Chapter Three Mo
Chapter Three
Mo
A t least she doesn’t have that crossbow.
Mo was stuck. Seeing this woman again, this Jess, in another one of his very few safe places had caused a spark of anger to bloom from his solar plexus. It had been quickly doused by the memory that she hadn’t reacted to him as an individual, but to her fear from being surprised by a stranger while she was in a vulnerable state. Between the reminder of what he’d guessed she’d felt that night and the shock he could feel emanating from her right then, he was worried that he might throw up.
He swallowed a mouthful of his sparkling water to calm his stomach. As he swallowed, he was surprised to catch a whiff of vanilla in the air. They were far from the refreshments; even with his pronounced sense of smell, he shouldn’t have been able to pick up on the baked goods at that distance. He took another quick sip. The can was running low. He’d been nursing it as an excuse to avoid small talk since he’d arrived. Participating in the annual open house was one of his least favorite parts of teaching at the Folk School. It had always been torturous for Mo—the ambient noise frying his ears and brain, the mixing energies of other people flooding through his body, having to produce his own energy to answer questions and be pleasant. He’d have to spend a lot of time with his plants, or mercilessly lift some weights, or take a burning shower once he got home.
Jess opened her mouth slightly, glancing between him and Ned. It seemed like she was thinking of saying something, maybe even apologizing, but that would mean sharing how they’d crossed paths. Ned’s attention was temporarily drawn away, and Mo narrowed his eyes and shook his head the tiniest bit at Jess. No. You don’t have to.
Jess’s eyebrows bent toward each other. Mo slow blinked while shaking his head again.
“Everybody, everyone!”
Wendy, the president of the Folk School, was standing on a chair at the front of the room. The conversations died down as everyone turned to her.
“I have an exciting announcement to make,” she said. “We’ve been fortunate that our community outreach has brought in new interest and new students over the years. The leadership board and I have decided to expand our efforts and are pleased to announce that this year the Michigan Folk School is putting on its first Renaissance Faire! We’re looking forward to showcasing the skills we develop here and making an even bigger name for ourselves in the state and the Great Lakes region. We’re still in the early stages, but our goal is to make it a school-wide event—including everyone from our newest members to our old-timers.” She winked at Ned. He frowned back.
Gasps went up from the crowd. The room filled with a positive buzz, but something was off. Mo had known Wendy for years, and while she’d enunciated to make her voice carry, it had been tight, the pitch had been too sharp. Mo made eye contact with Ned.
“Sound right to you?” Ned asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No,” Mo said. “Something’s up.”
“I had the impression that this was just a teaching association,” Jess said to Ned. “Keeping traditional skills alive.”
“In the ten years I’ve been here, that’s exactly what it’s been,” Ned said.
Mo noticed that Wendy had stepped down from her chair and was having a whispered conversation with Lana. Either he was reading too much into the creases in her forehead and the set of her jaw, or she was downright worried. Ned was looking at her, too.
“You know…” He turned to Jess. “You don’t mind if I leave you with Mo, do you? I’d like to have a quick word with Wendy.”
Mo caught Jess swallowing just before she cleared her throat.
“Of course not,” she said. She glanced up at Mo and gave him a polite nod without eye contact. “We can get acquainted.”
“Great,” Ned said. “Mo, would you…at least try? Let’s not scare her off after her first few weeks here.”
Mo rolled his eyes. But then again, he’d already scared Jess once. He wouldn’t clam up. He nodded once, and Ned was gone.
“I…guess you really are a blacksmith,” Jess said, drawing his attention.
“Yep.”
“I owe you—”
“Nope,” Mo said. Jess had surprised him by speaking so quickly once Ned was out of earshot. Based on her expression, he’d surprised her, too. She tilted her head to one side, assessing him.
“What do you mean, ‘nope’?” she asked. He shrugged.
“Don’t owe me anything,” he said.
“But I could have…seriously injured you,” she said.
He rocked his can of sparkling water back and forth a little, to see how much was left. She’d better understand why he wasn’t upset if he spelled it out for her. But he couldn’t do that. He was too raw from being in the room for hours. If he talked about what he imagined she’d felt, it might be too painful for him to handle. And he didn’t want to bring it up in case it caused her discomfort in such a public place. He knocked back the rest of his water.
“You didn’t,” he said.
“But…” She glanced to the side, her eyebrows drawn together. Maybe the plain facts would help her see it from his perspective.
“Woman. Alone. Night. Intruder,” he said. He started to go for more water but remembered there wasn’t any left. “Gonna get another,” he said, raising the can as he turned and walked to the end of the refreshment table.
“Uh…okay,” she said to his back.
—
As he was reaching for a fresh can, he realized that he hadn’t kept his word to Ned to keep Jess company. He started psyching himself up to go back when a hand clapped onto his shoulder.
“Mo, just the man I was looking for.”
For whatever reason, jumping from shock or growling low due to frustration was never enough for some people to understand how very much Mo hated being touched unexpectedly. Even when he’d pushed through the discomfort of being vulnerable and had outright said he didn’t like it, some people still plowed through his boundaries. Until there was some way for him to blast the liquid fire that spilled across his skin, along with the sharp seizing of his heart, back onto the offender, Mo didn’t know if he’d ever get the message across.
Scowling, Mo turned to face Doug, the Folk School’s Community Relations Person/Resident Pain-in-the-Ass/Serial Touch Offender. Doug jumped back, laughing awkwardly.
“The touching,” Mo muttered, scowl firmly in place as he crossed his arms and stood at his full height.
“Oh, yes, sorry,” Doug said, shoulders falling a bit as he tilted his head to make eye contact with Mo.
“Been over this.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right. Again, sorry. I’m just so excited about this Ren Faire project! Wendy asked me to come find you.”
Mo raised an eyebrow.
“She wants to talk to some of the teachers in the break room.”
Glaring at Doug one more time, Mo stepped around him to go find Wendy.
—
Walking down the quiet hallway and distancing himself from the loud activity of the barn gave Mo a delicious chance to breathe. He knew he had a bad habit of not breathing fully in agitating situations and that he should remind himself to take deep breaths, to give his central nervous system the opportunity to regulate itself, but he always forgot. It was only once he found himself in the quiet that he was able to relax and let the air wash away the sharp sparkles tensing his muscles. The calm let him feel safe and like himself again. Crossing the threshold into the break room, Mo felt his calm shatter as he heard Ned’s question.
“How much financial trouble are we talking?” he asked. He was leaning against the counter beside the sink and looking at Wendy, who’d taken the seat at the head of the table. Lana and Eric, the millinery and textiles teachers, sat on one side of her, Alex and Maryline, the woodworking and food-smithing teachers, on the other. A young man Mo didn’t recognize was leaning against the pop machine with his hands jammed into his front pockets.
Wendy took a deep breath, sliding her hands down the arms of her chair.
“All the trouble,” she said. “Our long-term benefactor died, and his son thinks their charitable contributions should go elsewhere. If this Faire doesn’t work, we are S-O-L. We’re going to have to close shop.”
Mo hated roller coasters. The feeling of his stomach dropping during the falls shot an electric charge all through him that took a very long time to clear. The sensation that reverberated through him at Wendy’s words was the same, but worse. There was a drop, then a blast, followed by a choking sensation so strong he couldn’t swallow.
“So this Faire isn’t just a good time, then?” Maryline asked.
“Nope,” Wendy said, leaning forward and resting her palms on the table. “That’s why we need all hands on deck. I need each of you to help us plan and to participate in the Faire itself because you all have skills that should bring in the crowds.” She paused, glancing down at her fingers as she tapped them on the table. “Some of you more so than others.” She glanced at Ned and then at Mo.
Drop. Blast. Choke.
—
Late that evening, luxuriating in the quiet, safe calm that was his home, Mo shifted the small golden pothos back into place on his bookshelf beside the philodendron he’d just repotted. The staticky energy that remained in his body from the open house was now low enough that a regular shower should be sufficient to clear it. He felt that he might be pushing it a little by not repotting the pothos as well, but he didn’t have enough time to do it and clean things up before his brother, Khalil, called him in twenty minutes. He’d just finished rinsing the back deck and was washing his hands when his phone rang. He glanced at the time and rolled his eyes.
Early. Typical Khalil.
Mo finished cleaning up and went into the living room with his phone to call back.
“You said six,” he grumbled when Khalil answered.
Khalil groaned.
“I said around six,” Khalil said.
“It’s still not six now.”
“It’s around six,” Khalil said.
“It’s a quarter to six.”
Khalil sighed, then chuckled.
“You’re lucky I love you so much, man,” he said.
Mo grunted.
“Anyway. I must have made a mistake when I wrote down the day I’m supposed to take Maddie to the orthodontist. I have Thursday, but doesn’t she have coding after school?”
“She does, but that’s the only day we could get for that appointment,” Mo said as he uncrossed the arm not holding the phone and pushed himself up more comfortably on the couch.
“Oh. She’s gonna miss it? Poor kid,” Khalil said.
“Yeah.”
“Also, don’t say no—”
“No.”
“Seriously?”
“If you know I’m gonna say no, why are you asking?” Mo asked.
“Because this is something nice for other people and, more important, for you . And as much as I know that lots of strangers and attention and noise are not the thing for Mr. Highly Sensitive Person, I wouldn’t ask unless the benefit outweighed the overstimulation.”
Mo’s skin crinkled. Khalil very rarely invited him to do things that he knew Mo wouldn’t like. As much as he got on Mo’s nerves, he was a good brother and had researched Highly Sensitive People when Mo had told him about it. He’d even suggested Mo try therapy to help him more comfortably live as a neurodiverse person in a neurotypical world. Mo didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of therapy. He’d learned to manage himself. Khalil had respected that choice. If he was even bringing up an event, Mo knew he’d seriously thought about it.
“Fine. What is it?” Mo grumbled.
“Since they couldn’t do anything before the end of last season, the parents of the youth basketball team are planning a thank-you banquet for last year’s sponsors. It’ll just be a little dinner and dance party for the kids on a Saturday evening, and of course you can bring Mads, too,” Khalil said in a rush.
Mo’s skin started itching and his throat got tight. Anticipatory sensory overload was unfortunately a thing. And it did not help that he was still battling the residual overload from the open house.
“We didn’t really sponsor that much,” he said. “And they already said thanks.”
Khalil scoffed. “I saw the check, man,” he said. “I’d want to publicly say thank you for that, too.”
Mo rolled his eyes. It wasn’t that serious, and he hadn’t sent a check anyway. His shop had transferred the money, but that seemed beside the point. Donation amounts should be private. He opened his mouth to say so, but Khalil spoke first.
“Don’t forget I’m on the league board,” he said.
“So you should have put a stop to this nonsense.”
“Come on, it’s not nonsense. They really want to show their appreciation, and think of how much fun the kids will have— aparty. Kids love parties, even though Curmudgeon Brother never did.”
Mo scowled and crossed his arm over himself again.
“What do I have to do?” he grumbled.
Khalil chuckled.
“Just show up, make a little small talk—”
Mo didn’t restrain his loud groan.
“I know, I know. Just a little small talk, have dinner, and receive your award. Then come hang out with me while Mads tears up the dance floor with the other kids.”
“There’s an award? Like a little plaque or something? Please don’t tell me I have to go up on a stage.”
“Well…”
Mo tried to ignore the knot forming in his stomach. He leaned forward and rested his elbow on the coffee table, plopping his forehead into his flattened palm.
“Look,” Khalil said. “I’ll see what I can do about the awards. But this is a good thing, I promise. It’s fostering a sense of community. And as much as you hate being the center of attention, I know community is important to you.”
Mo groaned again.
“Come on, say you’ll do it,” Khalil said. “For the kids. For the parents. For Mads to go to a party on a Saturday night?”
Mo rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said.
“Great,” Khalil said, with his ever-excited-about-everything tone. “Thanks so much, man. I’ll get Maddie to the orthodontist on Thursday and let you know asap about the banquet.”
“Mmkay,” Mo said, forehead still on his hand.
“Knew I could count on you. Talk soon,” Khalil said and hung up the phone.
Mo slid his onto the table and sat up slowly.
A sense of community. Khalil wasn’t wrong. Community was important to him. Just…not being in the middle of it. Being the center of attention went completely against the calm, quiet life he needed to maintain. He rubbed his eyes and ran a hand down his beard. The parents will be happy, the kids will be happy. Maddie will have fun. That was also important. Guess Khalil is right; he can count on me. Mo stood. Heading for the fridge, he remembered who else said they hoped to count on him. Wendy and the others needed him to accept that blacksmithing would be a key draw for the Renaissance Faire. And apparently, they expected him to take a visible role in it.
Why can’t I just help prepare? We’ve got several students who could be the face.
He groaned, opening the fridge door. An event like a banquet was always difficult and draining. He’d have to spend the following day on the couch recuperating from “people-ing” with near-strangers for several hours. This Faire business would be worse.
Aren’t those things several days at a time? Complete disruption, rather than calm and stable—the way I need things to be.
But Mo loved the School too much not to be actively involved in trying to save it. Even if it killed him to try. He sighed.
The School could count on him, too.