If they hadn’t stood there on the edge of the Great Lawn, holding this little bit of each other, long after the danger had passed.
—from “The Wrong Idea,” posted January 2010 by FanFixx.net author Magicath
TEN
Professor Piper wasn’t done grading their unreliable-narrator scenes (which made Nick crabby and paranoid), but the professor wanted them all to get started on their final project, a ten-thousand-word short story. “Don’t save it till the night before,” she said, sitting on her desk and swinging her legs. “It will read like you wrote it the night before. I’m not interested in stream of consciousness.”
Cath wasn’t sure how she was going to keep everything straight in her head. The final project, the weekly writing assignments—on top of all her other classwork, for every other class. All the reading, all the writing. The essays, the justifications, the reports. Plus Tuesdays and sometimes Thursdays writing with Nick. Plus Carry On. Plus e-mail and notes and comments …
Cath felt like she was swimming in words. Drowning in them, sometimes.
“Do you ever feel,” she asked Nick Tuesday night, “like you’re a black hole—a reverse black hole.…”
“Something that blows instead of sucks?”
“Something that sucks out,” she tried to explain. She was sitting at their table in the stacks with her head resting on her backpack. She could feel the indoor wind on her neck. “A reverse black hole of words.”
“So the world is sucking you dry,” he said, “of language.”
“Not dry. Not yet. But the words are flying out of me so fast, I don’t know where they’re coming from.”
“And maybe you’ve run through your surplus,” he said gravely, “and now they’re made of bone and blood.”
“Now they’re made of breath,” she said.
Nick looked down at her, his eyebrows pulled together in one thick stripe. His eyes were that color you can’t see in the rainbow. Indigo.
“Nope,” he said. “I never feel like that.”
She laughed and shook her head.
“The words come out of me like Spider-Man’s webbing.” Nick held out his hands and touched his middle fingers to his palms. “Fffffssh.”
Cath tried to laugh, but yawned instead.
“Come on,” he said, “it’s midnight.”
She gathered up her books. Nick always took the notebook. It was his notebook after all, and he worked on the story between library dates. (Or meetings or whatever these were.)
When they got outside, it was much colder than Cath was expecting. “See you tomorrow,” Nick said as he walked away. “Maybe Piper’ll have our papers done.”
Cath nodded and got out her phone to call her room.
“Hey,” someone said softly.
She jumped back. It was just Levi—leaning against the lamppost like the archetypical “man leaning against lamppost.”
“You’re always done at midnight.” He smiled. “I thought I’d beat you to the punch. Too cold out here to stand around waiting.”
“Thanks,” she said, walking past him toward the dorms.
Levi was uncharacteristically quiet. “So that’s your study partner?” he asked once they were halfway back to Pound.
“Yeah,” Cath said into her scarf. She felt her breath, wet and freezing in the wool. “Do you know him?”
“Seen him around.”
Cath was quiet. It was too cold to talk, and she was more tired than usual.
“He ever offer to walk you home?”
“I’ve never asked,” Cath said quickly. “I’ve never asked you either.”
“That’s true,” Levi said.
More quiet. More cold.
The air stung Cath’s throat when she finally spoke again. “So maybe you shouldn’t.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Levi said. “That wasn’t my point.”
* * *
The first time she saw Wren that week, at lunch with Courtney, all Cath could think was, So this is what you look like when you’re keeping a giant secret from me—exactly the same as usual.
Cath wondered if Wren was ever planning to talk to her about … what their dad had brought up. She wondered how many other important things Wren wasn’t telling her. And when had this started? When had Wren started filtering what she told Cath?
I can do that, too, Cath thought, I can keep secrets. But Cath didn’t have any secrets, and she didn’t want to keep anything from Wren. Not when it felt so good, so easy, to know that when she was with Wren, she didn’t have to worry about a filter.
She kept waiting for a chance to talk to Wren without Courtney, but Courtney was always around. (And always talking about the most inane things possible. Like her life was an audition for an MTV reality show.)
Finally, after a few days, Cath decided to walk to class with Wren after lunch, even though it might make her late.
“What’s up?” Wren asked as soon as Courtney was on her merry way to Economics. It had started snowing—a wet snow.
“You know I went home last weekend…,” Cath said.
“Yeah. How’s Dad?”
“Fine … good, actually. He’s pitching Gravioli.”
“Gravioli? That’s huge.”
“I know. And he seemed into it. And there was nothing else—I mean, everything seemed fine.”
“I told you he didn’t need us,” Wren said.
Cath snorted. “He obviously needs us. If he had a cat, the man would be one bad day away from Grey Gardens. I think he eats all of his meals at QuikTrip, and he’s sleeping on the couch.”
“I thought you said he was doing good.”
“Well. For Dad. You should come home with me next time.”
“Next time is Thanksgiving. I think I’ll be there.”
Cath stopped. They were almost to Wren’s next class, and Cath hadn’t even gotten to the hard part yet. “Dad told me … that he’d already told you…”
Wren exhaled like she knew what was coming. “Yeah.”
“He said you were thinking about it.”
“I am.”
“Why?” Cath tried really hard to say it without whining.
“Because.” Wren hitched up her backpack. “Because she’s our mom. And I’m thinking about it.”
“But…” It wasn’t that Cath couldn’t think of an argument. It was that there were so many. The arguments in her brain were like a swarm of people running from a burning building and getting stuck in the door. “But she’ll just mess everything up.”
“She already messed everything up,” Wren said. “It’s not like she can leave us again.”
“Yes. She can.”
Wren shook her head. “I’m just thinking about it.”
“Will you tell me if you decide anything?”
Wren frowned. “Not if it’s going to make you this upset.”
“I have a right to get upset about upsetting things.”
“I just don’t like it,” Wren said, looking away from Cath, up at the door. “I’m gonna be late.”
So was Cath.
“We’re already roommates,” Baz argued. “I shouldn’t have to be his lab partner, as well. You’re asking me to bear far more than my fair share of apple-cheeked protagonism.”
Every girl in the laboratory sat on the edge of her stool, ready to take Baz’s place.
“That’s enough about my cheeks,” Snow muttered, blushing heroically.
“Honestly, Professor,” Baz said, waving his wand toward Snow in a just look at him gesture. Snow caught the end of the wand and pointed it at the floor.
Professor Chilblains was unmoved. “Sit down, Mr. Pitch. You’re wasting precious lab time.”
Baz slammed his books down at Snow’s station. Snow put his safety goggles on and adjusted them; it did nothing to dim his blue eyes or blunt his glare.
“For the record,” Snow grumbled. “I don’t want to spend any more time with you either.”
Stupid boy … Baz sighed to himself, t
aking in Snow’s tense shoulders, the flush of anger in his neck, and the thick fall of bronze hair partially trapped in his goggles.… What do you know about want?
—from “Five Times Baz Went to Chemistry and One Time He Didn’t,” posted August 2009 by FanFixx.net authors Magicath and Wrenegade
ELEVEN
The hallway was perfectly quiet. Everyone who lived in Pound Hall was somewhere else, having fun.
Cath stared at her computer screen and heard Professor Piper’s voice again in her head. She kept forcing herself to remember the entire conversation, playing it back and playing it back, all the way through, forcing a finger down her memory’s throat.
Today, at the beginning of class, Professor Piper had passed their unreliable-narrator scenes back. Everybody’s but Cath’s. “We’ll talk after class, okay?” the professor said to Cath with that gentle, righteous smile she had.
Cath had thought this exception must be a good thing—that Professor Piper must have really liked her story. She really liked Cath, you could tell; Cath got more of those soft smiles than just about anybody else in the class. More than Nick, by far.
And this scene was the best thing Cath had written all semester; she knew it was. Maybe Professor Piper wanted to talk about the piece in more detail, or maybe she was going to talk to Cath about taking her advanced class next semester. (You had to have special permission to register.) Or maybe just … something good. Something.
“Cath,” Professor Piper said when everybody else was gone and Cath had stepped up to her desk. “Sit down.”
Professor Piper’s smile was softer than ever, but it was all wrong. Her eyes were sad and sorry, and when she handed Cath her paper, there was a small, red F written in the corner.
Cath’s head whipped up.
“Cath,” Professor Piper said. “I don’t know what to make of this. I really don’t know what you were thinking—”
“But…,” Cath said, “was it that bad?” Could her scene really have been that much worse than everyone else’s?
“Bad or good isn’t the point.” Professor Piper shook her head, and her long, wild hair swayed from side to side. “This is plagiarism.”
“No,” Cath said. “I wrote it myself.”
“You wrote it yourself? You’re the author of Simon Snow and the Mage’s Heir?”
“Of course not.” Why was Professor Piper saying this?
“These characters, this whole world belongs to someone else.”
“But the story is mine.”
“The characters and the world make the story,” the older woman said, like she was pleading with Cath to understand.
“Not necessarily…” Cath could feel how red her face was. Her voice was breaking.
“Yes,” Professor Piper said. “Necessarily. If you’re asked to write something original, you can’t just steal someone else’s story and rearrange the characters.”
“It’s not stealing.”
“What would you call it?”
“Borrowing,” Cath said, hating that she was arguing with Professor Piper, not ever wanting to make Professor Piper’s face look this cold and closed, but not able to stop. “Repurposing. Remixing. Sampling.”
“Stealing.”
“It’s not illegal.” All the arguments came easily to Cath; they were the justification for all fanfiction. “I don’t own the characters, but I’m not trying to sell them, either.”
Professor Piper just kept shaking her head, more disappointed than she’d seemed even a few minutes ago. She ran her hands along her jeans. Her fingers were small, and she was wearing a large, narrow turquoise ring that jutted out over her knuckle. “Whether it’s legal is hardly relevant. I asked you to write an original story, you, and there’s nothing original here.”
“I just don’t think you understand,” Cath said. It came out a sob. She looked down at her lap, ashamed, and saw the red F again.
“I don’t think you understand, Cath,” the professor said, her voice deliberately calm. “And I really want you to. This is college—what we do here is real. I’ve allowed you into an upper-level course, and so far, you’ve greatly impressed me. But this was an immature mistake, and the right thing for you to do now is to learn from it.”
Cath locked her jaw closed. She still wanted to argue. She’d worked so hard on this assignment. Professor Piper was always telling them to write about something close to their hearts, and there was nothing closer to Cath’s heart than Baz and Simon.…
But Cath just nodded and stood up. She even managed a meek thank you on the way out of the classroom.
Thinking about it now, again, made the skin on Cath’s face feel scorched clean. She stared at the charcoal drawing of Baz pinned up behind her laptop. He was sitting on a carved black throne, one leg draped over its arm, his head tilted forward in languid challenge. The artist had written along the bottom of the page in perfect calligraphy: “Who would you be without me, Snow? A blue-eyed virgin who’d never thrown a punch.” And below that, The inimitable Magicath.
Cath picked up her phone again. She’d called Wren at least six times since she left class. Every time, the call went straight to voice mail. Every time, Cath hung up.
If she could just talk to Wren, she would feel better. Wren would understand—probably. Wren had said all that mean stuff about Baz and Simon a few weeks ago. But she’d been drunk. If Wren knew how upset Cath was right now, she wouldn’t be a bitch about it. She’d understand. She’d tug Cath back from the edge—Wren was really good at that.
If Wren were here … Cath laughed. It came out like a sob. (What the eff, she thought, why is everything coming out like a sob?)
If Wren were here, she’d call an Emergency Kanye Party.
First she’d stand on the bed. That was the protocol back home. When things were getting too intense—when Wren found out that Jesse Sandoz was cheating on her, when Cath got fired because her boss at the bookstore didn’t think she smiled enough, when their dad was acting like a zombie and wouldn’t stop—one of them would stand on her bed and pretend to pull an imaginary lever, a giant switch set in the air, and shout, “Emergency Kanye Party!”
And then it was the other person’s job to run to the computer and start the Emergency Kanye playlist. And then they’d both jump around and dance and shout Kanye West lyrics until they felt better. Sometimes it would take a while.…
I’m authorized to call an Emergency Kanye Party, Cath thought to herself, laughing again. (This time it came out slightly more like a laugh.) It’s not like I need a quorum.
She reached toward her laptop and opened her Kanye playlist. There were portable speakers in one of her drawers. She got them out and plugged them in.
Then she turned the volume all the way up. It was a Friday night; there was nobody in the building, maybe nobody on campus, to disturb.
Emergency Kanye Party. Cath climbed onto her bed to announce it, but she stepped right down. It felt silly. And pathetic. (Is there anything more pathetic than a one-person dance party?)
She stood in front of the speakers instead and closed her eyes, not really dancing, just bouncing and whispering the lyrics. After the first verse, she was dancing. Kanye always crawled right under her skin. He was the perfect antidote to any serious frustration. Just enough angry, just enough indignant, just enough the-world-will-never-know-how-ridiculously-awesome-I-am. Just enough poet.
With her eyes closed, Cath could almost pretend that Wren was dancing on the other side of the room, holding a Simon Snow replica wand for a microphone.
After a few songs, Cath didn’t need to pretend.
If any of her neighbors had been home, they would have heard her shouting the lyrics.
Cath danced. And rapped. And danced. And eventually there was knocking.
Damn. Maybe the neighbors are home.
She opened the door without looking and without turning down the music (Kanye-impaired thinking), but ready to apologize.
It was just Levi.
“Reagan isn’t here!” Cath shouted.
He said something, but not loud enough.
“What?” she yelled.
“Then who is here?” Levi shouted, smiling. Levi. Always smiling. Wearing a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves unbuttoned at the wrists. Couldn’t even be trusted to dress himself. “Who’s in there, listening to rap music?”
“Me,” Cath said. She was panting. She tried not to pant.
He leaned toward her so he wouldn’t have to shout. “This can’t be Cather music. I’d always pegged you as the mopey, indie type.” He was teasing her; only genuine emergencies were allowed to interrupt the Emergency Kanye Party.
“Go away.” Cath started to shut the door.
Levi stopped it with his hand. “What are you doing?” he said, laughing, and pushing his head forward on the “doing.”
She shook her head because she couldn’t think of anything reasonable to say. And because it wouldn’t matter anyway; Levi was never reasonable. “Emergency dance party—go away.”
“Oh no,” Levi said, pushing the door open and sliding in. Too skinny. Too tall.
Cath shut the door behind him. There was no protocol for this. She’d call Wren for a sidebar consultation if there was any chance Wren would answer the phone.
Levi stood in front of Cath, his face serious (for once) (seriously, for once) and his head deliberately bobbing up and down. “So,” he said loudly. “Emergency dance party.”
Cath nodded.
And nodded. And nodded.
Levi nodded back.
And then Cath started laughing and rolled her eyes away from him, moving her hips from side to side. Just barely.
And then her shoulders.
And then she was dancing again. Tighter than before—her knees and elbows almost locking—but dancing.
When she looked back at Levi, he was dancing, too. Exactly the way she would have imagined him dancing if she’d ever tried. Too long and too loose, running his fingers through his hair. (Dude. We get it. Extreme widow’s peak.) His eyes were absolutely gleaming with mirth. Putting out light.