stained with resin and spit.
"You got to let go of the world a bit," he said. "You don't know what you think you know, you know?"
"No," Charlie said.
"He's speaking of introspection," said Charles from a throne upon a raised dais. He wore a smoking jacket and an ascot and dark pants with a sharp crease. "Not introspection as most people experience it, however. You have to be comfortable in your own head before you can swim in the mindstream."
"You have to find yourself, is what he's saying." Chuck blew pot smoke at a passing school of fish.
"I'm not looking for me," Charlie said. The smoke tasted like something he used to know.
"You live an unexamined life," said Charles. "One life, many facets."
"One dude, many faces." Chuck leaned back on the mushroom cap. "Stalker, slacker, masturbator."
Charles spoke from the upside-down throne. "Lover, worker, intellectual."
"Pervert," said Chuck.
"Gentleman," said Charles.
The fine print on the inside of Charlie's head was a case study of himself, a mappamundi. The evidence was all there. The fish giggled and changed colors and swam through him.
"Get it?" asked Chuck.
He was starting to.
THURSDAY
Harriet still couldn't stand whiskey. Sometimes she woke with the smell in her nostrils, and when that happened it was a sure bet she wasn't going to fall asleep again; memory tied her stomach up in knots and set a dark weight on her forehead.
The boys' locker room at the SERF wasn't much different from the girls'. There was no tampon dispenser, and she was fairly certain there weren't as many mirrors, but otherwise it was much the same. Except that to her new eyes it looked completely different. She was growing accustomed to walking in two dimensions, although she still had to move slowly when she was invisible. But she didn't think she would ever be used to the way that colors jumped out at her: the powdery blue of the lockers, the tobacco-stain yellow of the wall tiles, the honey blond of the benches. Not to mention the pinks, browns, and yellows of naked male skin—but that wasn't why she was here.
The benches at Madison South High School had been white wood-grained plastic. These benches were real wood, smooth, varnished. They looked comfortable.
Xavier had his back to her. He was knotted with muscle; there was no fat on him that she could see. She wondered if he was using steroids. Maybe he had been using them then. He had a tattoo now, a tiger on his left bicep. It hadn't been there four years ago.
She decided he wasn't using steroids. He was smart, she knew that. They hadn't been strangers in high school, not like they were now. They had been in debate together. Xavier was a good speaker; he had a musical voice, not too deep, but smooth, precise. He made you forget you were in a debate, forget to rebut his points, forget to do anything but listen. Mrs. Molina had loved him. But it wasn't his debating skills that had got him a full-ride scholarship. Universities didn't recruit debaters like they did football players.
It didn't smell like a locker room in here, not really. There was sweat, but no lingering, stale odor of young bodies. It wasn't right. She knew it was four years later and a different place, but it wasn't right.
Whiskey, and a smooth, musical voice, and maybe a little bit of attraction, those were the things that had gotten her into trouble. She remembered the feel of the bench against her back, cool at first and then warm from her heat, damp with her sweat; it was the most vivid sensation she could recapture. She didn't remember penetration, not really. She hadn't felt the pain until the next morning, along with the hangover.
X, they called him. His real name was Xavier Tyler, but everyone called him X. He encouraged it. It was a street name for a boy who'd grown up far from the streets. His father was a vice president at Rayovac, and his mother worked at University Hospital. Whatever he wanted, he got.
She wondered
"You got to let go of the world a bit," he said. "You don't know what you think you know, you know?"
"No," Charlie said.
"He's speaking of introspection," said Charles from a throne upon a raised dais. He wore a smoking jacket and an ascot and dark pants with a sharp crease. "Not introspection as most people experience it, however. You have to be comfortable in your own head before you can swim in the mindstream."
"You have to find yourself, is what he's saying." Chuck blew pot smoke at a passing school of fish.
"I'm not looking for me," Charlie said. The smoke tasted like something he used to know.
"You live an unexamined life," said Charles. "One life, many facets."
"One dude, many faces." Chuck leaned back on the mushroom cap. "Stalker, slacker, masturbator."
Charles spoke from the upside-down throne. "Lover, worker, intellectual."
"Pervert," said Chuck.
"Gentleman," said Charles.
The fine print on the inside of Charlie's head was a case study of himself, a mappamundi. The evidence was all there. The fish giggled and changed colors and swam through him.
"Get it?" asked Chuck.
He was starting to.
THURSDAY
Harriet still couldn't stand whiskey. Sometimes she woke with the smell in her nostrils, and when that happened it was a sure bet she wasn't going to fall asleep again; memory tied her stomach up in knots and set a dark weight on her forehead.
The boys' locker room at the SERF wasn't much different from the girls'. There was no tampon dispenser, and she was fairly certain there weren't as many mirrors, but otherwise it was much the same. Except that to her new eyes it looked completely different. She was growing accustomed to walking in two dimensions, although she still had to move slowly when she was invisible. But she didn't think she would ever be used to the way that colors jumped out at her: the powdery blue of the lockers, the tobacco-stain yellow of the wall tiles, the honey blond of the benches. Not to mention the pinks, browns, and yellows of naked male skin—but that wasn't why she was here.
The benches at Madison South High School had been white wood-grained plastic. These benches were real wood, smooth, varnished. They looked comfortable.
Xavier had his back to her. He was knotted with muscle; there was no fat on him that she could see. She wondered if he was using steroids. Maybe he had been using them then. He had a tattoo now, a tiger on his left bicep. It hadn't been there four years ago.
She decided he wasn't using steroids. He was smart, she knew that. They hadn't been strangers in high school, not like they were now. They had been in debate together. Xavier was a good speaker; he had a musical voice, not too deep, but smooth, precise. He made you forget you were in a debate, forget to rebut his points, forget to do anything but listen. Mrs. Molina had loved him. But it wasn't his debating skills that had got him a full-ride scholarship. Universities didn't recruit debaters like they did football players.
It didn't smell like a locker room in here, not really. There was sweat, but no lingering, stale odor of young bodies. It wasn't right. She knew it was four years later and a different place, but it wasn't right.
Whiskey, and a smooth, musical voice, and maybe a little bit of attraction, those were the things that had gotten her into trouble. She remembered the feel of the bench against her back, cool at first and then warm from her heat, damp with her sweat; it was the most vivid sensation she could recapture. She didn't remember penetration, not really. She hadn't felt the pain until the next morning, along with the hangover.
X, they called him. His real name was Xavier Tyler, but everyone called him X. He encouraged it. It was a street name for a boy who'd grown up far from the streets. His father was a vice president at Rayovac, and his mother worked at University Hospital. Whatever he wanted, he got.
She wondered
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