Odin's Murder

“Hey, Bob,” she answers, and I picture her cell phone, the cover a shiny purple to match her fingernails this week. “I’ll fax the judge’s order as soon as I get back to the office, but—”

“Mary, it’s me.”

“Ethan! Why are you calling me from Dean Burnett’s office?”

“Because I can’t afford a cell phone?”

I hear her bracelet clatter. The line of tiny silver pendants was bright against her dark coffee skin in the morning sun when she picked me up in Wilmington earlier today, jingling on her wrist as she lectured me the list of dos and do-nots. More than once, I’d thought about snatching the jewelry, but the fallout wouldn’t be worth it. She’d kick my ass. Twice.

Dean Burnett looks down at my portfolio to a picture of her I’d taken last fall. She’s pretty good-looking for an older chick.

“Dammit, Ethan, already?” she yells. “You’ve been there all of three hours! Who could you possibly pick a fight with in only three hours? Let me guess. Someone touched your camera. No, they made a comment about your hair. Was food involved? Or a girl?”

She knows me well. I say nothing.

“Do you have any idea how hard I had to bust my ass to get you into that program? How many miles I’ve driven today?” She begins the tirade I heard earlier. “If you screw this up, you go back. They don’t even need a court order, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Do you really want to go back there?”

With the hand not holding the phone, I run my finger down my nose, tracing the slight bump where the bones had been broken.

“No, ma’am.” She likes it when I am polite.

“Nine more months, young man. You have nine more months until your commitment to the state is over, and then I can’t help you anymore. Do this right, it will even be less. But this is your last chance to clean up your act, so you’ve got to keep out of trouble this summer, do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

“It’s a fresh start, Ethan. Make the most of it. Now put the dean back on the phone.”

I hand it over, listen for a few seconds to their conversation, eyeing the clock and the door, wondering how long this will take, but the director is already telling her goodbye. He hangs up the phone, and eyes me a moment over his reading glasses.

After a long sigh, he waves his hand. “I’m going to let this slide. I understand that there is some transition upheaval when leaving your circumstances. Plan to work several nights this week in the dining hall. Constance always needs a hand washing dishes. I’ll let Jeremy know when.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t want to see you in my office again. We took a risk allowing you into this program—don’t make me regret it.”

“Won’t happen again, sir,” I say again, as I leave. I steal one last look at the desk, pausing at the door. “You won’t see me in here again.”

I exit the office, stopping just short of plowing into a man with wrinkled clothes. He clutches at a thick bunch of papers. Several spill on the floor.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t see you.” He lets me pass as he enters the office. “Bob, you were looking for me? I’ve got my orientation with the history group in five minutes.”

“Yes, let me put this away, and I’ll walk with you.”

I glance back, and watch the dean stow my file in a cabinet and lock it, while the other guy drops half the crap he carries and scrambles to pick it up. His wallet tumbles from his pocket and lands under a chair, but he doesn’t see it.

Dean Burnett takes the heavy chunk of keys in his meaty fist as he ushers the messy professor down the hall, opposite my shadowed corner, but he doesn’t lock the door. “Did I hear correctly?” he asks. “About Sonja Williams?” and then they are out of earshot.

I slip back into the office. My eyes are focused only on the prize, and I snag it with fast fingers that touch nothing else. I stash it in my pants pocket, and back out of the room. My long, slow stride down the hall is at odds with my fast heartbeat.

“How did it go?” Jeremy asks, making me jump in my skin as I round the corner in the lobby. He’s holding a clipboard and a roll of ‘Hello, my name is:’ stickers.

“I’m doing dishes.” At his chuckle, I flash a wry grin and push through the heavy exterior doors. The grassy quad isn’t empty, but the students lurk in the shade, save for a brave few blinking against the glare from their campus maps. Most of us have a free period after lunch. Marcus stands under a tree, ice pack melting on some bruised knuckles. His left eye is purple and swollen. A few guys stand around him, and I can see their lips moving with the usual sidekick muttering. The tall girl isn’t around.

I find a corner of my own, a quiet perch on the edge of some steps, and slide the treasure from my pocket. The silver letter opener winks at me in the sunlight, the polished steel edge honed glittery sharp. I rub my thumb over the point, a smile pulling on my split lip. Not bad loot for such a small fight. To the victor goes the spoils.

2.

Memory