Basile sighed, his shoulders rocking back, legs spreading. “You must understand, we think of Phi Kat as a well-rounded organization, well-versed in culture, the arts, literature, philosophy, science, math. Renaissance men, if you will. I imagine it’s in reference to some obscure bit of philosophy. Grant has the tendency to be a bit pretentious when he wants, and he likes to speak in codes. Though what the full meaning of it is, I couldn’t tell you. He often finds rather colorful ways to insult people.”
“He thought she was dumb,” I said.
“Grant thinks everyone is dumb. But please, that has no bearing on the rest of Phi Katharos. It’s just his nature. He comes from a very long line of Magical families, straight from Princeton. He’s doing a split degree program to study under Professor de Vries on his way to his PhD. He’ll probably spend his entire life in academia, sneering down at people. It’s what he likes best. I’m not saying he’s perfect, and he can be downright cruel when he wants, but please, believe me when I say this: He is not dangerous.”
He looked imploringly at me when he said it, as if I was the more reasonable of the two of us.
“Uh huh,” Max said. “Look, your Phi Kataros fellas—”
“Katharos,” Basile said, correcting his pronunciation.
The cord stuck out in Max’s neck. “Katharos,” he spat.
While a part of me wanted to believe Basile—a very large part—I recognized this for what it was: damage control. Spinning it in a way that, while not looking exactly rosy for Grant, at least would absolve him from any wrongdoing or criminal action. But that made sense, too. Not only was Grant Basile’s friend, but his involvement would also look bad for the entire organization, something that Basile had no doubt poured countless hours of his time into. He gathered volunteers for outreach projects. He put on conferences. Whatever he said, it was clear he cared about this fraternity-not-fraternity of his. I imagined he would do quite a bit to protect it.
I wondered if Grant was even gone from the house, as Basile had said. Or if he was simply in an upstairs bedroom, lying low until we left.
A bell sounded across campus, signaling the noon hour. Students came barging into the house, dropping bags, rummaging in the fridge. We stood to leave.
“Thank you for this, Basile. This has been really helpful.”
“Of course. And I’ll talk to Grant,” he said, directing that same hopeful gaze toward me. He barely spared a glance at Max. “We’ll get this all sorted.”
Basile lingered a moment on the porch. “Cella? Could you wait up a sec?”
Max was already at the bottom, staring at the dirt as though he’d like to pummel it.
“I was wondering … we were wondering if you’d give a talk to the brothers on your research in Object Theory? You have a lot of fans here. I know I’m not the only one who’s a little star-struck around you.” He scribbled against the inside of my palm with a Sharpie. “If that sounds like something you’re interested in, here’s my cell. Anytime; the offer doesn’t expire.”
“Oh,” I said, tucking a hair behind my ear. “I don’t know if Max will want to do that, with everything going on and all—”
“Oh, no,” he said, smiling. “He’s welcome to come, of course. But we’re really more interested in hearing from you.”
Me? It’d been so long since I got to talk about my research. And longer still since someone had approached me about it and not Max. Maybe the world wouldn’t come crashing down if I were to admit that I missed my work, just a little bit.
“Sure. Um.” I peered down at the numbers scrolled on the palm of my hand. “I’ll get back to you.”
Basile smiled warmly. “Please do.”
I was quiet as we walked back, shaking rust-colored soil out of my sandals, even though Max could’ve bored a hole through my head with his staring. I knew he was just dying to know what we’d talked about.
“Renaissance men,” he snorted. “What a pretentious ass.”
He looked over, waiting for me to agree.
My head was a jumble of thoughts. Someone wanted to talk tome, about my research. Not just as an opener for Max, not as Max’s sidekick.
Though in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help wondering if what Basile wanted to hear about wasn’t my research, but my catastrophic meltdown. The worst moment of my life.
The day I was called into Dr. Robetresse’s office, and she calmly explained to me that my brother was dead, that they’d found him in his room, limp and cold. Only the night before, he’d come to my dorm room, asking if we could talk. To ask me for help, I’d realized later, but did I help him? Did I talk to him that night? No.
I was too busy fucking studying Magic.
When I’d walked out of Robetresse’s office that day, everything was too sharp, too bright. The Magic flowed hot and steady. I could barely control it, could barely get a handle on my emotions. That’s when I saw Luce. I remembered her sitting in her polka-dotted bra in Max’s bed, and the twist of my stomach felt like the twinge of a knife.
I only remember bits and pieces after that. The flames, the desperate thumping against the car door, Dr. Perez shaking me to get me to stop. And everyone’s eyes on me. Girls pulling their friends out of the way, people staring like I was some sort of animal, ready to tear out their throats.
I wasn’t naïve. That’s what the brothers wanted to know; it’s what they all wanted to know. Why I did it—and how I was able to do it in the first place.
