14. Ryan
14
Ryan
Stella didn’t leave her room all weekend. I brought her food, but most of it still sits uneaten on her desk.
I’m unsure what she’s doing or what has her attention so fiercely, but I am starting to worry. When I ask, she waves me away and says she’s writing a book.
Can anyone sit locked in a room for an entire weekend writing a book? There can’t be that many words to say, can there?
But it’s Monday morning, and she has finally put her computer down to shower. The one she should not have been able to get on campus.
Not that I’m going to tell anyone, of course.
The water cranks on, and I release a sigh, knowing she’s finally taking a break. She sings a song that must be one of her favorites because I hear it frequently. Over the past few weeks, I have learned that she loves to sing when she showers.
It’s comically bad.
I wouldn’t have expected her to be great at it or anything, but she is so bad at it that it’s humorous. No one is perfect, and it’s nice to experience this part of her. Her voice is loud and clear, with excellent diction. She just has no pitch, and the cadence is very strange. Still, I find myself focusing too hard when she’s in there.
“Ryan,” she shouts over the water, “how long until breakfast is over?”
I spit out my toothpaste and check my watch. “We have another hour. Why?”
“Oh, thank the gods. I’m not ready to get out yet and didn’t want to rush.” The steam in the room cranks up, a sure sign she’s increased the heat from blistering to inferno, and she lets out a moan before saying, “My back hurts from being hunched over my keyboard all weekend.”
My throat feels sticky, words unable to escape as that sound trickles into my ears. I face the mirror, gripping the side of the countertop, and look myself in the eye.
“Get it together, Ryan,” I mutter. “Don’t be a creep.”
“What did you say?” she shouts over the din of water.
I clear my throat and shout, “I bet it does hurt. How’s the book coming along?”
“The what?”
“The book you’re writing. What’s it about?”
“Oh,” she says, cutting the water off. As she steps out of the stall, wrapped in a white Academy-issue towel, she shakes her head like a dog, hair flying around and spraying water all over me.
“Hey!” I shout, jumping backward. “I’m already dressed!”
“Whoops, sorry!” She doesn’t sound sorry at all. She throws me a wink before pushing her wings out and skipping out of the room. She slams her door behind her, and I slump back against the sink.
I may only have one eye, but even I can see that the female is trouble.
I’ve never gotten in trouble before.
It could be fun.
My knees hit the rough pavement, scraping against he denim and leaving me aching.
“Get up, freak,” the shifter growls from behind me. I’m not sure what his spirit is, but it has to be massive because he’s almost as tall as I am but twice as broad. Maybe a bear. Or a tiger.
Whatever it is, it’s aggressive.
“I didn’t mean to,” I say, scrambling and struggling to my feet. “I can’t see very well without my monocle. I wasn’t staring on purpose.”
“She’s my mate,“ the male spits at me. “And you were looking at her like you were going to grind up her bones.” His chest heaves with anger, stretching the limits of the buttons on his plaid shirt.
I rub my hands on my pants to ease the sting and grab my pack from where I dropped it. “I believe that lore belongs to the giants.”
“Shut up, freak.” He hurls his uncreative insult at me again. “Stay away from my female.”
“Gladly,” I mutter at his retreating back. I’m surprised he backed down so quickly.
After taking a moment to take stock of my body – my knees hurt, my palms are scraped, but otherwise, only a tiny amount of anxiety lingers – I continue my path to class. A blue-haired male leans casually against the door leading into the academic building. He looks like an average Authentic male, and the side of his mouth is quirked up in a grin.
“Looks like you got lucky there with that shifter tucking tail and leaving so fast,” he says.
“Yeah, I’m glad he did. It’s against Cyclops spirit rules to engage in physical altercations. We’re prone to destruction.” My face heats with embarrassment. Why did I reveal that information to a stranger? It makes my spirit seem violent and dangerous, which it is, but that is not who I am.
That’s not how I want to be seen.
The male peels off the wall and follows me into the building and up the stairs. “Ah, the rules. I’m sure you find that hard to follow.” He’s much shorter than me, probably about Stella’s size, but he easily keeps up with my strides.
“Not really,” I answer honestly. “I do not seek violence out, and the only thing that truly makes me angry is someone threatening something I care about.”
“Something or someone?”
I turn my head and look down at him, at his baggy, ripped jeans and faded red blazer over a cropped black shirt. “I suppose both.” A bob of his head is the only response he gives me. We walk in silence for a bit, stride for stride. “Are you going to Supernatural History 101?”
“Nah,” he says, kicking the toe of his heavy boot on the ground as he walks.
“Authentic history?”
He smirks. “Nope. Gonna skip out this time.”
“But we’re not allowed to miss classes.”
He takes a few steps in front of me and spins, walking backward as he talks to me. “I’ll be alright. I’m lucky like that.” He salutes me with two fingers and a wink. “See ya later, tiny.”
The dining hall is full of a variety of supernaturals unlike anywhere else. I doubt there is any other place in the realm where you can see such a varied group. Here, it does not matter where the origin story of your spirit comes from. We are not confined by geography or neighborhood. Here, we are all just supernaturals.
Until we’re not anymore.
Then we’ll be simplynaturals.
Everyone tends to steer clear of me, giving me a wide berth when I pass. The dangerous and unpredictable outbursts associated with Cyclops isn’t me, but try telling everyone else that. I wish people could see how different I am. I wish they would look in my eye and know that I am more than what they’ve been told Cyclops could be.
But that sort of prejudice is woven into the fabric of our society. You must assimilate or be removed from the quilt.
Being a supernatural that cannot pass for Authentic has made life more complicated for me than others. One look at me, and it’s obvious that I am other . I tower over everyone else, and I’m significantly broader than most.
Not to mention the giant eye in the middle of my face.
That’s kind of hard to miss.
Drifting towards the buffet, I examine the offering for the day. The food here is excellent, and today looks to be no exception. I serve myself a bowl of stew, the steam from the urn fogging up my monocle, and then check the hall to see if there is anyone I recognize.
I haven’t done well at making friends, except for Clay and Stella. Honestly, I’ve never had that many friends before, and it’s surprising how easy it is with those two. But they’re not here, at least not yet, and I’m standing in the middle of the crowded hall staring at the tables, a massive stone in the river of students trying to get by.
A half-empty table across the room calls my name, and I perch myself on the bench. The end seat is necessary so I can stretch out my legs, but it’s still a snug fit. It takes a minute to get comfortable, and as soon as I do, a tray drops in front of me.
“Ryan, buddy!” When I look up, Clay beams at me, his white teeth so visible I can almost count them.
Everyone says that Reapers are monsters hiding in plain sight, but I can’t see it when I look at Clay. It’s like he’s a regular Authentic who happens to reap souls. His tray has a massive baked potato with toppings galore tumbling out of it and a meat sandwich with only a thin slice of lettuce breaking up the protein.
“Where do you put all that food?” I ask, noting the difference between our two plates.
“In my mouth!”
I groan, running my hand down my face. “Walked right into that one.”
“It’s okay, buddy – you’re down an eye. It’s expected for you to walk into things.”
Friendship with Clay is not quiet. The Reaper is a huge jokester, a trait that seems incongruent with his spirit. I always assumed the death spirits would be a gloomy bunch, but instead, the first one I meet is like an excitable puppy nipping at my ankles.
“Have you seen Stella?” he asks me around a mouth full of potatoes. “I don’t have any classes with her today, but I thought I might see her at lunch.”
“Not since breakfast,” I reply, eating a spoonful of the rich, hearty stew. “I think she had Authentic History this morning.”
“Oh, I love that class! Professor Jessup seems like a cool dude.”
I grunt in reply. I can’t get a good read on Jessup. It’s not that I dislike the shifter, but something about him doesn’t seem quite right to me. His personality is so different from all the other teachers here that it’s suspicious. The professors here are calm and subdued, and their lectures are delivered in matter-of-fact tones that brook no argument. Jessup, on the other hand, is animated and engaging. He constantly asks us to dive deeper into the text and read between the lines of history.
It’s well known that history is written by the victors, but he makes it feel like the battle is still being waged.
And who do you believe when you don’t know which side you’re on?
Couldn’t it be said that I, as a scholarship student, am on the side of the Authentics? I chose to come here to learn how to assimilate the best I can.
That doesn’t feel right anymore.
There is a gap in my knowledge that I must fill.
“Dude, Ryan, eye alert!” Clay snaps his fingers in front of me. “You completely spaced.”
“Sorry, Clay,” I say sheepishly. “Got trapped in my head there for a minute.”
“I get that. The mind is a terrible place to be, huh?” Clay stands up and clears his tray, and it’s not until he’s on the other side of the hall that his words sink in.
What could possibly be so terrible about Clay’s mind?