens to be in a completely other building, and runs into the second-to-last person she wants to see right now.

"What are you still doing here, Ms. Cho?" Mr. Park asks with suspicion.

"Just hanging out," she says with a shrug.

"I know you refuse to partake in any of our extracurriculars, but don't you have something better to do than loiter? I'm sure you have homework or some such."

"Maybe if this school started offering a curriculum that actually required me to reinforce what I learned at home, I would."

Mr. Park's eyes narrow in contempt. "Whatever delinquent nonsense you're up to, do it outside of my high school!" he bellows.

Kyuhyun's phone buzzes in her hand just then, and she uses the same hand to offer a sarcastic salute. "Your wish, Mr. Park," she offers in parting before rushing as fast as she can to her locker. She can't wait to get home.

~~~

When her home's doorbell rings its seasonal chime, Ryeowook is several pages deep into her biology packet. She begrudgingly sets down her work and gets up to look out the window.

Her view is exasperating.

"You weren't in homeroom this morning… again," she says in lieu of a greeting, walking back to where she was doing homework in the living room after letting in the guest.

"Babe, don't be like that," the guest whines while she takes off her shoes. "You know that homeroom is a gigantic waste of time. It's just Big Academia's way of—"

"—'Training students to get used to being herded like cattle,' yeah yeah. Tell it to someone who cares."

"Oh? This isn't a suggestion I should take to your precious student council?"

"I don't have time for you right now. I have a whole biology packet to complete before I can start baking," Ryeowook says as she waves said packet in the air for emphasis.

Kyuhyun pouts with her whole face. "Why bother letting me over if you're not even going to pay attention to me!"

Ryeowook sighs and repositions her laptop to rest on the arm of the couch, invitation unspoken. Kyuhyun drops her petulant act immediately and happily trods over to stretch out on the couch and rest her head on her girlfriend's lap. She wiggles in place to get comfortable and pulls out her phone. Ryeowook's typing provides a light, inconsistent soundtrack to her mindless scrolling; and it feels nice.

"How'd your presentation go?" she asks after a while.

"I almost accidentally commandeered the whole period because people were so excited about my topic." Ryeowook tried going for deadpan, but the pride in her voice was unmistakable.

"Well, duh. No one can listen to you talk about something you're interested in and stay indifferent."

"Yeah, it's cool how emotions are infectious," Ryeowook comments offhandedly.

"Sure, but I meant specifically you. You're, like, the most passionate person I know. I bet you had the best topic out of anyone there, anyway."

Ryeowook doesn't reply, but Kyuhyun cranes her neck just enough to watch a grateful and pleased smile cross the other's face.

Satisfied with how awesome of a girlfriend she is, she keeps going. "Did you like the wrap?"

Kyuhyun can somehow feel the change a split-second before she hears it. "It was delicious; thank you; and never do it again," Ryeowook responds with a clipped tone.

Kyuhyun rolls her eyes. "Stop sacrificing your lunch time for things that can be handled over email, and maybe I will."

"I meant skipping class; and don't even try to deny it!" Ryeowook adds as soon as she hears Kyuhyun's sharp intake of breath in preparation for a non-sequitur argument. "I know you. You thought to do it only because you passed by the deli on your way back from wherever truant kids spend their time."

"Napping with Nixies released a new album," Kyuhyun defends.

"And the store would have still had copies for you to buy during the weekend," Ryeowook retorts.

"First day sales are important, Ryeowook!"

"So is your education, Kyuhyun!" Ryeowook parrots back in the same whining tone.

"Spoken like a true cog in Big Academia's machine."

"This sentence probably won't make sense to a self-inflicted lone wolf, but collaboration happens best in person. And I prefer a small lunch anyway." Ryeowook tacks on that last bit like an afterthought. Kyuhyun might have believed her, except she's seen the way Ryeowook packs for picnic dates and knows that statement to be patently untrue.

"You could stand to be a bit more selfish with your time, you know."

"You could stand to be a bit more courteous in general, so I guess we both have things we need to work on," Ryeowook fires back easily.

Kyuhyun strikes the couch with her arms in offense. "I'm plenty courteous! I bought you lunch 'cause I knew you wouldn't have had a real meal otherwise!"

"I meant to people that aren't me!" Ryeowook clarifies exasperatedly.

"Hmph. People that aren't you don't deserve it. It's like Kanye-sunbaenim says: 'Asshole to the world but never to your girl.'"

"… I don't know what's worse: that I'm dating a girl that gets her love advice from Kanye West or the fact that I had to hear the phrase 'Kanye-sunbaenim' with my own two ears."

"Well, what if I told you I also get my life advice from Kimmy K-unnie? That way it counts as women empowerment. Don't you like that kind of stuff?"

Ryeowook finally tears her focus away from her work to eye Kyuhyun incredulously.

Kyuhyun innocently looks up through her eyelashes to meet the other's gaze. "Well if you're not into what I'm posting, don't look."

Mercilessly, Ryeowook shoves Kyuhyun off her lap. "Goodbye," she says as she places her laptop back on her folded legs.

Kyuhyun scrambles up from the floor and looks at the laptop with thinly veiled disdain and jealousy. "Let me back!"

"Not until you're nicer to people."

"I'm nice to people! Today, I heard Yom Syejin gossipping in the bathroom that the only way I could have avoided detention this year is by blowing Mr. Park, and I managed to walk away without dunking her head in the toilet. That seems plenty nice to me."

"Excuse me, Yom Syejin said what?!"

Ah shit, Kyuhyun knew she shouldn't have said anything. This is what she gets for thinking humourous delivery is enough to mask unfortunate content.

"Really, it's not a big deal. I handled it," Kyuhyun maintains.

"I'm sure you did, honey. Come on, help me bake some snickerdoodles," Ryeowook says as she immediately heads into the kitchen.

This would be an excellent idea, except that Kyuhyun can clearly see Ryeowook's biology packet is still unfinished and that Ryeowook's tone of voice sounded disingenuously peppy.

~~~

Ryeowook makes it into homeroom the next day with a minute to spare, sets her stuff at her desk, then places a tin of snickerdoodles on the teachers' desk for everyone's enjoyment.

The bell rings, and the wattage turns up on her smile. "Good morning!" she calls out, easily cutting through the chatter with her high and bright voice. "There are snickerdoodles at the front for everyone. Feel free to grab some while I take attendance. I didn't have time last night to make as many as I wanted to, so I evenly divided the batch into goodie bags for you all! I wrote your names on them too, so please only take one. I'll know if you don't," she faux-threatens with a cute wink.

The typical gratitudes spill out—"You're the best!" "Thanks, Ryeowook!" "Please marry me?"—and she preens at the praise as she goes down the list in her hand.

It isn't until she notices one person in particular eagerly grabbing her designated bag that Ryeowook lets a private smile cross her face.

~~~

from: Kyuhyun-ssi (Geometry) oh my god yom skank-jin just bolted out of my english class like the new galaxy was on sale tf?

from: wookie💜 Maybe if you bothered attending homeroom this morning, you'd have an answer to your crudely-phrased question.

from: Kyuhyun-ssi (Geometry) oh my god what did you do

from: wookie💜 Did you know Syejinnie's favourite cookies are snickerdoodles?

from: Kyuhyun-ssi (Geometry) OH MY GOD WHAT DID YOU DO

from: wookie💜 Bathrooms are for shitting, not shit-talking.

from: Kyuhyun-ssi (Geometry) i am madly in love with you

from: wookie💜 Stop texting me and pay attention in class!

from: wookie💜 And I love you too 💛

~~~

A/N (8.27.2021): Thanks for reading! To prove my thanks, here is fanart that almost made it into the cover photo.

#super junior #super junior fanfiction #kyuwook #kyuhyun #ryeowook #cho kyuhyun #kim ryeowook #jaso*

3 notes · View notes

internutter · 6 years ago

Note

Don't know how far you'll get with the last one, but can we see some Ming and twin bonding?

It was a very strange thing to wake up and discover that you’re a parent to twins. Especially twins who were practically adults and well capable of looking after themselves.

Not that any of that mattered. Luume-influenced family bonding was a permanent biological compulsion to care for and after anything her Luume-addled mind had classed as a ‘baby’.

Which meant any creature under the age classification of ‘of age’.

Which, in this case, meant that portions of her instincts now classed the twins Lulu and Koko as ‘her babies’. She felt compelled to check that they were eating well, enough, and regularly. She gathered books for them to read that might expand their education. She stocked up on herbal ingredients that could be used for medicinal simples and even brewed up a few.

The circus’ medical cart had never been so well-stocked, even if it was well-stocked with Elven remedies. And more than a few bundles of herbs.

She stopped in at their caravan every evening to be sure they were tucked in and felt safe. They’d been through too much with Saint Vingo’s and the mess afterwards. They needed a gentle and caring hand.

La’ming had, on more than one occasion, sat watch on their doorstep. Protecting her babies from unknown evils in the dark. She worried about them. They slept instead of meditating because they didn’t feel safe. she couldn’t help them. She couldn’t make them feel safe.

She hadn’t, before. Now that she couldn’t... it worried her.

There were even nights that she played soothing music for them on her wooden flute. To let them know that she was standing watch and guarding them from any possible danger.

She couldn’t guard them from everything. That really worried her.

Hence, why she was following them around on their foraging trip that day.

“We’ve done this like a billion times, La’ming,” complained Lulu.

“Ye-es. I know that. It’s just... Aunt Irma’s driving me nuts.”

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” mocked Koko from somewhere in the shrubbery. He emerged with an apron full of weird berries.

La’ming knew one thing about strange berries - high danger of them being poisonous. “You’re not planning to eat those, are you?”

Koko’s face was an open book with large print that said, Bitch, please. “These are Lapiswort. I’m dying my hair.”

Lulu laughed out, “What?”

“I’m sick of being asked if I’m the girl one, so after this, they should be able to fuckin’ tell.”

“I have experience with dyes and dying hair,” said La’ming, rather desperate for something she could actually do to help her seventy-six-year-old babies. “I could help make sure it’s even and everything.”

Which lead to a long afternoon of washing, treating, and binding Koko’s hair in a plastering of a preparation of Lapiswort and alum, then coating it with leather until it set.

The next day, Koko’s hair was a vibrant and resplendent blue. Which - unfortunately for his romantic hopes - failed completely to win Kustaad’s attention at all.

Koko was right. The dye job did deflect the questions. For the week that they were entertaining Crossconnect Vale. After that, it started to fade to green as Koko’s natural golden colour began to literally shine through.

By then, they both sort of tolerated La’ming’s attempts to mother them. Most of the time.

“You are not going out in camp dressed like that, young lady.”

“Why? You’re running around in your undies and sleep slip.”

“We can totally see your boobs through that thing,” added Koko.

“And put away that pipe for today, thanks.”

Koko didn’t. “You do worse on the daily. Why should we even try to listen to you?”

Borstok, watching the show with Montgomery, leaned over to his boss and murmured, “It’s like watching a vodka or a wine aunt trying to parent angry teenagers.”

Montgomery had to agree. They were all hopeless at it. Exandria was probably going to chew him out for letting it happen, but... the entire circus had never had such ready entertainment on the daily.

“Shouldn’t you step in?” prompted Borstok in a rare display of competence.

“I’ll be the dad when they need me and not before. My job is keeping Miss Mak’arune from making it all explode again.” To damn Mak’arune with faint praise, she meant well and had the very best of intentions. She was also an enormous wet hen and prone to tears at the least provocation.

Borstok shrugged and said, “Fair ‘nuff.”

La’ming was taking ten deep breaths, attempting to come up with something rational. Not her forté. “Listen,” she said. “My life... is already a train wreck. I’m trying my hardest to stop yours from ending up that way too. Okay? You want I should dress better on my days off - help me out. You want me to cut down on the interesting herbology... help me out. Meanwhile i’m trying to help you out by preventing some of the huge mistakes I’ve made. Is that a deal?”

Lulu looked to Koko, who used Prestidigitation to put out his tiny clay pipe. He packed it away in his vest. “We’re stuck with you anyways. Might as well get you to wear a decent fucking nightie.”

Lulu added. “When you get down to it, ‘lion’s not as bad as some of the shit out there. It’s free and not that addictive.”

“Sure,” said La’ming, “you could quit it any time...”

They all glared at each other like cats. “I stay off the pipe for a week, you wean yourself off of those interesting shrooms you’re on half the time.”

“Deal,” said La’ming. “And I’m putting on a khaftan, too.”

It was a rocky start, but at least it was a start.

[TAZ Prompts remaining: 6]

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#reader request #taz #taz: balance #monty pithon's trying circus #adoption #dualityandsuch

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ouuuuki · 4 years ago

Text

Stormbringer ((Page 15-40))

Chuya Nakahara never dreams His awakening is like bubbles rising from the mud. Chuya woke up in his room. There are walls, floors, and ceilings that are murky rooms. The blue darkness that covers them. The furnishings are "Kishingaku". A bed with sheets and a small bookshelf embedded in the wall of a small bookshelf A jewel-related booklet is randomly opened on the desk in the center of the safe. That's all. Asahi, who looks like a film inserted through the gaps in the curtain crevice shading cloth, cuts the murky room into two halves, and Chuya Nakahara got up. I'm sweating a little around his chest. The slag was swirling around it, but I can't remember what it was like. This is always the case these days. I gave up and got out of the sleeper and took a shower. Chuya Nakahara thinks about himself while bathing in boiling water from his head. He is 16 years old. Since joining Port Mafia a year ago, it has achieved results at an unprecedented speed, and it is a program of at most 2383 lines that researchers who are recognized by the organization C () DE: 0 have devote themselves to it.

The boy was given this room because he was warmed up, but he brought no money, no position, and no joy to Chuya. In the past, Nakaya doesn't know who he is. The memory of Setsu is that he was kidnapped from a military research facility eight years ago. There is no life before that, the darkness of one side What kind of darkness of the night It's deeper and darker than the darkness of the shooting ball. He wiped his body and headed for the dressing. When he pushed on a side of the wall, the wall opened silently, revealing a clothing rack. All his clothes were high-class, and I chose one of them that had no wrinkles and put it through my sleeves. Hold the emerald jasper cuffs on his sleeves and look in the mirror. After a small tongue, Chuya left the room. When he left the 0 Sugu family, a shuttle car appeared as if he had timed. The black luxury car was driven by Port Mafia's black clothes with light-shielding glasses. When I stopped at Chuya's sideways sentence, the more important thing that silently opened the back seat door remained missing.

"To the usual shop," Chuya said to the driver, he got into the car and closed his eyes. A black luxury car ran smoothly on the main road in the center of the city. Commuter cars were jam-packed on every road and every intersection. However, the Wakimichi car carrying Chuya passed through the convoy, a side road, and a traffic jam. It's as if you used magic that wouldn't interfere with other cars. "What was yesterday's transaction record?" This is it. "',," Chuya read the documents given by the driver. It is a document printed with a special dye that cannot be duplicated. All the content was encrypted so that it would not be evidence even if it was held down by the police. 0 "Hmm, is the transaction going well this week?" Chuya said in a throwing voice. Chuya's job at the "boring" Kanshi Sport Mafia was to monitor the distribution of smuggled gems. Gemstone-One of the highest substances in the world, Iguiyamond Shimizu, has the highest value per unit weight. Jonathan. Jade. And the mere element under pressure from Kongoishi will become a magic stone with terrifying magical power as it touches people's eyes, fins, and hands.

And the condensed thing of that demon is the smuggled jewel. As long as there is a jewel that was like a shadow created by the brilliance of the jewel, there will always be a smuggled jewel that is a shadow. There are countless places in the world where the shadow of the world and smuggled jewels are born. A poor miner sneaks in and steals in a gem block. Alternatively, a robber smashes a jewelery store, Shokes, with a stock and takes it away, or a pirate sinks a merchant ship carrying jewels. Or hold a quick-up robbery from the neck of Serep. The "dark" gems thus created in the mining areas owned by the rebels, paid for weapons and drugs, cannot enter the world of light as they are, where illegal organizations such as Port Mafia have trouble. A carrier who sheds light on the dark-colored jewels that have flowed to the port of Yokohama brings them to Yokohama, the late shop buys them, and a skilled processor does not know the source. Cut it back to. Turn the necklace into a 0 presslet, the presslet into an earring, and the earring into a ring to bring a second life to the jewel. The new gems created in this way are given a formal appraisal by the Mafia's breathtaking gem, a smoky appraiser, put on the market by wholesalers, and lined up at the front of the prestigious jewelry store Ire. The smuggling jewelry industry is one of the most important sources of income for the Australian Mafia. Giyo, Kaya

This is because smuggled gems, which can eliminate intermediate exploitation by customs and distribution control companies, always generate enormous profits. However, items with magical power like jewels inevitably attract blood and violence. So far, Chuya, who should be prepared for further violence, such as chewing any violence in one bite, has done its job perfectly in order to suppress it and establish stable distribution. Too perfect. Many of the members of the old stock were surprised. I didn't expect the 16-year-old kid to manage the dark jewel market so perfectly. However, there were a few who were not surprised. Those who fought against "Sheep", an organization that was once headed by Chuya. The king of the organization that continued to afflict the Mafia. I wondered what wondered when one or two of the jewelry markets were completely controlled, but surprises, praise, or jealousy didn't matter to Chuya. What they want is something they can never give. Chuya Nakahara threw the document into his seat with the annoyance of throwing a pebble. And he said in a small, thorny voice, "I don't know how many years it will take at this rate." The driver pretended not to hear. Surprising Exploitation is', Re "

The luxury car carrying Chuya headed for a quiet residential area as originally planned. It was quiet except for the crowing of the greenfinch in the low sky. The sound of the train and the hustle and bustle of commuting, the car that couldn't reach this point ran quietly and stopped in front of a store. Brick Old World Brick old billboards have the store name Ku Old World,-in pale letters. Chuya got out of the car because the neon tube was not lit because it was before the store opened in the morning. The car ran away quietly so as not to break the tranquility of the residential area. Chuya opened the store door. Five guns greeted Chuya. "The store is in preparation," said two men, holding their guns. The muzzle of the pistol is pressed against Chuya's head. "Isn't it okay if it's a corpse?" Said another man, Su-san. A shotgun with a barrel cut down is placed on Chuya's chest. "Isn't it careless without an escort, Mr. Jewel King?" Wow, a different man said. A pistol is pointed at Chuya's flank. Is it enough?

"Even you can't prevent the first strike from this position :::" another man screamed. A small pistol that fits in the palm of the hand is attached to Chuya's neck. "What should I do? Invincible Gravity Master. If you cry right now and apologize, I'll kill you easily." I said in front of Ya. A long-barreled pistol is aimed straight at Chuya's eyebrows. If you attack one person, you will be shot from the rest. If you try to retreat, you will be shot from the front. Before you are shot from the front, you will be shot from the back. Chuya did not react. I didn't even change my facial expression. The air in the room was hardened. Everyone put a lot of effort into the fingers on the gun. The dry sound of "Han!" Echoed in the surrounding streets. 0 From the head of Chuya who stood up, the colorful decorative strings that hung down like bloody ("Chuya! Port Mafia Joining One" Congratulations on the anniversary! "And the joyful voices of the men echoed throughout the store. Chuya looked around with a disgusted head. Dead rock fluttering.

"I'm a fool." That's "It's not a huge monster ..." White smoke was rising from each barrel, and a colorful paper company was on Chuya's head. In the air he flutters with confetti. The men were looking at Chuya, who was covered with a string, with a grin. Gathered there were members of the Mutual Aid Society within the Port Mafia. He is not just a mutual aid society. All of them are the leaders of the future of the organization, and their positions are equal to or better than Chuya. And all are composed only of young people under the age of 25. Port His Mafia's young wolves, who are only called "Young People's Association" by the organization. Chuya sighs and walks to the back of the store with a cold look without greeting anyone. "Why isn't Chuya happy?" Said a tall man on Nakahara's back. "Everyone got together for you." "Don't celebrate the first anniversary." Chuya told me to reject. "I'm glad I don't know what to do." "Don't say that. You must love it." A tall man chased Chuya. "I'll have time to give a souvenir later. Isn't it fun like a student?" Chuya stopped and turned around and stared at the other person. "In other words, you are the mastermind or the piano man. Your sense of joke is rotten at all.":

Egao "Well, I'm still breathing today to annoy everyone with this rotten joke." Chuya's sarcasm returned a cool smile to the mafia standing in a black cloak and white long skirt. .. Known in the organization as "Piano Man. His clothes are always in black and white. He is tall, has thin fingers and always has a happy smile. He is the founder of this youth association and It plays a role like a leader. It is this man who invited Chuya to this young group. He is more like a craftsman than a mafia. He is almost the only fake bill with the same accuracy as the real one in Yokohama, a complete fake bill But with a whimsical personality, if you're not happy with the fake bills, you'll run out of time for months, even if it's an instruction from the chief. By the way, The nickname "Piano Man." Does not come from black and white clothing. He uses an electric winder with a carbon steel piano wire to kill his enemies. When this copper wire is entwined around his neck, any mysterious power It can't be removed, and in a few seconds the neck will fall off. What's left behind is the perfect flat between the shoulders. And the voluminous blood and the reverberation of the screams of the victims. A man with cruelty. He is now said to be the youngest man closest to a boat mafia executive. As Chuya walked into the store, another man called out. Haha! Chuya's face was awesome! At least I'm in great agreement with this show! Saseiya Zankyo

Hitsujio A young star and former mafia enemy, Chuya Nakahara, the King of Sheep! It's worth joining this young group just to see your troubled face! " As he swirled his gun, he laughed in a voice that a young blonde man often passed through. Chuya glared at the blonde young man. "Hmm, tell me. If I didn't realize that it was a show, you were dead at the beginning of Albato 0 Suze, Mia Tori Ku" Jimankobushi Nagu "Wow. I'm sorry, but I was killed by Chuya. It's not as good as it gets, but before being hit by Chuya's proud fist, this hatchet cuts off his fist. ”Babiro Kukri Knife When you say that, a wide hatchet appears silently from the back of your jacket. It was. The young man let go of his hand after flashing his blade and slashing the air several times in a non-heavy motion. The impact of the fall of the floor pierced the hatchet, and the young man laughed as the hatchet ran radially on the floor with a heavy sound. 0 Yukai Albatross Laughs a lot with a funny face, the street name of the young man is Ku Abotori 4 He is a tuned person and speaks better than anyone else. His men lose sight of him, even in the middle of a struggle of bullets, blood and flesh. " If he goes to talk or laugh, he's there. Albatross, tsu ... Toku Abotori Tsu is said to be in control of "everything faster than walking" in the Port Mafia, that is, a vehicle. That's his territory. , Coast Guard Leh crack

He will prepare all the transport boats that will not get caught in the higuchi and the dar. In some cases, we will also procure criminal vehicle supplements with forged registration number marks. Originally an organization's "escape shop," you can control anything with a control stick. Faster and more precise than anyone else. Rumor has it that he took a shabby fishing boat and escaped from the Coast Guard's high-mobility combat helicopter, but no one in the organization doubts that rumor. The person who offended him cannot live in an organization for three days. The car, the stream of stuff and money, is at his knees. If he hates him, all economic activity will be cut off and he will quickly become ill-mannered. "Chuya Nakahara, let's make a toast." However, Chuya ignores it at a glance and walks to the back of the store. "Oh, I'm in a bad mood today, Chuya." The stupid bird left while supporting the glass with an exaggerated movement to prevent champagne from spilling. "About once a month, he suddenly becomes moody, but what happened? Did he have a pulsed dream?" A pulsed dream. The moment he heard the word, Chuya looked back and looked like a flame. "It's not like that!" 25 Bungo Stray Dogs STORM BRINGER

The angry quivering the glass of the store "Scary ::: What?" Chuya hesitated a little, wandered his eyes, and said that his voice was a little less tuned than before. "Maybe it's because you make noise upstairs every day until the morning, but it's a stupid bird. I'll forget it many times, so I'll say it again, because your floor is my ceiling." "No. You can't forget it? You know, you're a neighbor. ”The stupid bird laughed with a benign face. The stupid bird lived on the same high-class residential land as Chuya, one floor above. According to Chuya, the placement of Abatos was one of the biggest mistakes the Port Mafia made. The stupid bird sometimes gets into Chuya's room on a whim and pulls out Chuya by saying,'・ Help with work ,. And Chuya got better at swimming thanks to taking him to a ridiculously distant battle zone on a car, a ship, or a helicopter. This is because the stupid bird does not always prepare a return flight. Albatross Chuya ignored the stupid bird and walked to the back of the store. And when I tried to put a cloak on the hanger hook of the store, a man with a champagne glass appeared next to me. From the back of his bangs, he was screaming at Chuya with a dark gaze. "I didn't expect you to stay this long: Albato 0 Susaki, Albatross

Fufu and the man were strangely thin. A thin wrist is swimming in the sleeve of his shirt. What's more, the hand that doesn't have a glass of champagne is holding a drip stick that hangs the drug solution, and the tube that extends from the drip bag disappears into the clothes. He was an unhealthy man. "Surgeon" Chuya received the champagne glass presented. Then he looked inside. "I don't think it's poisoned." "No poison." The man called the surgeon smiled darkly. "I wonder if you can't kill with poison." "What do you know?" "It's an experience." "Because I've killed a lot with poison" with dark eyes. Mafia medical director, only a surgeon. In the black society, there are many unlicensed doctors, but he is different. He is a real doctor with a PhD in medicine in North America. Sugujuyo, the dark doctor is a profession that is in great demand in a black society. If you go to a regular hospital, you have to rely on a dark doctor to treat the wounds that are reported to you-gunshot wounds and torture wounds-the same in Port Mafia. It is. Fishing,

But there are also differences. In the Port Mafia, doctors are especially important and favored chiefs, Ogai Mori, who is also a former dark doctor. Ryo, Tsujin and the thick port mafia medical team, Ku surgeon is the best doctor. At this young age, he has already saved the lives of nearly 800 humans. And he deliberately took the same human life as that. His purpose is to get closer to God. His belief was that "every time you save a person, you can approach God." His goal is to save two million lives, the same number of humans that God killed in the Bible. I entered the Mafia, and I was waiting for a large-scale conflict where people would die like bugs. "It's not like they're all gathering together, no way to gather surgeons: I looked around. "In the first place, it's about the first anniversary, do you hold such a gathering?" "I'll explain that." A young man with a gentle voice came out with a slow movement. 0 "The first year after joining was the most difficult time for the Mafia." Su "What?" The scared young man smiled. The smile is seductively sweet. And his facial features are strangely well-organized. The magical beauty is that if you dress up as a man and smile, a woman will be dressed up, and if you dress up as a woman and smile, a man will be watered down.

Deadman's Carp "The first year is the steepest curve of the dead for mafia subscribers. In the meantime, most humans either run away, are crushed, or are confused and erased by the organization.・ It's a celebration of survival. ”Maybe,“ Sledding and fun. Did you think I was crushed by a blunder?''A public relations officer? ”Chuya glared. No, I don't think. "I am."'・ The young man, who was called a public relations officer, smiled mysteriously. And', Shu spokesman-丨 His work is extremely special among these people. A window for negotiations with the world of light. That is the job of a public relations officer, that is, the job that appears in public. He also negotiates with front companies, meets and negotiates with government officials, and in some cases responds to the press. If Port Mafia has a front face, it's him. 0 It was extremely difficult to kill him. In a sense, it's harder than killing the chief, because he's an active movie actor and a fashionable child who even has enthusiastic supporters abroad. If he was killed or missing, media outlets around the world would write and report it as the most important article, so it's natural to be in a turmoil, who killed it, 1 how?

In other words, the search for suspects attracts attention from all over the world. It is a situation that the back organization absolutely wants to avoid. In addition, since the public relations officer himself is a powerful talent, and his ability is a counterattack type talent that responds to the attacker's murderous intention, evidence is given. It is absolutely impossible to erase it quietly, and once the criminal is named, media outlets around the world will enthusiastically reveal the murderer's identity, purpose, and mastermind. The privacy of the people involved in the organization who took the lead in the murder was launched high in the sky and never returned. The organization is over. Destrap Bakutan Oso, he's the first bomb to fire when he dies, a deadly poison that no one can touch. And his weapon isn't just famous. He is a born actor. The speech and bargaining ability that comes from his acting capsetsukan, and his beauty, which is said to have a perfect curve on his face, especially the problem with the legal world, were when he reached the bargaining table. You almost settle "But if you get kicked out of the organization, I don't care at all," the spokeswoman smiled like a feather. "At that time, I'll invite you to my main business. Let's aim for the world as a silver screen haiku together." Su "I'm absolutely sorry." Chuya made a bitter face as if he had poisoned. "I'm absolutely sorry to say it again." "I objected to the anniversary," I suddenly heard that quiet voice echoing from the back of the store. I didn't scream. There was no intimidating voice. However, everyone was silent and the voice was scary.

I looked at you. A man in plain clothes stood there Iceman: Shiriki Shin "Mi Cold Blood ,," Chuya said in a cautious voice. "That's right. The celebration seat doesn't look good on you." The man had no feelings. His presence was different even in the gorgeous and intense youth association. He had the tranquility of a dark night, radiating any ambition or impression, rather inhaling all the signs and sounds of his surroundings. Icemank cold blood. The second oldest man after the piano man, he is an expressionless and expressionless man. He prefers simple clothes. And his work is also quite simple and mundane. Hitman, especially in the Mafia. All the time he carries a knife that doesn't even use a gun that doesn't use his abilities to kill, but he never uses it for work. He works with what's indispensable. Fountain pen, liquor botokiyoto, kazahimo shunkandan cancer 2 ru, electric lamp decoration string. The moment everything is in his hands, he's a more dangerous weapon than a bullet, so he can kill people anywhere, whether in the desert, in the palace, or in the vault of the bank. Although it may be inside, there is another special skill in the desert man and cold blood. When he activates a different ability nearby, he feels it as simple as his skin.

It is his constitution, not his ability or skill, that he can feel. Therefore, his success rate in killing is higher than that of the hundreds of fighting talents, because he can instantly sniff out the right place and time for killing. However, because he does not have different abilities, he cannot pay attention to the special affairs section and the military police's special crime countermeasures section. Take measures, just a shadow man with no connection. If Chuya could be killed, the most likely thing would be cold-blooded ostriches, the organization said. Iceman "I didn't expect you to come to my celebration, Mi cold-blooded ostrich. Do you hate me? "Chuya laughed provocatively. "You and I killed each other once in the" sheep "era, so it seems that you failed to assassinate me and lost your reputation?" "I opposed the feast, but that was you. It's not because I don't like it. It's because I have a grudge and I don't have an iceman. It makes you more angry. " "It's not like it's crushed." "What?" Ötzi Iceman "I thought it would cause a rebellion." The cold-blooded voice was as sharp as the sound of a lump of ice cracking. The leader of the Sheep. I thought you would betray the chief and kill him and wage war on Mafia. To prevent that, Pianoman had you join this youth group. "

Chuya glanced at the piano man. The piano man is expressionless and watching the conversation. Neither denial nor affirmation. In other words, it is affirmation. "::: Yeah. That's right." Chuya glared at everyone. "Everyone was kindly watching over me like a newborn red toy boy. I'm thrilled. So that I don't get sharp, I'm wearing a toy and even rattling. Thanks. So I was alive and turned one year old, so I need a big toy event. "He said, squeezing a glass of champagne in his hand. Iceman eyebrows where liquid splatters Even if you see it, cold blood does not move your eyebrows Iceman "There is evidence to warn you" Cold blood continues. "June 18th, 3:18 pm. A jewelry wholesaler who offended the rooftop was injured for three months after he was completely healed. The reason is that you did a good job. It's a lonely question, but when you hear it, you blow the wholesaler to the roof of a three-story building. "2" Was that so? I forgot. "Contrary to the content of the reply, Chuya's eyes are sharp. .. "If you have the courage to try it now, try it now," Su'Iceman cold-blooded. After five seconds of expressionlessness that sucked in all the emotions, he said, "Where were you born? Sui Suiman Eritsuka Gochuya reacted quickly. Grabbing the cold-blooded collar and pulling it roughly.

The sewing of the shirt broke somewhere and there was a sharp noise. Ötzi "What's this hand?" Cold Blood looked down at the hand he grabbed and said emotionally. "It's up to you," Chuya screamed from the side, as if the stupid bird was in trouble. "Hey, take it to that side," and grabbed Chuya's arm. "Don't get angry at such a question, Chuya. You're not like me?" "You can't decide what's like me. I'll kill you." Chuya swiftly flipped the arm that grabbed herself. The stupid bird, who was dressed to be pushed away, stepped on the tatara behind him and stepped forward, and Chuya's leg suddenly stopped. I, Tsukinha :, "Chuya's temple has a billard stick attached to it. Horizontally, with the edge of the sword, you can stick it. : What is this stick? "Chuya said silently, still. "Hey 0 Iceman" It's up to you, "said the cold blood holding the stick. Chuya pulled his upper body away from the stick, and then shook his head and head-butted the stick. (The stick flew away. A myriad of pieces of wood from Icemans splattered throughout the room. Most of them fell on the cold blood that had the sticks, and only Iceman. A sharp piece of wood cut through the right temple and blood was eye-catching It runs down the edge of the room, but the cold blood even blinks.

No "That's it" I heard the most ruthless voice I've ever had. Behind Chuya: Before I knew it, a transparent piano wire extended from the sleeve of the raised arm on which the piano man was standing, like a high-class necklace that circled Chuya's neck. .. The first rule of this young society, "Chuya", the piano man said coldly. "Don't use different abilities for your friends." Did you forget it? ”The name is piano wire, but it is different from the one used for musical instruments. It's not that easy, it's a completely industrial steel wire that hangs and ties up rebar and concrete lumps, and a take-up device is installed behind the sleeves of the piano man. When it starts, the piano wire transforms into the lightest decapitation stand in the world, and the neck is cut off. Even if Chuya tries to reduce the mass of the piano wire by gravity operation, it is not possible to increase the winding speed, so it is the neck. "I know you're in a bad mood, Riyama," said Piano Man. "If nothing is done, you will lose to Dazai. You have to become an executive before Dazai. Because, in the first place, you were in Remafia because you had a secret document that only executives could see. Because it's for reading. The document tells you what you are. "Wakato Umei

Chuya's expression has changed. "Why that :::" "But it takes another five years to become an executive in this condition." Chuya's eyebrows are engraved with deep wrinkles and the meshed teeth creak. No, I say, "Pianoman smiled ruthlessly. "I'm being told by the chief," "What?" Chuya flirts with "I was ordered. Immediately after you joined the youth association, what should I watch for Chuya?" Do you want to get new information? Do you want to investigate the contents of secret materials on your own? "" I'm a ::: watcher. If you don't need to see it, you're a human being of an enemy organization, of course. You've been told why, of course, and you're a piano man who could strip your fangs. It's a totally amazing truth. " "::: Stop" Chuya moaned in a murderous voice. B. "" Araha vomit ". Also known as the military's artificial genius research body," Prototype Ko 258th ". That is you. You are not a human being, you are just an artificial I suspect it's a personality. The basis is

Because you don't dream. "Chuya groaned unvoiced. It was a momentary event. Chuya's right hand flashed like a snake, grabbed the pianoman's arm, and crushed and destroyed the electric winder for the piano wire there. Then, Chuya's left hand picked up the falling sticks and debris from the throat, and attached the pointed tip to the piano man's throat. Apatrosk Kukri Knife Machine Vist spokesman, who moved quickly except for Chuya, took out the submachine gun from the inside of the suit and attached it to Chuya. The hatchet sword of the stupid bird was hit on the neck of Chuya. The surgeon took out the syringe and put the tip on Chuya's temple. He picked up a glass of champagne with broken cold blood and brought its pointed tip close to Chuya's eyes. And everyone at rest was moving, even holding their breath. It's like a still photo. The only thing that moves is the power and the ball that receives the rising sun- "Only the dust that shines and shines 0 All of them could kill someone's life with just one action, but no one moved. Su "Do it," said Chuya. The voice was the trembling of a squeezed bow. "Anyone can do it, but let me finish planning the event before that." Piano Month said in a plain voice.

"What?" "Is there a souvenir for the first anniversary?" I took it out of my pocket. "This is it," Chuya moved his gaze with a watchful expression. And, as if it was frozen, the breathing that stopped everything seemed to stop even beating. The mosquito came out of Kawa Chuya's hand, and the fragments of the stick that he was holding fell off. Chuya picked it up as if he had forgotten the surroundings. It was a photo. "Isn't it worth it? I had a hard time." Chuya approached the photo as if he was fascinated. The voice of the piano man has not arrived. Chuya, who withdrew his weapon with a bitter smile, didn't even notice it. 0 "If you ask an unprecedented question, show it from the next time." It was Chuya, who was five years old. Somewhere on the beach. With the sea in the background, Chuya and a young man wearing hemp kimono are shown. The two are holding hands, and the young man heading toward the photographer is squinting and smiling, perhaps because of the dazzling diagonal sunlight. Young Chuya is foolish and uncertain if he doesn't know what's going on.

"The picture was taken in an old rural village in the western region," said Piano Man, looking at the photographer. "Now it's an abandoned village, and no one lives in the area, but the surgeon got a hit from the medical records kept in the nearby village. 丨丨 Surgeon" "Fufu ::: Human Even if he lied, the dental record does not lie. "The surgeon brought another document with an unhealthy smile. "Medical records have to be kept for several years ::: That duty has become a light ::: Fufu: ・: ・"-Kouwa', Chuya looks embarrassed and the surgeon and him Comparing the documents presented by him, "Don't worry if you take credit for yourself, a surgeon!" "Without my power, I couldn't even reach the medical record. The medical record of the crushed clinic is from the company that has as much sand as the sand on the beach that the medical corporation keeps together. , I followed the memoirs to find the desired storage location-because I threatened all the material storage companies and finally arrived at it! "Apatros in Switzerland

"Of course, no good explorer can reach his destination without the first step. A spokeswoman laughed softly and offered another document." Of my personal acquaintance. To women

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years ago

Text

Onion

Caitlin R. Kiernan (2005)

Frank was seven years old when he found the fields of red grass growing behind the basement wall. The building on St. Mark’s where his parents lived after his father took a job in Manhattan and moved them from the New Jersey suburbs across the wide, gray Hudson. And of course he’d been told to stay out of the basement, no place for a child to play because there were rats down there, his mother said, and rats could give you tetanus and rabies. Rats might even be carrying plague, she said, but the sooty blackness at the foot of the stairs was too much temptation for any seven-year old, the long, long hallway past the door to the super’s apartment and sometimes a single naked bulb burned way down at the end of that hall. Dirty, white-yellow stain that only seemed to emphasize the gloom, drawing attention to just how very dark dark could be, and after school Frank would stand at the bottom of the stairs for an hour at a time, peering into the hall that led down to the basement.

“Does your mama know you’re always hanging around down here?” Mr. Sweeney would ask whenever he came out and found Frank lurking in the shadows. Frank would squint at the flood of light from Mr. Sweeney’s open door, would shrug or mumble the most noncommittal response he could come up with. “I bet you she don’t,” Mr. Sweeney would say. “I bet she don’t know.” “Are there really rats down there?” Frank might ask and Mr. Sweeney would nod his head, point towards the long hall and say “You better believe there’s rats. Boy, there’s rats under this dump big as German shepherd puppies. They got eyes like acetylene blow torches and teeth like carving knives. Can chew straight through concrete, these rats we got.” “They why don’t you get a cat?” Frank asked once and Mr. Sweeney laughed, phlegmy old man laugh, and “Oh, we had some cats, boy,” he said. “We had whole goddamn cat armies, but when these rats get done, ain’t never anything left but some gnawed-up bones and whiskers.” “I don’t believe that,” Frank said. “Rats don’t get that big. Rats don’t eat cats.” “You better get your skinny rump back upstairs, or they’re gonna eat you too,” and then Mr. Sweeney laughed again and slammed his door, left Frank alone in the dark, his heart thumping loud and his head filled with visions of the voracious, giant rats that tunneled through masonry and dined on any cat unlucky enough to get in their way. And that’s the way it went, week after week, month after month, until one snowblind February afternoon, too cold and wet to go outside and his mother didn’t notice when he slipped quietly downstairs with the flashlight she kept in a kitchen drawer. Mr. Sweeney was busy with a busted radiator on the third floor, so nobody around this time to tell him scary stories and chase him home again, and Frank walked right on past the super’s door, stood shivering in the chilly, mildew-stinking air of the hallway. The unsteady beam of his flashlight to show narrow walls that might have been blue or green a long time ago, little black-and-white, six-sided ceramic tiles on the floor, but half of them missing and he could see the rotting boards underneath. There were doors along the length of the hall, some of them boarded up, nailed shut, one door frame without any door at all and he stepped very fast past that one. Indiana Jones wouldn’t be afraid, he thought, counting his footsteps in case that might be important later on, listening to the winter wind yowling raw along the street as it swept past the building on its way to Tompkins Square Park and the East River. Twenty steps, twenty-five, thirty-three and then he was standing below the dangling bulb and for the first time Frank stopped and looked back the way he’d come. And maybe he’d counted wrong, because it seemed a lot farther than only thirty-three steps back to the dim and postage-stamp-sized splotch of day at the other end of the hall. Only ten steps more down to the basement door, heavy, gray steel door with a rusted hasp and a Yale padlock, but standing wide open like it was waiting for him and maybe Mr. Sweeney only forgot to lock it the last time he came down to check the furnace or wrap the pipes. And later, Frank wouldn’t remember much about crossing the threshold into the deeper night of the basement, the soup-thick stench and taste of dust and rot and mushrooms, picking his way through the maze of sagging shelves and wooden crates, decaying heaps of rags and newspapers, past the ancient furnace crouched in one corner like a cast-iron octopus. Angry, orange-red glow from the furnace grate like the eyes of the super’s cat-eating rats—he would remember that—and then Frank heard the dry, rustling sound coming from one corner of the basement. Years later, through high school and college and the slow purgatory of this twenties, this is where the bad dreams would always begin, the moment that he lifted the flashlight and saw the wide and jagged crack in the concrete wall. A faint draft from that corner that smelled of cinnamon and ammonia, and he knew better than to look, knew he should turn and run all the way back because it wasn’t ever really rats that he was supposed to be afraid of. The rats just a silly grown-up lie to keep him safe, smaller, kinder nightmare for his own good, and Run, boy, Mr. Sweeney whispered inside his head. Run fast while you still can, while you still don’t know. But Frank didn’t run away, and when he pressed his face to the crack in the wall, he could see that the fields stretched away for miles and miles, crimson meadows beneath a sky the yellow-green of an old bruise. The white trees that writhed and rustled in the choking, spicy breeze, and far, far way, the black thing striding slowly through the grass on bandy, stilt-long legs.

Frank and Willa share the tiny apartment on Mott Street, roachy Chinatown hovel one floor above an apothecary so the place always stinks of ginseng and jasmine and the powdered husks of dried sea creatures. Four walls, a gas range, an ancient Frigidaire that only works when it feels like it, but together they can afford the rent, most of the time, and the month or two they’ve come up short Mrs. Wu has let them slide. His job at a copy shop and hers waiting tables and sometimes they talk about moving out of the city, packing up their raggedy-ass belongings and riding a Greyhound all the way to Florida, all the way to the Keys, and then it’ll be summer all year long. But not this sticky, sweltering new York summer, no, it would be clean ocean air and rum drinks, sun-warm sand and the lullaby roll and crash of waves at night. Frank is still in bed when Willa comes out of the closet that passes as their bathroom, naked and dripping from the shower, her hair wrapped up in a towel that used to be white and he stops staring at the tattered Cézanne print thumbtacked over the television and stares at her instead. Willa is tall and her skin so pale he thought she might be sick the first time they met, so skinny that he can see intimations of her skeleton beneath that skin like milk and pearls. Can trace the blue-green network of veins and capillaries in her throat, between her small breasts, winding like hesitant, watercolor brush strokes down her arms. He’s pretty sure that one day Willa will finally figure out she can do a hell of a lot better than him and move on, but he tries not to let that ruin whatever it is they have now. “It’s all yours,” she says, his turn even though the water won’t be hot again for at least half an hour, and Willa sits down in a chair near the foot of the bed. She leans forward and rubs vigorously at her hair trapped inside the dingy towel. “We could both play hooky,” Frank says hopefully, watching her, imagining how much better sex would be than the chugging, headache drone of Xerox machines, the endless dissatisfaction of clients. “You could come back to bed and we could lie here all day. We could just lie here and sweat and watch television.” “Jesus, Frank, how am I supposed to resist an offer like that?” “Okay, so we could screw and sweat and watch television.” She stops drying her hair and glares at him, shakes her head and frowns, but the sort of frown that says I wish I could more than it says anything else. “That new girl isn’t working out,” she says. “The fat chick from Kazakhstan?” Frank asks and he rolls over onto his back, easier to forget the fantasies of a lazy day alone with Willa if he isn’t looking at her sitting there naked. “Fucking Kazakhstan. I mean, what the hell were Ted and Daniel thinking? She can’t even speak enough English to tell someone where the toilet is, much less take an order.” “Maybe they felt sorry for her,” Frank says unhelpfully and now he’s staring up at his favorite crack on the water-stained ceiling, the one that always makes him think of a Viking orbiter photo of the Valles Marineris from one of his old astronomy books. “I’ve heard that people do that sometimes, feel sorry for people.” “Well, they’d probably lose less money if they just sent the bitch to college, the way she’s been pissing off customers.” ”Maybe you should suggest that today,” and a moment later Willa’s wet towel smacks him in the face, steamy-damp terry cloth that smells like her black hair dye and the cheap baby shampoo she uses. It covers his eyes, obscuring his view of the Martian rift valley overhead, but Frank doesn’t move the towel immediately, better to lie there a moment longer, breathing her in. “Is it supposed to rain today?” Willa asks and he mumbles through the wet towel that he doesn’t know. “They keep promising it’s going to rain and it keeps not raining.” Frank sits up and the towel slides off his face and into his lap, lies there as the dampness begins to soak through his boxers. ”I don’t know,” he says again; Willa has her back turned to him and she doesn’t reply or make any sign to show that she’s heard. She’s pulling a bright yellow T-shirt on over her head, the Curious George shirt he gave her for Christmas, has put on a pair of yellow panties, too. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s the heat. The heat’s driving me crazy.” Frank glances toward the window, the sash up but the chintzy curtains hanging limp and lifeless in the stagnant July air; he’d have to get out of bed, walk all the way across the room, lean over the sill and peer up past the walls and rooftops to see if there are any clouds. “It might rain today,” he says, instead. “I don’t think it’s ever going to rain again as long as I live,” Willa says and steps into her jeans. “I think we’ve broken this goddamn planet and it’s never going to rain anywhere ever again.” Frank rubs his fingers through his stiff, dirty hair and looks back at the Cézanne still life above the television—a tabletop, the absinthe bottle and a carafe of water, an empty glass, the fruit that might be peaches. “You’ll be at the meeting tonight?” he asks and Frank keeps his eyes on the print because he doesn’t like the sullen, secretive expression Willa gets whenever they have to talk about the meetings. “Yeah,” she says, sighs, and then there’s the cloth-metal sound of her zipper. “Of course I’ll be at the meeting. Where the hell else would I be?” And then she goes back into the bedroom and shuts the door behind her, leaves Frank alone with the Cézanne and the exotic reek of the apothecary downstairs, Valles Marineris and the bright day spilling uninvited through the window above Mott Street.

Half past two and Frank sits on a plastic milk crate in the stockroom of Gotham Kwick Kopy, trying to decide whether or not to eat the peanut butter and honey sandwich he brought for lunch. The air conditioning’s on the blink again and he thinks it might actually be hotter inside the shop than out on the street; a few merciful degrees cooler in the stockroom, though, shadowy refuge stacked high with cardboard boxes of copy paper in a dozen shades of white and all the colors of the rainbow. He peels back the top of his sandwich, the doughy Millbrook bread that Willa likes, and frowns at the mess underneath. So hot out front that the peanut butter has melted, oily mess to leak straight through wax paper and the brown bag and he’s trying to remember if peanut butter and honey can spoil. Both the stockroom doors swing open and Frank looks up, blinks and squints at the sun-framed silhouette, Joe Manske letting in the heat and “Hey, don’t do that,” Frank says as Joe switches on the lights. The fluorescents buzz and flicker uncertainly, chasing away the shadows, drenching the stockroom in their bland, indifferent glare. “Dude, why are you sitting back here in the dark?” Joe asks and for a moment Frank considers throwing the sandwich at him. “Why aren’t you working on that Mac?” Frank asks right back and “It’s fixed, good as new,” Joe says, grins his big, stupid grin, and sits down on a box of laser print paper near the door. “That fucker won’t ever be good as new again.” “Well, at least it’s stopped making that sound. That’s good enough for me,” and Joe takes out a pack of Camels, offers one to Frank and Frank shakes his head no. A month now since his last cigarette, quitting because Willa’s step-mother is dying of lung cancer, quitting because cigarettes cost too goddamn much, anyhow, and “Thanks, though,” he says. “Whatever,” Joe Manske mumbles around the filter of his Camel, thumb on the strike wheel of his silver lighter and in a moment the air is filled with the pungent aroma of burning tobacco. Frank gives up on the dubious sandwich, drops it back into the brown bag and crumples the bag into a greasy ball. “I fuckin’ hate this fuckin’ job,” Joe says, disgusted, smoky cloud of words about his head, and he points at the stockroom door with his cigarette. “You just missed a real peace of work, man.” “Yeah?” and Frank tosses the sandwich ball towards the big plastic garbage can sitting a few feet away, misses and it rolls behind the busted Canon 2400 color copier that’s been sitting in the same spot since he started this job a year ago. “Yeah,” Joe says. “I was trying to finish that pet store job and this dude comes in, little bitty old man looks like he just got off the boat from Poland or Armenia or some shit—“ “My grandmother was Polish,“ Frank says and Joe sighs loudly, long impatient sigh and he flicks ash onto the cement floor. “You know what I mean.” “So what’d he want anyway?” Frank asks, not because he cares but the shortest way through any conversation with Joe Manske is usually right down the middle, just be quiet and listen and sooner or later he’ll probably come to the end and shut up. “He had this old book with him. The damned thing must have been even older than him and was falling apart. I don’t think you could so much as look at it without the pages crumbling. Had it tied together with some string and he kept askin’ me all these questions, real technical shit about the machines, you know.” “Yeah? Like what?” “Dude, I don’t know. I can’t remember half of it, techie shit, like I was friggin’ Mr. Wizard or somethin’. I finally just told him we couldn’t be responsible if the copiers messed up his old book, but he still kept on askin’ these questions. Lucky for me, one of the self-service machines jammed and I told him I had to go fix it. By the time I was finished, he was gone.” “You live to serve,” Frank says, wondering if Willa would be able to tell if he had just one cigarette. “The customer is always right.” “Fuck that shit,” Joe Manske says. “I don’t get paid enough to have to listen to some senile old fart jabberin’ at me all day.” “Yes sir, helpful is your middle name.” “Fuck you.” Frank laughs and gets up, pushes the milk crate towards the wall with the toe of one shoe so no one’s going to come along later and trip over it, break their neck and have him to blame. “I better get back to work,” he says and “You do that,” Joe grumbles and puffs his Camel. Through the stockroom doors and back out into the stifling, noisy clutter of the shop, and it must be at least ten degrees warmer out here, he thinks. There’s a line at the register and the phone’s ringing, no one out front but Maggie and she glowers at him across the chaos. “I’m on it,” Frank says; she shakes her head doubtfully and turns to help a woman wearing a dark purple dress and matching beret. Frank’s reaching across the counter for the telephone receiver when he notices the business card lying near a display of Liquid Paper. Black sans serif print on an expensive, white cotton card stock and what appears to be an infinity symbol in the lower left-hand corner. FOUND: LOST WORLDS centered at the top, TERRAE NOVUM ET TERRA INDETERMINATA on the next line down in smaller letters. Then a name and an address—Dr. Solomon Monalisa, Ph.D., 43 W. 61st St., Manhattan—but no number or email, and Frank picks up the card, holds it so Maggie can see. “Where’d this come from?” he asks but she only shrugs, annoyed but still smiling her strained and weary smile for the woman in the purple beret. “Beats me. Ask Joe, if he ever comes back. Now will you please answer the phone?” He apologizes, lifts the receiver, “Gotham Kwick Kopy, Frank speaking. How may I help you?” and slips the white card into his back pocket.

The group meets in the basement of a synagogue on Eldridge Street. Once a month, eight o’clock until everyone who wants to talk has taken his or her turn, coffee and stale doughnuts before and afterwards. Metal folding chairs and a lectern down front, a microphone and crackly PA system even though the room isn’t really large enough to need one. Never more than fourteen or fifteen people, occasionally as few as six or seven, and Frank and Willa always sit at the very back, near the door. Sometimes Willa doesn’t make it all the way through a meeting and she says she hates the way they all watch her if she gets up to leave early, like she’s done something wrong, she says, like this is all her fault, somehow. So they sit by the door, which is fine with Frank; he’d rather not have everyone staring at the back of his head, anyway. He’s sipping at a styrofoam cup of the bitter, black coffee, three sugars and it’s still bitter, watching the others, all their familiar, telltale quirks and peculiarities, their equivocal glances, when Willa comes in. First the sound of her clunky motorcycle boots on the concrete steps and then she stands in the doorway a moment, that expression like it’s always the first time for her and it can never be any other way. “Hey,” Frank says quietly. “I made it,” she replies and sits down beside him. There’s a stain on the front of her Curious George T-shirt that looks like chocolate sauce. “How was your day?” he asks her, talking so she doesn’t lock up before things even get started. “Same as ever. It sucked. They didn’t fire Miss Kazakhstan.” “That’s good, dear. Would you like a martini?” and he jabs a thumb toward the free-coffee-and-stale-doughnut table. “I think I’ll pass,” Willa says humorlessly, rubs her hands together and stares at the floor between her feet. “I think my stomach hurts enough already.” “Would you rather just go home? We can miss one night. I sure as hell don’t care—“ “No,” she says, answering too fast, too emphatic, so he knows she means yes. “That would be silly. I’ll be fine when things get started.” And then Mr. Zaroba stands, stocky man with skin like tea-stained muslin, salt-and-pepper hair and beard and his bushy, gray eyebrows. Kindly blue grandfather eyes and he raises one hand to get everyone’s attention, as if they aren’t all looking at him already, as if they haven’t all been waiting for him to open his mouth and break the tense, uncertain silence. “Good evening, everyone,” he says, and Willa sits up a little straighter in her chair, expectant arch of her back as though she’s getting ready to run. “Before we begin,” Mr. Zaroba continues, “there’s something I wanted to share. I came across this last week,” and he takes a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolds it, and begins to read. An item from the New York Tribune, February 17th, 1901; reports by an Indian tribe in Alaska of a city in the sky that was seen sometimes, and a prospector named Willoughby who claimed to have witnessed the thing himself in 1897, claimed to have tried to photograph it on several occasions and succeeded, finally. “And now this,” Zaroba says and he pulls a second folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, presto, bottomless bag of tricks, that pocket, and this time he reads from a book, Alaska by Miner Bruce, page 107, he says. Someone else who saw the city suspended in the arctic sky, a Mr. C.W. Thornton of Seattle, and “’It required no effort of the imagination to liken it to a city,’” Mr. Zaroba reads, “’but was so distinct that it required, instead, faith to believe that it was not in reality a city.’” People shift nervously in their seats, scuff their feet, and someone whispers too loudly. “I have the prospector’s photograph,” Zaroba says. “It’s only a Xerox from the book, of course. It isn’t very clear, but I thought some of you might like to see it.” And he hands one of the sheets of paper to the person sitting nearest him. “Damn, I need a cigarette,” Willa whispers and “You and me both, Frank whispers back. It takes almost five minutes for the sheet of paper to make its way to the rear of the room, passed along from hand to hand while Zaroba stands patiently at the front, his head bowed solemn as if leading a prayer. Some hold onto it as long as they dare and others hardly seem to want to touch it. A man three rows in front of them gets up and brings it back to Willa. ”I don’t see nothing but clouds,” he says, sounding disappointed. And neither does Frank, fuzzy photograph of a mirage, deceit of sunlight in the collision of warm and freezing air high above a glacier, but Willa must see more. She holds the paper tight and chews at her lower lip, traces the distorted peaks and cumulonimbus towers with the tip of an index finger. “My god,” she whispers. In a moment Zaroba comes up the aisle and takes the picture away, leaves Willa staring at her empty hands, her eyes wet like she might start crying. Frank puts an arm around her bony shoulders, but she immediately wiggles free and scoots her chair a few inches farther away. “So, who wants to get us started tonight?” Mr. Zaroba asks when he gets back to the lectern. At first no one moves or speaks or raises a hand, each looking at the others or trying hard to look nowhere at all. And then a young woman stands up, younger than Willa, filthy clothes and bruise-dark circles under her eyes, hair that hasn’t been combed or washed in ages. Her name is Janice and Frank thinks that she’s a junky, probably a heroin addict because she always wears long sleeves. “Janice? Very good, then,” and Mr. Zaroba returns to his seat in the first row. Everyone watches Janice as she walks slowly to the front of the room, or they pretend not to watch her. There’s a small hole in the seat of her dirty, threadbare jeans and Frank can see that she isn’t wearing underwear. She stands behind the lectern, coughs once, twice, and brushes her shaggy bangs out of her face. She looks anxiously at Mr. Zaroba and “It’s all right, Janice,” he says. “Take all the time you need. No one’s going to rush you.” “Bullshit,” Willa mutters, loud enough that the man sitting three rows in front of them turns and scowls. “What the hell are you staring at,” she growls and he turns back towards the lectern. “It’s okay, baby,” Frank says and takes her hand, squeezes hard enough that she can’t shake him loose this time. “We can leave anytime you want.” Janice coughs again and there’s a faint feedback whine from the mike. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and “I was only fourteen years old,” she begins. “I still lived with my foster parents in Trenton and there was this old cemetery near our house, Riverview Cemetery. Me and my sister, my foster sister, we used to go there to smoke and talk, you know, just to get away from the house.” Janice looks at the basement ceiling while she speaks, or down at the lectern, but never at the others. She pauses and wipes her nose again. “We went there all the time. Wasn’t anything out there to be afraid of, not like at home. Just dead people, and me and Nadine weren’t afraid of dead people. Dead people don’t hurt anyone, right? We could sit there under the trees in the summer and it was almost like things weren’t so bad. Nadine was a year older than me.” Willa tries to pull her hand free, digs her nails into Frank’s palm but he doesn’t let go. They both know where this is going, have both heard Janice’s story so many times that they could recite it backwards, same tired old horror story, and “It’s okay,” he says out loud, to Willa or to himself. “Mostly it was just regular headstones, but there were a few bigger crypts set way back near the water. I didn’t like being around them. I told her that, over and over, but Nadine said they were like little castles, like something out of fairy tales. “One day one of them was open, like maybe someone had busted into it, and Nadine had to see if there were still bones inside. I begged her not to, said whoever broke it open might still be hanging around somewhere and we ought to go home and come back later. But she wouldn’t listen to me. “I didn’t want to look inside. I swear to God, I didn’t.” “Liar.” Willa whispers, so low now that the man three rows in front of them doesn’t hear, but Frank does. Her nails are digging deeper into his palm, and his eyes are beginning to water from the pain. “You wanted to see,” she says. “Just like the rest of us, you wanted to see.” �� “I said, ‘What if someone’s still in there?’ but she wouldn’t listen. She wasn’t ever afraid of anything. She used to lay down on train tracks just to piss me off.” “What did you see in the crypt, Janice, when you and Nadine looked inside?” Mr. Zaroba asks, but no hint of impatience in his voice, not hurrying her or prompting, only helping her find a path across the words as though they were slippery rocks in a cold stream. “Can you tell us?” Janice takes a very deep breath, swallows, and “Stairs,” she says. “Stairs going down into the ground. There was a light way down at the bottom, a blue light, like a cop car light. Only it wasn’t flashing. And we could hear something moving around down there, and something else that sounded like a dog panting. I tried to get Nadine to come back to the house with me then, but she wouldn’t. She said ‘Those stairs might go anywhere, Jan. Don’t you want to see? Don’t you want to know?” Another pause and “I couldn’t stop her,” Janice says. Willa mutters something Frank doesn’t understand, then, something vicious, and he lets go of her hand, rubs at the four crescent-shaped wounds her nails leave behind. Blood drawn, crimson tattoos to mark the wild and irreparable tear in her soul by marking him, and he presses his palm to his black work pants, no matter if it stains, no one will ever notice. “I waited at the top of the stairs until dark,” Janice says. “I kept on calling her. I called her until my throat hurt.” When the sun started going down, the blue light at the bottom got brighter and brighter and once or twice I thought I could see someone moving around down there, someone standing between me and the light. Finally, yelled I was going to get the goddamn cops if she didn’t come back…” and Janice trails off, hugs herself like she’s cold and gazes straight ahead, but Frank knows she doesn’t see any of them sitting there, watching her, waiting for the next word, waiting for their turns at the lectern. “You don’t have to say any more tonight,” Zaroba says. “You know we’ll all understand if you can’t.” “No,” Janice says. “I can…I really need to,” and she squeezes her eyes shut tight. Mr. Zaroba stands, takes one reassuring step towards the lectern. “We’re all right here,” he says, and “We’re listening,” Willa mumbles mockingly. “We’re listening,” Zaroba says a second later. “I didn’t go to the police. I didn’t tell anyone anything until the next day. My foster parents, they just thought she’d run away again. No one would believe me when I told them about the crypt, when I told them where Nadine had really gone. Finally, they made me show them, though, the cops did, so I took them out to Riverview.” “Why do we always have to fucking start with her?” Willa whispers. “I can’t remember a single time she didn’t go first.” Someone sneezes and “It was sealed up again,” Janice says, her small and brittle voice made big and brittle by the PA speakers. “But they opened it.” The cemetery people didn’t want them to, but they did anyway. I swore I’d kill myself if they didn’t open it and get Nadine out of there.” “Can you remember a time she didn’t go first?” Willa asks and Frank looks at her, but he doesn’t answer. “All they found inside was a coffin. The cops even pulled up part of the marble floor, but there wasn’t anything under it, just dirt.” A few more minutes, a few more details, and Janice is done. Mr. Zaroba hugs her and she goes back to her seat. “Who wants to be next?” he asks them and it’s the man who calls himself Charlie Jones, though they all know that’s not his real name. Every month he apologizes because he can’t use his real name at the meetings, too afraid someone at work might find out, and then he tells them about the time he opened a bedroom door in his house in Hartford and there was nothing on the other side but stars. When he’s done, Zaroba shakes his hand, pats him on the back, and now it’s time for the woman who got lost once on the subway, two hours to get from South Ferry to the Houston Street Station, alone in an empty train that rushed along through a darkness filled with the sound of children crying. Then a timid Colombian woman named Juanita Lazarte, the night she watched two moons cross the sky above Peekskill, the morning the sun rose in the south. And all the others, each in his or her turn, as the big wall clock behind the lectern ticks and the night fills up with the weight and absurdity of their stories, glimpses of impossible geographies, entire worlds hidden in plain view if you’re unlucky enough to see them. “If you’re damned,” Juanita Lazarte once said and quickly crossed herself. Mr. Zaroba who was once an atmospheric scientist and pilot for the Navy. He’s seen something too, of course, the summer of 1969, flying supplies in a Hercules C-130 from Christchurch, New Zealand to McMurdo Station. A freak storm, whiteout conditions and instrument malfunction, and when they finally found a break in the clouds somewhere over the Transantarctic Mountains the entire crew saw the ruins of a vast city, glittering obsidian towers and shattered, crystal spires, crumbling walls carved from the mountains themselves. At least that’s what Zaroba says. He also says the Navy pressured the other men into signing papers agreeing never to talk about the flight and when he refused, he was pronounced mentally unsound by a military psychiatrist and discharged. When Willa’s turn comes, she glances at Frank, not a word but all the terrible things right there in her eyes for him to see, unspoken resignation, surrender, and then she goes down the aisle and stands behind the lectern.

Frank wakes up from a dream of rain and thunder and Willa’s sitting cross-legged at the foot of their bed, nothing on but her pajama bottoms, watching television with the sound off and smoking a cigarette. “Where the hell’d you get that?” he asks, blinks sleepily and points at the cigarette. “I bought a pack on my break today,” she replies, not taking her eyes off the screen. She takes a long drag and the smoke leaks slowly from her nostrils. “I thought we had an agreement.” ”I’m sorry,” but she doesn’t sound sorry at all, and Frank sits up and blinks at the TV screen, rubs his eyes, and now he can see it’s Jimmy Stewart and Katharine Hepburn, The Philadelphia Story. ”You can turn the sound up, if you want to,” he says. “It won’t bother me.” ”No, that’s okay. I know it by heart anyway.” And then neither of them says anything else for a few minutes, sit watching the televisions, and when Willa has smoked the cigarette down to the filter she stubs it out in a saucer. ”I don’t think I want to go to the meetings anymore,” she says. “I think they’re only making it worse for me.” Frank waits a moment before he replies, waiting to be sure that she’s finished, and then, “That’s your decision, Willa. If that’s what you want.” ”Of course it’s my decision.” ”You know what I meant.” ”I can’t keep reciting it over and over like the rest of you. There’s no fucking point. I could talk about it from now till doomsday and it still wouldn’t make sense and I’d still be afraid. Nothing Zaroba and that bunch of freaks has to say is going to change that, Frank.” Willa picks up the pack of Camels off the bed, lights another cigarette with a disposable lighter that looks pink by the flickering, grainy light from the TV screen. ”I’m sorry,” Frank says. ”Does it help you?” she asks and now there’s an angry-sharp edge in her voice, Willa’s switchblade mood swings, sullen to pissed in the space between heartbeats. “Has it ever helped you at all?” Frank doesn’t want to fight with her tonight, wants to close his eyes and slip back down to sleep, back to his raincool dreams. Too hot for an argument, and “I don’t know,” he says, and that’s almost not a lie. ”Yeah, well, whatever,” Willa mumbles and takes another drag off her cigarette. ”We’ll talk about it in the morning if you want,” Frank says and he lies back down, turns to face the open window and the noise of Mott Street at two A.M., the blinking orange neon from a noodle shop across the street. ”I’m not going to change my mind, if that’s what you mean,” Willa says. ”You can turn the sound up,” Frank tells her again and concentrates on the soothing rhythm of the noodle shop sign, orange pulse like campfire light, much, much better than counting imaginary sheep. In a moment he’s almost asleep again, scant inches from sleep and “Did you ever see Return to Oz?” Willa asks him. ”What?” ”Return to Oz, the one where Fairuza Balk plays Dorothy and Laurie Piper plays Auntie Em.” ”No,” Frank replies. “I never did,” and he rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling instead of the neon sign. In the dark and the gray light from the television, his favorite crack looks even more like the Valles Marineris. ”It wasn’t anything like The Wizard of Oz. I was just a little kid, but I remember it. It scared the hell out of me.” ”Your mother let you see scary movies when you were a little kid?” Willa ignores the question, her eyes still fixed on The Philadelphia Story if they’re fixed anywhere, and she exhales a cloud of smoke that swirls and drifts about above the bed. ”When the film begins, Auntie Em and Uncle Henry think Dorothy’s sick,” she says. “They think she’s crazy, because she talks about Oz all the time, because she won’t believe it was only a nightmare. They finally send her off to a sanitarium for electric shock treatment—“ ”Jesus,” Frank says, not entirely sure that Willa isn’t making all this up. “That’s horrible.” ”Yeah, but it’s true, isn’t it? It’s what really happens to little girls who see places that aren’t supposed to be there. People aren’t ever so glad you didn’t die in a twister that they want to listen to crazy shit about talking scarecrows and emerald cities.” And Frank doesn’t answer because he knows he isn’t supposed to, knows that she would rather he didn’t even try, so he sweats and stares at his surrogate, plaster Mars instead, at the shadow play from the television screen; she doesn’t say anything else, and in a little while more, he’s asleep.

In this dream there is still thunder, no rain from the other sky but the crack and rumble of thunder so loud that the air shimmers and could splinter like ice. The tall red grass almost as high as his waist, rippling gently in the wind, and Frank wishes that Willa wouldn’t get so close to the fleshy, white trees. She thinks they might have fruit, peaches and she’s never eaten a white peach before, she said. Giants fighting in the sky and Willa picking up windfall fruit from the rocky ground beneath the trees; Frank looks over his shoulder, back towards the fissure in the basement wall, back the way they came, but it’s vanished. I should be sacred, he thinks. No, I should be scared. And now Willa is coming back towards him through the crimson waves of grass, her skirt for a linen basket to hold all the pale fruit she’s gathered. She’s smiling and he tries to remember the last time he saw her smile, really smile, not just a smirk or sneer. She smiles and steps through the murmuring grass that seems to part to let her pass, her bare arms and legs safe from the blades grown sharp as straight razors. ”They are peaches,” she beams. But the fruit is the color of school-room chalk, it’s skin smooth and slick and glistening with tiny, pinhead beads of nectar seeping out through minute pores. “Take one,” she says, but his stomach lurches and rolls at the thought, loath to even touch one of the things and then she sighs and dumps them all into the grass at his feet. ”I used to know a story about peaches,” Willa says. “It was a Japanese story, I think. Or maybe it was Chinese.” ”I’m pretty sure those aren’t peaches,” Frank says, and he takes a step backwards, away from the pile of sweating, albino fruit. ”I heard the pits are poisonous,” she says. “Arsenic, or maybe it’s cyanide.” A brilliant flash of chartreuse lightning then and the sky sizzles and smells like charred meat. Willa bends and retrieves a piece of the fruit, takes a bite before he can stop her; the sound of her teeth sinking through its skin, tearing through the colorless pulp inside, is louder than the thunder, and milky juice rolls down her chin and stains her Curious George T-shirt. Something wriggles from between her lips, falls to the grass, and when Willa opens her jaws wide to take another bite Frank can see that her mouth is filled with wriggling things. ”They have to be careful you don’t swallow your tongue,” she says, mumbling around the white peach. “If you swallow your tongue you’ll choke to death.” Frank snatches the fruit away from her, grabs it quick before she puts any more of it in her belly, and she frowns and wipes the juice staining her hands off onto her skirt. The half-eaten thing feels warm and he tosses it away. ”Jesus, that was fucking silly, Frank. The harm’s already done, you know that. The harm was done the day you looked through that hole in the wall.” And then the sky booms its symphony of gangrene and sepsis and lightning stabs down with electric claws, thunder then lightning but that’s only the wrong way round if he pretends Willa isn’t right, if he pretends that he’s seven again and this time he doesn’t take the flashlight from the kitchen drawer. This time he does what his mother says and doesn’t go sneaking off the minute she turns her back. Frank stands alone beneath the restless trees, his aching, dizzy head too full of all the time that can’t be redeemed, now or then or ever, and he watches as Willa walks alone across the red fields towards the endless deserts of scrap iron and bone, towards the bloated, scarlet-purple sun. The black things have noticed her, and creep along close behind, stalking silent on ebony, mantis legs. This time he wakes up before they catch her.

The long weekend, then, hotter and drier, the sky more white than blue and the air on Mott Street and everywhere else that Frank has any reason to go has grown so ripe, so redolent, that sometimes he pulls the collars of his T-shirts up over his mouth and nose, breathes through the cotton like a surgeon or a wild west bandit, but the smell always gets through anyway. On the news there are people dying of heat stroke and dehydration, people dying in the streets and ERs, but fresh-faced weathermen still promise that it will rain very soon. He’s stopped believing them and maybe that means Willa’s right and it never will rain again. Frank hasn’t shown the white card—FOUND: LOST WORLDS—to Willa, keeps it hidden in his wallet, only taking it out when he’s alone and no one will see, no one to ask where or what or who. He’s read it over and over again, has each line committed to memory, and Monday morning he almost calls Mr. Zaroba about it. The half hour between Willa leaving for the café and the time that he has to leave for the copy shop if he isn’t going to be late, and he holds the telephone receiver and stares at Dr. Solomon Monalisa’s card lying there on the table in front of him. The sound of his heart, the dial-tone drone, and the traffic down on Mott Street, the spice-and-dried-fish odor of the apothecary leaking up through the floorboards, and a fat drop of sweat slides down his forehead and spreads itself painfully across his left eyeball. By the time he’s finished rubbing at his eye, calling Zaroba no longer seems like such a good idea after all, and Frank puts the white card back into his wallet, slips it in safe between his driver’s license and a dog-eared, expired MetroCard. Instead he calls in sick, gets Maggie and she doesn’t believe for one moment that there’s anything wrong with him. ”I fucking swear, I can’t even get up off the toilet long enough to make a phone call. I’m calling you from the head,” only half an effort at sounding sincere because they both know this is only going through the motions. ”As we speak—“ he starts, but Maggie cuts him off. ”That’s enough, Frank. But I’m telling you, man if you wanna keep this job, you better get your slacker ass down here tomorrow morning.” ”Right,” Frank says. “I hear you,” and she hangs up first And then Frank stares at the open window, the sun beating down like the Voice of God out there, and it takes him almost five minutes to remember where to find the next number he has to call.

Sidney McAvoy stopped coming to the meetings at the synagogue on Eldridge Street almost a year ago, not long after Frank’s first time. Small, hawk-nosed man with nervous, ferrety eyes, and he’s always reminded Frank a little of Dustin Hoffman in Papillon. Some sort of tension or wound between Sidney and Mr. Zaroba that Frank never fully understood, but he saw it from the start, the way their eyes never met and Sidney never took his turn at the lectern, sat silent, brooding, chewing at the stem of a cheap, unlit pipe. And then an argument after one of the meetings, the same night that Zaroba told Janice that she shouldn’t ever go back to the cemetery in Trenton, that she should never try to find the staircase and the blue light again. Both men speaking in urgent, angry whispers, Zaroba looking up occasionally to smile a sheepish, embarrassed, apologetic smile. Everyone pretending not to see or hear, talking among themselves, occupied with their stale doughnuts and tiny packets of non-dairy creamer, and then Sidney McAvoy left and never came back. Frank would’ve forgotten all about him, almost had forgotten, and then one night he and Willa were coming home late from a bar where they drink sometimes, whenever they’re feeling irresponsible enough to spend money on booze. Cheap vodka or cheaper beer, a few hours wasted just trying to feel like everyone else, the way they imagined other, normal people might feel, and they ran into Sidney McAvoy a few blocks from their apartment. He was wearing a ratty green raincoat, even though it wasn’t raining, and chewing on one of his pipes, carrying a large box wrapped in white butcher’s paper, tied up tight and neat with twine. ”Shit,” Willa whispered. “Make like you don’t see him,” but Sidney had already noticed them and he was busy clumsily trying to hide the big package behind his back. ”I know you two,” he declared, talking loudly, a suspicious, accusatory glint to his quavering voice. “You’re both with Zaroba, aren’t you? You still go to his meetings.” That last word a sneer and he pointed a short, grubby finger at the center of Frank’s chest. ”That’s really none of your goddamn business, is it?” Willa growled and Frank stepped quickly between them; she mumbled and spit curses behind his back and Sindey McAvoy glared up at Frank with his beady-dark eyes. A whole lifetime’s worth of bitterness and distrust trapped inside those eyes, eyes that have seen far too much or far too little, and “How have you been, Mr. McAvoy,” Frank said, straining to sound friendly, and he managed the sickly ghost of a smile. Sidney grunted and almost dropped his carefully-wrapped package. ”If you care about that girl there,” he said, speaking around the stem of the pipe clenched between his yellowed teeth, “you’ll keep her away from Zaroba. And you’ll both stop telling him things, if you know what’s good for you. There are more useful answers in a road atlas than you’re ever going to get out of that old phony.” ”What makes you say that?” Frank asked. “What were you guys fighting about?” but Sidney was already scuttling away down Canal Street, his white package hugged close to his chest. He turned a corner without looking back and was gone. ”Fucking nut job,” Willa mumbled. “What the hell’s his problem anyway?” ”Maybe the less we know about him the better,” Frank said and he put an arm around Willa’s small waist, holding her close to him, trying hard not to think about what could have been in the box but unable to think of anything else. And two weeks later, dim and snowy last day before Thanksgiving, Frank found Sidney McAvoy’s number in the phone book and called him.

A wet comb through his hair, cleaner shirt and socks, and Frank goes out into the sizzling day; across Columbus Park to the Canal Street Station and he takes the M to Grand Street, rides the B line all the way to the subway stop beneath the Museum of Natural History. Rumbling long through the honeycombed earth, the diesel and dust and garbage scented darkness and him swaddled inside steel and unsteady fluorescent light. Time to think that he’d rather not have, unwelcome luxury of second thoughts, and when the train finally reaches the museum he’s almost ready to turn right around and head back downtown. Almost, but Dr. Solomon Monalisa’s card is in his wallet to keep him moving, get him off the train and up the concrete steps to the museum entrance. Ten dollars he can’t spare to get inside, but Sidney McAvoy will never agree to meet him anywhere outside, too paranoid for a walk in Central Park or a quiet booth in a deli or a coffee shop somewhere. ”People are always listening,” he says, whenever Frank has suggested or asked that they meet somewhere without an entrance fee. “You never know what they might overhear.” So sometimes it’s the long marble bench in front of the Apatosaurus, or the abyssal, blue-black gloom of the Hall of Fishes, seats beneath a planetarium constellation sky, whichever spot happens to strike Sidney’s fancy that particular day. His fancy or his cabalistic fantasies, if there’s any difference, and today Frank finds him in the Hall of Asiatic Mammals, short and rumpled man in a threadbare tweed jacket and red tennis shoes standing alone before the Indian leopard diorama, gazing intently in at the pocket of counterfeit jungle and the taxidermied cats. Frank waits behind him for a minute or two, waiting to be noticed, and when Sidney looks up and speaks, he speaks to Frank’s reflection. ”I’m very busy today,” he says, brusque, impatient. “I hope this isn’t going to take long.” And no, Frank says, it won’t take long at all, I promise, but Sidney’s doubtful expression to show just how much he believes that. He sighs and looks back to the stuffed leopards, papier-mâché trees and wax leaves, a painted flock of peafowl rising to hang forever beneath a painted forest canopy. Snapshot moment of another world and the walls of the dimly-lit hall lined with a dozen or more such scenes. ”You want to know about Monalisa,” Sidney says. “That’s why you came here, because you think I can tell you who he is.” ”Yeah,” and Frank reaches into this pocket for his wallet. “He came into the place where I work last week and left this.” He takes out the card and Sidney turns around only long enough to get it from him. ”So, you talked to him?” ”No, I didn’t. I was eating my lunch in the stockroom. I didn’t actually see him for myself.” Sidney stares at the card, seems to read it carefully three or four times and then he hands it back to Frank, goes back to staring at the leopards. ”Why didn’t you show this to Zaroba?” he asks sarcastically, taunting, but Frank answers him anyway, not in the mood today for Sidney’s grudges and intrigues. ”Because I didn’t think he’d tell me anything. You know he’s more interested in the mysteries than ever finding answers.” And Frank pauses, silent for a moment and Sidney’s silent, too, both men watching the big cats now—glass eyes, freeze-frame talons, and taut, spectacled haunches—as though the leopards might suddenly spring towards them, all this stillness just a clever ruse for the tourists and the kiddies; maybe dead leopards know the nervous, wary faces of men who have seen things that they never should have seen. ”He knows the truth would swallow him whole,” Sidney says. The leopards don’t pounce and he adds, “He knows he’s a coward.” ”So who is Dr. Monalisa?” ”A bit of something the truth already swallowed and spat back up,” and Sidney chuckles sourly to himself and produces one of his pipes from a jacket pocket. “He’s a navigator, a pilot, a cartographer…” Frank notices that one of the two leopards has captured a stuffed peacock, holds it fast between velvet, razored paws, and he can’t remember if it was that way only a moment before. ”He draws maps,” Sidney says. “He catalogs doors and windows and culverts.” ”That’s bullshit,” Frank whispers, his voice low now so the old woman staring in at the giant panda exhibit won’t hear him. “You’re trying to tell me he can find places?” ”He isn’t a sane man, Frank,” Sidney says and now he holds up his left hand and presses his palm firmly against the glass, as if he’s testing the invisible barrier, gauging its integrity. “He has answers, but he has prices, too. You think this is Hell, you see how it feels to be in debt to Dr. Solomon Monalisa.” ”It isn’t me. It’s Willa. I think she’s starting to lose it.” ”We all lost ‘it’ a long time ago, Frank.” ”I’m afraid she’s going to do something. I’m afraid she’ll hurt herself.” And Sidney turns his back on the leopards then, takes the pipe from his mouth, and glares up at Frank. But some of the anger, some of the bitterness, has gone from his eyes, and “He might keep her alive,” he says, “but you wouldn’t want her back when he was done. If she’d even come back. No, Frank. You two stay away from Monalisa. Look for your own answers. You don’t think you found that card by accident, do you? You don’t really think there are such things as coincidences? That’s not even his real address—“ ”She can’t sleep anymore,” Frank says, but now Sidney McAvoy isn’t listening, glances back over his shoulder at the Indian rain forest, incandescent daylight, illusory distances, and “I have to go now,” he says. “I’m very busy today.” ”I think she’s fucking dying, man,” Frank says as Sidney straightens his tie and puts the pipe back into his pocket; the old woman looks up from the panda in its unreal bamboo thicket and frowns at them both. ”I’m very busy today, Frank. Call me next week. I think I can meet you at the Guggenheim next week.” And he walks quickly away towards the Roosevelt Rotunda, past the Siberian tiger and the Sumatran rhinoceros, leaving Frank alone with the frowning woman. When Sidney has vanished into the shadows behind a small herd of Indian elephants, Frank turns back to the leopards and the smudgy hand print Sidney McAvoy has left on their glass.

Hours and hours later, past sunset to the other side of the wasted day, the night that seems even hotter than the scorching afternoon, and Frank is dreaming that the crack in the basement wall on St. Mark’s place is much too narrow for him to squeeze through. Maybe the way it really happened after all, and then he hears a small, anguished sound from somewhere close behind him, something hurting or lost, and when he turns to see, Frank opens his eyes and there’s only the tangerine glow of the noodle shop sign outside the apartment window. He blinks once, twice, but this stubborn world doesn’t go away, doesn’t break apart into random kaleidoscopic shards to become some other place entirely. So he sits up, head full of the familiar disappointment, this incontestable solidity, and it takes him a moment to realize that Willa isn’t in bed. Faint outline of her body left in the wrinkled sheets and the bathroom light is burning, the door open, so she’s probably just taking a piss. ”You okay in there?” he asks, but no reply. The soft drip, drip, drip of the kitchenette faucet, tick of the wind-up alarm clock on the table next to Willa’s side of the bed, street noise, but no answer. “Did you fall in or something?” he shouts. “Did you drown?” And still no response, but his senses waking up, picking out more than the ordinary, every-night sounds, a trilling whine pitched so high he feels it more than hears it, and now he notices the way that the air in the apartment smells. Go back to sleep, he thinks, but both legs already over the edge of the bed, both feet already on the dusty floor. When you wake up again it’ll be over. The trill worming its way beneath his skin, soaking in, pricking gently at the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck, and all the silver fillings in his teeth have begun to hum along sympathetically. Where he’s standing, Frank can see into the bathroom, just barely, a narrow slice of linoleum, slice of porcelain toilet tank, a mildew and polyurethane fold of shower curtain. And he thinks that the air has started to shimmer, an almost imperceptible warping of the light escaping from the open door, but that might only be his imagination. He takes one small step towards the foot of the bed and there’s Willa, standing naked before the tiny mirror above the bathroom sink. The jut of her shoulder blades and hip bones, the anorexic swell of her rib cage, all the minute details of her painful thinness seem even more pronounced in the harsh and curving light. ”Hey. Is something wrong? Are you sick?” and she turns her head slowly to look at him, or maybe only looking towards him because there’s nothing much like recognition on her face. Her wide, unblinking eyes, blind woman’s stare, and “Can’t you hear me, Willa?” he asks as she turns slowly back to the mirror. Her lips move, shaping rough, inaudible words. The trilling grows infinitesimally louder, climbs another half-octave, and there’s a warm, wet trickle across Frank’s lips and he realizes that his nose is bleeding. Behind Willa the bathroom wall, the shower, the low ceiling—everything—ripples and dissolves and there’s a sudden, staccato pop as the bulb above the sink blows. And after an instant of perfect darkness, perfect nothing, dull and yellow-green shafts of light from somewhere far, far above, flickering light from an alien sun shining down through the waters of an alien sea; dim, translucent shapes dart and flash through those depths, bodies more insubstantial than jellyfish, more sinuous than eels, and Willa rises to meet them, arms outstretched, her hair drifting about her face like a halo of seaweed and algae. In the ocean-filtered light, Willa’s pale skin seems sleek and smooth as dolphin-flesh. Air rushes from her lips, her nostrils, and flows eagerly away in a glassy swirl of bubbles. The trilling has filled Frank’s head so full, and his aching skull, his brain, seem only an instant from merciful explosion, fragile, eggshell bone collapsed by the terrible, lonely sound and the weight of all that water stacked above him. He staggers, takes a step backwards, and now Willa’s face is turned up to meet the sunlight streaming down, and she’s more beautiful than anyone or anything he’s ever seen or dreamt. Down on Mott Street, the screech of tires, the angry blat of a car horn and someone begins shouting very loudly in Chinese. And now the bathroom is only a bathroom again, and Willa lies in a limp, strangling heap on the floor, her wet hair and skin glistening in the light from the bulb above the sink. The water rolls off her back, her thighs, spreads across the floor in a widening puddle, and Frank realizes that the trilling has finally stopped, only the memory of it left in his ringing ears and bleeding nose. When the dizziness has passed, he goes to her, sits down on the wet floor and holds her while she coughs and pukes up gouts of salt water and snotty strands of something the color of verdigris. Her skin so cold it hurts to touch, cold coming off her like a fever, and something small and chitinous slips from her hair and scuttles behind the toilet on long, jointed legs. ”Did you see?” she asks him, desperate, rheumy words gurgling out with all the water that she’s swallowed. “Did you, Frank? Did you see it?” ”Yes,” he tells her, just like every time before. “Yes, baby. I did. I saw it all,” and Willa smiles, closes her eyes, and in a little while she’s asleep. He carries her, dripping, back to their bed and holds her until the sun rises and she’s warm again.

The next day neither of them goes to work, and some small, niggling part of Frank manages to worry about what will happen to them if he loses the shit job at Gotham Kwick Kopy, if Willa gets fired from the café, obstinate shred of himself still capable of caring about such things. How the rent will be paid, how they’ll eat, everything that hasn’t really seemed to matter in more years than he wants to count. Half the morning in bed and his nosebleed keeps coming back, a roll of toilet paper and then one of their towels stained all the shades of dried and drying blood; Willa wearing her winter coat despite the heat, and she keeps trying to get him to go to a doctor, but no, he says. That might lead to questions, and besides, it’ll stop sooner or later. It’s always stopped before. By twelve o’clock, Willa’s traded the coat for her pink cardigan, feels good enough that she makes them peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches, black coffee and stale potato chips, and after he eats Frank begins to feel better, too. But going to the park is Willa’s idea, because the apartment still smells faintly of silt and dead fish, muddy, low-tide stink that’ll take hours more to disappear completely. He knows the odor makes her nervous, so he agrees, even though he’d rather spend the afternoon sleeping off his headache. Maybe a cold shower, another cup of Willa’s bitter-strong coffee, and if he’s lucky he could doze for hours without dreaming They take the subway up to Fifth, follow the eastern edge of the park north, past the zoo and East Green all the way to Pilgrim Hill and the Conservatory Pond. It’s not so very hot that there aren’t a few model sailing ships on the pond, just enough breeze to keep their miniature Bermuda sails standing tall and taut as shark fins. Frank and Willa sit in the shade near the Alice in Wonderland statue, her favorite spot in all of Central Park, rocky place near the tea party, granite and rustling leaves, the clean laughter of children climbing about on the huge, bronze mushrooms. A little girl with frizzy black hair and red and white peppermint-striped tights is petting the kitten in Alice’s lap, stroking its metal fur and meowling loudly, and “I can’t ever remember her name,” Willa says. ”What?” Frank asks. “Whose name?” not sure if she means the little girl or the kitten or something else entirely. ”Alice’s kitten. I know it had a name, but I never can remember it.” Frank watches the little girl for a moment, and “Dinah,” he says. “I think the kitten’s name was Dinah.” ”Oh, yeah, Dinah. That’s it,” and he knows that she’s just thinking out loud, whatever comes to mind so that she won’t have to talk about last night, so the conversation won’t accidentally find its own way back to those few drowning moments of chartreuse light and eel shadows. Trying so hard to pretend and he almost decides they’re both better off if he plays along and doesn’t show her Dr. Solomon Monalisa’s white calling card. ”That’s a good name for a cat,” she says. “If we ever get a kitten, I think I’ll name it Dinah.” ”Mrs. Wu doesn’t like cats.” ”Well, we’re not going to spend the rest of our lives in that dump. Next time, we’ll get an apartment that allows cats.” Frank takes the card out and lays his wallet on the grass, but Willa hasn’t even noticed, too busy watching the children clambering about on Alice, too busy dreaming about kittens. The card is creased and smudged from a week riding around in his back pocket and all the handling it’s suffered, the edges beginning to fray, and he gives it to her without any explanation. ”What’s this?” she asks and he tells her to read it first, just read it, so she does. Reads it two or three times and then Willa returns the card, goes back to watching the children. But her expression has changed, the labored, make-believe smile gone now and she just looks like herself again, plain old Willa, the distance in her eyes, the hard angles at the corners of her mouth that aren’t quite a frown. ”Sidney says he’s for real,” half the truth, at best, and Frank glances down at the card, reading it again for the hundredth or two-hundredth time ”Sidney McAvoy’s a fucking lunatic.” ”He says this guy has maps—“ ”Christ, Frank. What do you want me to say? You want me to give you permission to go talk to some crackpot? You don’t need my permission.” ”I was hoping you’d come with me,” he says so softly that he’s almost whispering, and he puts the card back into his wallet where neither of them will have to look at it, stuffs the wallet back into his jeans pocket. ”Well, I won’t. I go to your goddamn meetings. I already have to listen to that asshole Zaroba. That’s enough for me, thank you very much. That’s more than enough.” The little girl petting Dinah slips, loses her footing and almost slides backwards off the edge of the sculpture, but her mother catches her and sets her safely on the ground. ””I see what it’s doing to you,” Frank says. “I have to watch. How much longer do you think you can go on like this?” She doesn’t answer him, opens her purse and takes out a pack of cigarettes, only one left and she crumbles the empty package and tosses it over her shoulder into the bushes. ”What if this guy really can help you? What if he can make it stop?” Willa is digging noisily around in her purse, trying to find her lighter or a book of matches, and she turns and stares at Frank, the cigarette hanging unlit from her lips. Her eyes shining bright as broken gemstones, shattered crystal eyes, furious, resentful, and he knows that she could hate him, that she could leave him here and never look back. She takes the cigarette from her mouth, licks her upper lip, and for a long moment Willa holds the tip of her tongue trapped tight between her teeth. ”What the hell makes you think I want it to stop?” And silence as what she’s said sinks in and he begins to understand that he’s never understood her at all. “It’s killing you,” he says, finally, the only thing he can think to say, and Willa’s eyes seem to flash and grow brighter, more broken, more eager to slice. ”No, Frank, it’s the only thing keeping me alive. Knowing that it’s out there, that I’ll see it again, and someday maybe it won’t make me come back here.” And then she gets up and walks quickly away towards the pond, brisk, determined steps to put more distance between them. She stops long enough to bum a light from an old black man with a dachshund, then ducks around one corner of the boathouse and he can’t see her anymore. Frank doesn’t follow, sits watching the tiny sailboats and yachts gliding gracefully across the moss-dark surface of the water, their silent choreography of wakes and ripples. He decides maybe it’s better not to worry about Willa for now, plenty of time for that later and he wonders what he’ll say to Monalisa when he finds him.

We shall be less apt to admire what this World calls great, shall nobly despise those Trifles the generality of Men set their Affections on, when we know that there are a multitude of such Earths inhabited and adorn’d as well as our own. CHRISTIAAN HUYGENS (c. 1690)

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