Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Tuesday evening, I came home to the delicious smell of stew and Quinn draped over the couch chatting with Shannon over the phone.
He wagged his eyebrows in hello and pointed to the stove.
“Help yourself,” he mouthed. He switched the phone to his other hand.
Into the mouthpiece, he said, “No shit? Seriously?”
I peeled off my parka—
Wait. What was with the bandage peeking out from under Quinn’s sleeve? I tried to get a better look as I shuffled into the kitchen, but I banged into the corner of the bar.
“Ouch,” I yelped, quickly steering around the sharp corner and into the actual kitchen.
“Got to go, Shan. Lunch tomorrow? . . . Sweet.”
I rubbed my side and took one of the clean bowls from the dish rack.
“You all right?” Quinn asked, coming up to the stove and stirring the stew with a ladle.
“Swell.”
With a snort, Quinn grabbed my bowl and filled it with stew. “Eat up.”
I took it to the table, grabbed a spoon and dug in. The hot, meaty gravy hit my tongue with an explosion of flavor and comfort. Quinn was perched on the end of the table, fiddling his thumbs.
I pointed my spoon toward him. “What happened to your wrist?”
Quinn yanked his sleeve further down. “Nothing much. Light sprain is all. Happens teaching self-defense sometimes. It’ll be fine in a day or so.” He slid off the table, grabbed his laptop from the glass coffee table in front of the couch and settled on the couch to work.
As soon as I’d licked my bowl clean, I rinsed it and quietly snuck into my bedroom. It was strange constantly sharing the same space with someone, and I wasn’t yet sure where the line was drawn when it came to encroaching on Quinn’s privacy.
I tucked myself into bed with my laptop and emailed a student named Garret, who’d been rescued by The Raven last year. After that, I sent Mom a quick update on my roommate, and then I swapped the laptop for my English Literature readings.
Alone in my room was fine. It was normal, and it . . . well, there was something comforting about knowing there was someone in the next room.
Dum-da-da-dum-dum came a knock at my door.
I straightened. “Yes?”
Quinn opened the door and let himself in, swinging his arms into a clap. “See, the thing is,” he said and jumped onto the bed, pinning one of my feet. I wedged it free. “You don’t have a TV.”
“It’s not my thing,” I said, slipping a bookmark into my book and resting it on the second pillow.
“I’ve been bored out of my mind the last few nights,” he said as he laid himself on his side and propped his head up with his elbow.
“Don’t you have studying to do?”
“I can’t be studying all the time, I’d go nuts.”
I glanced at my required reading. “You could invite someone over if you like. I won’t disturb you.”
“Don’t have anyone I want to invite over right now.”
“Not Shannon? Hunter?”
“Nope.” He shook his head sadly. “Shannon is taking Hunter out to dinner tonight.”
“Is there something wrong with that?” I asked.
“No. It’s just . . . she tries too hard sometimes. Not that she’d ever listen to me when it comes to Hunter.”
I thought back to the moment at Crazy Mocha Coffee. “She’s very protective of him. I’m sure that’s normal for a sibling.”
Quinn plucked at the blankets close to my toes. “Yeah, sometimes.” He pinched my foot. “Let’s play some cards or something. Game?”
I hesitated a moment and then pointed toward the small bookshelf I had in the corner next to the dresser.
“Third shelf from the top. And Quinn?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m good at cards.”
Chief Benedict leaned back in his chair and gazed at each of us sitting around the oval table. I sat at the perfect angle—the Cathedral of Learning looked like an extension of his prominence.
I shifted on the hard seat, my fingers gripping my pen, poised to take more notes. After an hour in the room, surely we were close to winding down.
“Last delegations,” Chief said, focusing on Jack, who sat next to Jill with crossed arms. He jerked a thumb behind him toward the cathedral.
“Write a report on the reopening of the 32nd floor. The rest of you, BCA placements twenty-five through fifty come out the beginning of November. I’ll hang a list on the noticeboard. ”
Chief stroked the spine of his frayed leather binder. “One last thing before you go.” He cleared his throat. “I am pleased at the results I am getting from you. I’m proud of this team, and I look forward to reading more of your skilled work. Thank you.”
Jill slumped further in his seat, and both he and Jack sent me a withering glance—one I happily reciprocated.
“Well? What are you all still sitting here for? Get back to work. Liam, hang on a moment.”
I waited until the others left before I approached Chief Benedict. “Yes, chief?”
He stood from his chair, coming to a stand in front of me. “How’s it going?”
“As well as can be expected. I am assuming you held me back for a reason?”
He let out an amused huff. “About your party page pieces . . .”
My fingers itched for my pen as I waited for him to continue.
Chief stroked his beard. “They’re solid, and they’ll do, but I think you might be missing the point.”
I folded my arms. “And what point is that?”
“To diversify your style. To get you to jump into the shoes of others.” The chief glanced over my shoulder at the thrum of the office behind us.
“What you are giving me is the same in tone as your politics articles. I want to see you challenge yourself by pitching your writing to your target audience.”
I had nothing to say to that, so I gave him a sharp nod. I wasn’t expecting his hand to clasp my shoulder, but when it did, the awful tightness in my throat made it difficult to swallow.
“I truly just want to help you become a better writer,” he said. “That’s all.”
“Yes, sir. I want that position we talked about.”
“You know it won’t be the end of your career if you don’t get it, right?”
I did know that. There would be other jobs out there for me, but I wanted the apprenticeship, and maybe . . . maybe there was a part that wondered what it would be like to have my father’s approval. “I’m going to land the position.”
The chief dropped his hand. “I like your focus, but be prepared for me to say you’re not ready.”
Dismissed, I went back to my desk and finished jotting down the names from past Scribe issues that had anything to do with The Raven.
Hannah looked over her desk at me and gave a shy smile as she picked up an eraser and fiddled with it.
“You seem like you want to say something,” I said, leaning back in my chair to focus on her.
In this light, her hair looked less like mahogany and more like sixty-percent chocolate. She tucked a strand behind her ear as she cleared her throat. “Sunday’s only a few days away now . . . ”
I grabbed my pen and started clicking. “Yes, it is.”
Click. Click. Click.
“Liam?” Hannah asked.
“Yeah, I still need to think. We work together. Things could get awkward—”
Two things interrupted me at the same time.
The first was Mitch—clad in a fitted brown T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots—strolling through the door and scanning the room for me.
The second was my phone ringing. I let it shrill two times as I waved to catch Mitch’s attention before answering it. I mouthed an apology to Hannah, who shrugged and ducked her head.
“Liam Davis, Scribe.”
“Hi, this is Garret. I’m calling about the email.”
“Garret? Yes, yes. I am looking for any information I can get on The Raven.” Just that morning, an anonymous thank-you letter arrived at Scribe, addressed to The Raven. He’d saved again, and at no small cost. The victim worried The Raven had a torn wing.
Hannah’s head snapped up and she gave me a quizzical look. At the same time, Mitch slowed to a stop at my desk.
Garret breathed heavily down the line. “I don’t remember much. I was in the hospital for a few days afterward.”
“Anything you know might help me piece things together.”
“You want to find him?”
“Yes.”
Mitch looked curiously at my stapler, and more specifically at the eyes-and-mouth stickers decorating it. A Jack and Jill prank. Seeing I had no real friends, they’d stuck faces on all my office supplies—coffee cup, paper tray, tape holder. My office friends, they’d said.
It hadn’t bothered me much.
Until Mitch jokingly pressed against the end of the stapler as if it could speak. I swallowed an angry lump.
Mitch would want to know why I’d done it, and when I explained, he might just think me as pathetic and laughable as the rest of campus sniggering over my party page columns.
“Why?” Garret asked, bringing me back to the call. “This guy saved me, I don’t want to snitch and get him into trouble.”
“I don’t want that either.”
I might have initially wanted to expose him just so I could feel better about myself and secure the features editor position, but my incentive changed the moment I read the threat at Hannah’s desk.
The Raven’s gonna lose his wings
We’ll smile while he sings and sings
Then we’d love to watch him fly
Through a deep, dark, angry sky
I stared at the stack of Scribe magazines on the corner of my desk. From the swirls of colors, the haunting memory of Freddy’s fingers surfaced. I shivered.
“I only really remember his shit-kickers,” Garret said. “They were black and sort of fitting, and they sort of made me think the guy was gay. Which, hell, I know is a stereotype, but trust me I wouldn’t have minded a jot.”
“Thank you, Garret,” I said before ending the call.
Mitch frowned. “Interesting call?”
I snapped out of my chair. “Yes. Come with me.” I pulled my jacket off the back of my chair and slipped it on. “Let’s go someplace we can talk.”
Mitch followed after me. “So . . . what’s up with all the stickers?”
“I’m going to get right to the point,” I said, taking a seat outside with an excellent view of the spot where I’d banged into Hunter the first time. Mitch sat beside me and handed over half the sandwich we’d bought from the cafeteria to share. A light breeze rustled the leaves.
The sun peeking through the clouds highlighted the copper in Mitch’s hair, which shone perfectly in the early shades of fall. He nibbled on his bread crust, staring toward a pair of squirrels scampering at the base of an oak. “I have Improv Theater soon, so to the point is good.”
I bit into the sandwich, and a blob of mayonnaise splattered onto the thigh of my tan slacks. Wiping it off, I said, “Are you interested in dating Hunter?”
Mitch spluttered, and crumbs flew everywhere. The squirrels stopped and took notice. Mitch studied me, biting his bottom lip. “I want to,” he finally said. “But . . . I mean, he’s . . . wow, he’s a charmer.”
“So what bothers you?”
His cheeks bloomed the color of the leaves. “It wouldn’t be right. I shouldn’t.”
Wouldn’t be right? I could honestly say I didn’t know what that meant, let alone how to respond. “Can you explain?”
“I mean, I . . . I have no idea how to date a guy, let alone one in a wheelchair!”
“Yes. That’s a pickle.” Hunter had made a bad decision employing me as his mole. How was I supposed to help when I barely knew how to date a girl, let alone a guy, let alone one in a wheelchair?
“It’s just, you know,” he said, “I question myself over everything. What if I say the wrong thing, like ‘let’s go for a walk’ or something stupid and I offend him?”
“Okay, stop right there,” I said, swiveling more in his direction. At least I could help on this point. “Granted I’ve only known Hunter a short while, but one thing I’m pretty sure about is that he’s not easily offended. Besides, ‘going for a walk’ is an expression. He’ll get that.”
“I’m scared. I’ll do something wrong.”
“And what if you do something right?”
That had him thinking, and a smallish smile bracketed his mouth. “I do want to see him again. It’s just—”
“Good. I’ll tell him you said so.”
“Along with everything else?” he asked, finally taking a proper bite of his sandwich.
“Yes.” I leaned back and stared at the lightly-clouded sky. Just maybe Hunter was right; I had to make my own luck.
And I would.
I’d make real friends.
I’d wow chief with the best feature article.
And I’d write the best party page column Scribe had ever seen.