Chapter 21 PleatherNot, Here I Come
MY FIRST THOUGHT IS THERE is no way I’ve been looking for this woman—partly because I’m not actually looking for anyone and partly because she looks like she could eat me, Fifi, Frankie, and anyone else who gets in her way for dinner. Or lunch. Or a light teatime snack.
But my second thought, which comes about ten seconds after I watch her flip the top on her cup and drink what has to be at least twenty ounces of steaming-hot coffee in one very long swallow, is that there’s only one person Frankie would say that to.
“Calliope?” I have a hard—and by hard, I mean impossible—time keeping the surprise from my voice.
Her black brows lift above the rims of her sunglasses. “You were expecting someone else?”
“I don’t—I mean—I thought…”
“You mean you thought I’d look like one of the muses from Hercules?” she asks in an accent that somehow has gotten even thicker. “All toga’d up and stuff?”
“No!” My cheeks flare bright red. “Of course not!” But also, yeah, kind of. I mean, she is one of the Big Nine who’ve been around since ancient times. What else did they wear back then?
This time, instead of just lowering her sunglasses, she takes them off completely—presumably to get a better look at me.
I have one moment to register just how bloodshot her eyes are, and then the glasses are back in place.
“Yeah, you did. And it’s true, some of the other OGs do the toga thing.
Me, I happen to find they chafe in the heat. ”
“And leather doesn’t?” The words come out before I know I’m going to say them. But once they’re out, I’m so horrified I slap a hand over my mouth just in case something else decides to come out without permission.
“This is pleather, thank you very much. I’m vegan.” She tosses her head much the same way Frankie did when he was annoyed. And much like Frankie, her long black hair magically sweeps away from her face.
It must be a muse thing, because all that happens to me when I try to toss my head that way is I get a sore neck.
“Oh, right.” I nod like her words suddenly make much more sense. But then I go and ruin it by asking, “So pleather doesn’t chafe?”
I know, I should have let it go. But her assertion makes no sense, and I’ve always had trouble with questioning authority when that authority makes absolutely no sense.
This time the glasses come off and stay off as she takes her time studying me. I study her right back, trying to figure out how Fifi gets the nicest, most cooperative muse in existence, and I get Calliope: the biker muse hopped up on way too much caffeine.
“Frankie told me you were a handful,” she says after way too many uncomfortable seconds pass. “I like it.”
“Thank you?” I answer, because at this point I have absolutely no idea what else to say.
“You’re welcome.” She shoves her glasses back on her face as she glances around the rainbow-colored explosion that is currently my dorm room. “You got any coffee around here?”
“Not that I know of. I could try to find the kitchen and check, if you want?”
She looks like she’s thinking about it for a few seconds, then shakes her head. “That’ll take too much time. I have to be in London in”—she glances at the all-black watch on her wrist—“seven minutes.”
“Oh, okay. Then I guess you should just…” I trail off, waiting for her to jump in.
“I should just…” It’s her turn to stop mid-sentence, and somehow, despite being millennia old, she looks as clueless as I feel.
Which is impossible, right? I mean, she is the muse here. Plus, she’s Calliope. Shouldn’t she know what happens next?
We stare at each other for way too long before she finally throws an exasperated hand in the air.
“Look, kid, you gotta help me out here. I haven’t slept in three days, and I’ve got four more people to see before I have even the chance of catching some Z’s.
But Frankie told me I needed to be here, so I got here as fast as I could.
All you’ve got to do is tell me what you want. ”
This can’t be happening again.
This. Can’t. Be. Happening. Again.
THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING AGAIN.
Not to sound like a broken record, but nothing has gone right from the second I ate that ridiculous donut hole. Not the bridge. Not the coin hunt. Not the hall assignment. And now, not even my muse.
Frankie said he’d never heard of anyone getting one of the Big Nine before. Apparently, that’s because they’re absolutely useless. I mean, Frankie made a special frame for Fifi’s labors. My muse doesn’t even know that she’s supposed to have brought me my labors.
Tears burn against the backs of my lids for what feels like the hundredth time today.
I try to blink them back—Athena girls don’t cry—but then I remember I’m not an Athena girl.
I’m an Aphrodite girl, one without her labors or her gumballs or any chance of ever getting out of this place.
Not only can’t I get Athena to change her mind about me without doing my labors, I can’t graduate without them either.
All of which means I’ll be the first member of my family in five generations to be a total and complete failure.
More tears well up at the thought, and this time I can’t stop them from rolling down my cheeks, no matter how hard I try. I duck my head in an attempt to hide them, but with my hair back in a braid, it’s pretty much impossible.
“Hey, what are you crying for?” Suddenly Calliope sounds as freaked out as I feel. “Do you need inspiration? You don’t really look like the typical epic-poetry sort, but I can give it a shot. What do you want to write about? A boy? A journey? A war?”
“No, I absolutely do not want to write about any of those things.” I squeeze my eyes shut and force the last of the tears back even as I swipe my hands over my cheeks.
The only thing more humiliating than crying on my first day of boarding school is this woman actually thinking I want to be a poet.
Is there any less practical job on the planet?
“Okay, then. How about your dog?”
I make a low, frustrated sound, and her eyes grow even wider.
“Okay, not a dog person then. Your cat? Your rabbit? Your hamster?” Her voice goes up with every subsequent pet she names. “Look, kid, you’ve got to give me something here. I’m supposed to be on my way to London by now.”
“It’s fine if you just go,” I tell her wearily, because what else am I supposed to say? “It doesn’t matter anyway.”
“Really? You sure?” she asks, even as she starts to back away. “What am I saying? Of course you’re sure. I’ll just be going then—”
“Oh, hey! You must be Calliope!”
We both freeze as Fifi comes out of the bathroom, looking supercute in her flare jeans and glittery shirt. She’s smiling hugely as she crosses the room, completely oblivious to the disastrous meeting Calliope and I have just had.
“It’s so good to meet you!” Fifi continues. “I love that jacket, by the way. It’s très cool!”
“Thanks.” The muse flashes her a smile. “I’m actually on my way out—”
“Already? So, does that mean Ellie got your list of twelve labors?” She turns to me, holds out an expectant hand. “Give them here! I want to see them!”
Her enthusiasm makes my fear of invading her privacy by looking at her labors seem ridiculous.
“Actually—” I start.
But before I can say anything else, Calliope squawks, “List of labors?” She looks thunderstruck as she reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out a crumpled-up piece of paper. “Is that what this is?”
The stained, wadded-up paper is a far cry from Fifi’s frame of honor, but a tiny flare of hope stirs inside me anyway. “Maybe?” I answer, using every ounce of self-control I have not to rip the paper out of her hands.
“This weird list showed up in my pocket a few hours ago. I didn’t know what it was.” She uncrumples the tightly scrunched ball and tries to smooth it out a few times before giving up and handing it to me.
I look down, and sure enough, it appears to be a list of twelve things. My labors! Finally!
“What’s the first one?” Fifi asks, leaning forward to peer at the list upside down.
“I don’t know. There’s a, um, splotch of ketchup—”
“Sorry ’bout that.” For the first time, Calliope sounds sheepish. “I might have used it for a napkin a little while ago. I forgot to grab one from the vegan hot dog stand.”
Fifi’s eyes go wide in horror, but I’m so relieved I can’t stop smiling. “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her as I try to scrape the ketchup away with my thumbnail.
“I mean, maybe she should worry a little bit.” For the first time since I met her, my roommate looks doubtful. “Is there perhaps another copy of these lying around somewhere?”
“Sorry, that’s the only one I got.” Calliope starts backing away. “Now that you have what you need, I’m going to get out of here. I’ve got—”
“London,” I finish for her. “I know. Thanks for the labors.”
“Thanks for your patience. Next time, I’ll do better.” She lifts a hand in a little half wave. “I mean, if there is a next time.”
“Wait a minute!” Fifi demands, hands on hips, as she glares at Calliope. “What about her gumballs?”
“What about her gumballs?” Calliope repeats.
“You’re supposed to give some to her.” Fifi points to her own bag of gumballs, which are sitting on her nightstand right under her framed labors. “So she can reach you when she needs help.”
“So this is kind of an ongoing thing, huh?” In a not-so-stunning twist that surprises absolutely no one, Calliope looks clueless.
“A six-years-ongoing thing,” Fifi answers, and now she sounds as exasperated as she looks. Maybe even more. “She’s got to be able to contact you if she needs you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Of course she does.” Calliope starts patting her jacket pockets like she’s looking for something—first the outside ones, then the ones on the inside. “Gum, you say?”
“Gumballs,” Fifi responds firmly.
I’m not holding out much hope that she’ll find a forgotten sack of gumballs in there—but apparently, she’s determined to try.
She’s on the very last pocket when she crows with triumph and pulls out a smashed, already opened package of gum.
“I knew I had this somewhere.” She holds the torn-up, half-empty package out to me. “Here you go.”
But Fifi snatches it before I can reach for it. “There’s three pieces of gum in here,” she growls, outraged.
“That’s three more than she had thirty seconds ago,” Calliope shoots back, obviously aggrieved. “How many times is she going to need to talk to me anyway?”
“This is fine,” I tell them both as I pry the pack of gum from Fifi’s surprisingly strong grip.
“Awesome. Good talk, kid.” Calliope gives me another little half wave as she heads toward the window.
“Wait!” Fifi gets her voice back in a rush. “This isn’t enough—”
But Calliope’s already gone, tossing a rueful smile over her shoulder as she vaults out the window.