Odin's Murder

17.

Empathy

The counselors are talking about Julian in fake whispers at dinner. An allergic reaction to a bug bite, though by the end of the spaghetti with mystery meat sauce, the students are spreading the news that he’s been savaged by a rabid bat. Jeremy slinks out of the hall as soon as he hears the news, off to comfort Memory, I’m sure.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” Faye asks, the first time she’s spoken since her blow-up in class. “He was fine when I saw him this morning. Maybe I should have stayed with him?”

“They said it was a bee sting. Nothing you could have done to prevent that,” Danielle offers. This doesn’t seem to pacify Faye and I’m not surprised when she excuses herself muttering something about herbs for healing. Danielle chuckles as we watch her exit the dining hall. “She’s a little pistol, isn’t she? What was that all about?”

“She’s into the holistic natural stuff. Plants and runes and junk. I don’t get it, but she believes in it.” A week ago I would have mocked her with the rest of the guys in my unit. Now I’m defending a weird chick and her witch pebbles.

“Julian’s sister is probably pretty upset.” Her blond hair falls forward, concealing her expression.

“I’m surprised she doesn’t break out into some kind of psychic rash.” Guilt snarls up my brain the second I say it. I need to get in a fight or steal something.

“Walk to the field with me?” Danielle asks, piling her trash on top of her tray.

I hesitate, thinking about going to find Memory or consoling Faye, but Cherry has Jeremy and Faye is probably knee deep in Saint John’s warts or whatever. They don’t need me. Danielle walks next to me, but when I move to slide my hand around her waist she steps away, and turns to face me.

“Look, Ethan,” she says, then stops, smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m not stupid.”

“I never said you were,” I say, confused. I tug on the belt loop of her shorts, trying to pull her closer.

“Whether you want to admit it or not, you’ve got something going on with Memory Erikssen.” When I start to shake my head, she calls my bullshit with a look worthy of my social worker. “There is no way I’m going to compete with that,” she says. “Not with her. And I think I’d like to walk away now, before this turns into a huge camp drama.”

“Okay.” I shove my hands in my pockets, and try to think of something to say. I’m used to girls breaking up with me, hell, a week is kind of a record, but I don’t know how to act around ones who are nice about it.

She reaches out, but not to slap my face. She untwists my camera bag strap and smoothes it across my chest. “Do me a favor?” she asks. “Send me a copy of the pictures you took the other night.”

“I can do that.”

She smiles then, for real, and nods her head up toward the hill. “They’re playing dodgeball in the upper field. Go join them.”

Yeah, she’s a smart girl, alright.

*

For the first time since I was six years old, I spend the night in a room to myself. The noises in the dorm ricochet off the walls, and I wake—if I’m ever truly asleep—with each urinal flush and slamming door.

I give up at dawn, take advantage of the privacy to jerk off, and Danielle is right, I do have a thing for Memory Erikssen. Figures I’d want the girl who kisses like a spike through the brain. Fuck.

I shower the thick night humidity off my skin, pack up my camera bag and head over to the art building. A security guard inside watches me punch in my student code, hands me a clipboard to sign, and buzzes the door that leads to the graphic arts lab.

The lab tech has a Mohawk and drinks black coffee straight from the carafe. I decide he is in fact, a she, after she asks if I need any help.

“Um. Can you help me figure this out?” I ask. “I need to print these.”

“Sure.” She helps me connect up to the printer network, swipes my ID card to charge the materials. She points to a picture of Memory, her face tilted into the sun, eyelashes casting long shadows on her cheek. “Nice. I like the way the sun makes her skin glow.”

The printing takes a long time and I’m late for study group, but Memory walks in after me. Her eyes are swollen under the make-up, and she’s moving like she’s half asleep, too, but she’s smiling.

“I talked to Julian today,” she says. “Well, not talked, I guess, but we texted. He says the cell service in the hospital is spotty and he had to walk down the hall before my messages came through. He was stung several times and the reaction was pretty bad, so they may make him wait another day before he can come back. The swelling and rash haven’t completely gone away yet, which I guess is making the doctors cautious, but he said he has faith in us to keep the project on track.”

“Did he hurt his head when he got stung? Since when does Julian have faith in any of us?” I joke.

I know,” she says. “I blame it on the drugs.”

“Did he say anything else?” Faye asks. “Any instructions or messages?”