“Is there any chance you’d stay on the right side of the road?”
“It is unlikely.”
He sat up straight and smoothed his hair out of his face, which still shone with tears. “Guess I’d better get a grip on myself.” He smiled at me tiredly. “I don’t suppose I could be excused from the rest of the figure-drawing classes?”
I shrugged. “If that’s what you want. Or you could, perhaps, talk to him? Salvage your chance at friendship?”
He got to his feet and stretched, all 170 centimeters of him. “Sure, right. I’ll definitely do that. You know—” he gave me a paternalistic smile “—you’re really getting a lot better at this whole ...talkinggig.”
Color rose to my face, but I did my best to ignore it. “Titch,” I began warningly.
“I mean it.” He placed a hand on my shoulder and leaned in, eyebrows climbing. “I think teaching has been really good for you. It’s been a while since you tried to commit verbal suicide in front of the class.”
“Damn it, Iamcapable of human interaction!”
“Yeah,nowyou are. Seriously, you’re going to do great at the con.” He scampered down the rows toward the exit. “Race you to Camille.”
“I withdraw from said race,” I muttered and started down as well.
Finch chattered animatedly all the way back to the flat, as if those moments of vulnerability back in the classroom had never happened. Though as he did, there was something fragile about his smile and how he skipped from one topic to another.
I let him ramble on. Had it even been my place to engage him as much as I had? Thwarted love was a natural part of growing up, as was the realization that Skyler’s friendship had greater value than whatever romantic fantasy Finch was concocting in that head of his. Who was I to stand in the way of his bloodybildung?
My trainer briefly caught on the welcome mat, and I realized I’d climbed the stairs without noticing and already had my key in the door. My heart expanded to fill my throat, remembering the note I’d found earlier in the day—Lucas had come home; he could very well be just past this door—
He wasn’t.
I considered calling out again but was overcome with a new bout of shyness. Especially once I saw that my second batch of muffins had vanished. Best leave him to his own devices. He’d surely come out once he was good and ready. Like a badger.
There were messages from Lakshmi reminding me of the latest deadline and that I should be working on my convention speech. Lest the cushy bubble we’d been living in, courtesy of Drake House, pop and splatter us with sudsy failure and sticky obscurity.
I got to work, slowly pickling myself in whiskey and inking like a madman, occasionally muttering to Gaston and LeFou, trying to explain the intricacies and contradictions of teenage angst when contrasted with mature, well-aged malaise. They didn’t seem to be paying as much attention as usual—LeFou especially seemed lethargic and uncommunicative.
I worked till four, realizing when I stood to make my way to bed that, as usual, or as wasbecomingusual, I’d drunk a bit more than I’d meant to. It stood to reason—I was nervous about the con, sad about Lucas, and concerned for Robin and Skyler. I just needed to start paying better attention. Setting limits for myself.
Using the wall as support, I made it to the toilet and performed all the voiding and ablutions required to once again become a person. I was considerably grateful that Lucas had remained in his bedroom.
Despite whatever progress I’d allegedly made over the past week and a half or so, I still wasn’t fit for human consumption.
July 27th- Nineteen days until the convention
When I woke the next afternoon, Lucas still hadn’t emerged, and Gaston and LeFou were both floating at the top of their tank, already starting to smell like the underside of a pier.
I came upon them while brushing my teeth, and the brush hit the carpet with a hollowthud, spattering my legs with paste.
I’m not proud of this, but I reached into the rancid tank and tried to animate them, as if part of me thought they were just asleep. It was possible that I might have been speaking to them as well, whimpering and begging them like a child toWake up, please. When there was no response, I retrieved my phone with slimy fingers and desperately googled:reviving dead fish.
Retrospectively, it seemed like there shouldn’t have been as many hits as there were.
There wasn’t, however, anything useful.
I ended up standing over the tank and, aye, weeping—softly and with what was hopefully a certain amount of manly dignity.
I had been talking with—atthese fish for weeks now, and I felt we’d had ... How could they just ...?
A second realization dawned on me. I’d thought the disappearance of the second batch of muffins had been a positive sign.
How badly was Lucas doing? What hadhappened?
