Oil rainbows shimmered and plastic wrappers floated on the wasted pond by Harmony’s apartment. An olive-green beanie shielded her from the breeze as she stood at the weedy bank, strumming a lazy chord on her ukulele.
She turned to a cyclist who’d stopped near her. “You’d join me tomorrow, right? To clean this pond?”
Ethel Grieves knows people don’t really see her. Not past the limp, the freckled nose, the coke-bottle glasses. In the boardroom of Carmichael Holdings, she is just a secretary. The mousey little thing who files reports and pours coffee for men who sit in chairs too expensive to belong to them.
She watches their hands.
“Good news, Josh.” Despite Mom’s tap on my back, I kept heading toward Olivia, one of my sister’s bridesmaids. Madeline said the blonde was single, and a wedding reception was the perfect chance to meet someone new after my breakup. “You won’t have to spend this evening alone.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“What are you doing?” whispers Joe.
“Sleeping. Until you kicked me.”
“You’re a messed up sleeper, then.”
“Huh?”
“You keep playing footsie and stuff.”
“Gross. I’d never play footsie with a dude. Go back to sleep.”
“What kind of socks are you wearing?”
“Socks? Are you stoned? It’s like forty degrees in here.
Joe Enza was a practical optimist. Not in the way other people defined the term as they met with life coaches and plastered their walls with motivational posters. No, he was truly practical. He made his clients look at the proverbial glass as not half-empty or even half-full, but a hundred percent full.
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I was indoors but surrounded by snowflakes, my heart pounding. Did a blizzard wreck the roof? No, I was in a theater and about to perform in The Burton School of Dance’s 1995 production of The Nutcracker.
My best friend Jasmine was the Snow Queen. “Snowflakes together!” she stage-whispered, pumping her fist.
Moira turned the knob on the dashboard, silencing the radio. She sat quiet for a minute, listening. Funny. She could’ve sworn she’d heard something. She shrugged and leaned back in the passenger seat, singing a little under her breath. Dad was taking forever. How long did it take to pay for the gas and grab a soda?
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“It’s hopeless,” I moaned to the windowpane.
Rain trickled down outside, like the glass was sobbing sympathetically. A small comfort, but I didn’t really want company in my misery. What I needed was time and inspiration. The window could give neither.
I’d tried using it for inspiration already, but there’s usually a severe lack of windows in dungeon cells.
Penny grins. “Today’s the anniversary of our first official date.”
“The day I nearly lost you.” I clutch my heart dramatically.
“What?” She squints at me. “I don’t remember that, Odie.”
I mirror her expression. “You don’t?”
***
I pulled my reluctant girlfriend into the church—Wow, how cool is it to call her my girlfriend?
The other thieves whisper that I’m cursed. Dangerous, like all unknowns. They say I’m cold as ice. Heartless. They call me Sixth—a nickname I’d earned in my initiation into their gang—not the name my mother gave her son.
To them, I’m nothing more than the mask I’ve presented.
They might be right.
Logbook Entry. October Fourteenth, in the humble year 2568.
Just last month, I gazed upon the old weapons and hovercrafts from the Great War. And I finished reading the faded copy of The Art of War two weeks ago. Never could I have imagined it was preparing me for my fast-approaching conscription.
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The ringing of cold steel reached my ears as I ran through the torrents of people. This had to have been the stupidest thing I’d ever done. I mean, who charges wildly through sword-wielding maniacs just to take on the man who taught me everything I know?
“Asterin will do as she’s told.”
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