And this must not be forgotten.”
The room is silent when she finishes. Faye grins shy but huge, clutching the cheat sheet of paper she never needed to use. I’m the first one clapping, followed by the rest of the room, except for my brother. Julian isn’t clapping. Or smiling. Or anything.
“What the hell?” I nudge him with my elbow but he doesn’t move. “A little applause for our girl? She was great!”
“What did you do?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
He stares at Faye as she dashes off the stage, barely avoiding a collision with the next hipster poet on his way to the little stage. A cute guy from one of the performing arts groups catches her. “To her. What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything.” I shake my head, and grin in her direction, where yet another music student is trying to get her attention. “That’s all her. I just helped her find it.”
“By forcing her into some costume of what you think she should look like? What your trashy fashion magazines think is attractive?”
“What? I didn’t force her into anything! She wanted to look nice!”
“She’s seventeen, Memory. A minor. And you’ve got her dressed up in some slutted-up mini version of you!” The moment the words are out of his mouth he blanches white and he stands up, shoving the chair back with a loud scrape.
I grab his arm, ignoring the students around us who turn in our direction. “Did you just call me a slut?”
“Hi guys, did you like it?” Faye bounces up. “I had to change a phrase. The original word was an archaic form of knullar, which sort of means ‘had carnal knowledge of,’ implying that Mimir is a woman. It’s the only reference I know of that postulates that. The book you brought reminded me of it.” She smiles up at Julian. His face flushes red and he opens his mouth, but he shuts it again, and turns to glare at me. “What’s wrong?” she asks. “I thought you would like it.”
“The poem was great, Faye,” I tell her, staring him down. “My idiot brother just has issues with your appearance.”
Her face falls, and she touches her curls. “Oh,” she whispers. “Memory said you don’t like girls when they’re pretty.”
“No, no...” he stammers, “That’s not what I—I didn’t mean—Dammit!” He kicks at a chair, and it topples with a clatter.
I glance around the room and my eyes imprint to my brain like a quick-sketch artist: Danielle in a tight pink t-shirt, waving from a far table; the guy at the podium struggling to raise the microphone; Dr. Anders, frowning, a smudge of gravy on his shirt; Faye, tears welling in her eyes, turning to flee the gawking crowd; a shadow moving behind me, taller than my own.
“Why did you do that?” Julian hisses.
I shove the fallen chair out of the way with my foot, and take a step forward. I’ve never hit my brother before, but my hands are in fists and I’m eyeing his chin, a squarer version of my own. “You called me a slut.”
“If the shoe fits....”
I lunge at him, but before my knuckles hit his jaw, a pair of muscled arms pulls me backward.
15.
Extraction
“Get out of here,” I tell Julian, over Memory’s shoulder. “Go find Faye.”
He looks from his sister to me and over his shoulder at my nod to Dr. Anders, striding toward us with a scowl on his face. Julian turns, and shoves through the crowd.
“Come on.” I push Memory in the opposite direction, through the hot kitchen, toward the back door, and when she stops resisting I take her hand. Her skin is smooth and cool against my chapped palms, rubbed raw from washing dishes. The minute we get outside, away from the crowd, she pulls away.
“I almost decked him.” Her eyes are wide under all the makeup.
“I know.”
“I wanted to.” A tear threatens to spill onto her cheek, but it doesn’t.
“I know.”
She sighs and sits on one of the steps leading to the back kitchen door. “Thanks for stopping me.”