Page 27 of Torn

“That doesn’t mean free will is impossible.” Merry slaps her thigh. “You can’t control or chooseeverything, but that doesn’t mean you can’t control or chooseanything. It doesn’t mean choice can’t evolve and grow. It starts with fate, but it can expand with free will, and it can be a union of the two, and it can be that way for humans and deities alike. What?”

“That’s called naive,” he states.

“And that—,” she jabs a finger at his nose “—is called pretentious.”

“I’m not being pompous!”

“You are soooo being pompous, the most pompous, the king of pompous!”

The feud escalates to the point where she endures the sting of it, the hairs on her arms rising. It’s extraordinary, this commotion fizzing through her. They snap at each other, then they growl at each other. She dumps the rest of the lemonade, slams to her feet, and marches away. The rubber of her high-top sneakers squeak, and her corset bodice digs into her ribs, and the back of her neck itches.

What happened to the sparkler? When had she stopped carrying it?

Anger and she haven’t harmonized on much thus far. However, there’s a certain delirium in hearing him object, in anticipating his points, half of which are valid and unexpected, just like half of her protests stupefy him.

Anger’s boots strike the lane. Meanwhile, she swings one arm in a huff, the other clasping the skateboard to her bosom. For a solid half hour—in their case, a millisecond—they give each other the silent treatment.

They ascend a central knoll to the summit of Stargazer Hill, which marks the city’s core. In the heart of this place, a single oak tree stretches to the firmament while a pair of telescopes tilt upward, their exteriors glossed in shimmer paint. Merry hadn’t meant to bring Anger here yet, but she hadn’t been concentrating on direction or elevation.

He absorbs the scenery. The creases in his face are grisly to behold, ripe with sadness and loneliness, when he hadn’t been sad or lonely once tonight. She knows this impulse, understands this longing, shares this burden.

The residue of bickering lingers. In hindsight, she’d matched his hissy fit, getting just as riled up. She hates that he has so little consideration for free will, and she’ll go on hating that. But under the stars and surrounded by swaying grass, she deflates.

“I seem to be encountering telescopes everywhere,” he remarks.

“Not by accident,” Merry says, digging a toe into the soil. “The telescope is a symbol here. You’ll find them all over this city, even as fixtures in people’s homes, especially on their terraces and rooftops.”

“I’ve seen as much.” Anger indicates the sky. “Which one is yours?”

She mounts a stool to one of the telescopes, then waves him over. Divesting himself of his archery, he approaches the other scope, and when she cranes her instrument, he takes the hint and focuses his own cylinder. Together, they peek through the lenses.

Merry directs him toward a dot tinged in pink: the star that birthed her.

Anger must see it because he gasps, his exclamation rough around the edges.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, still peering.

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just…if you bear to the right…”

Merry locates the other star he’s referring to. It flashes with light, thrashing in the sky.

Fates, that must be his star. It can’t get any closer to hers, the sheen around them almost touching, on the verge of eclipsing. She ponders which of the two is about to shield and protect its neighbor.

Her rumination has to do with kismet. They’re made for each other!

They don’t speak, getting lost in their own inspections, occasionally adjusting the lenses. She counts constellations, but she loses count, too distracted by the noises to her left.

After an intermission, Merry gets antsy. She twists the telescope toward him, tweaking the instrument in order to see how close she can get, zooming in to see how deeply she can observe. The world narrows to a hole, which veers—and lands on another lens fixed right on her.

Merry squeaks. Flustered, she jerks upright at the same time he does. Across the distance, they gawk at each other, then their sheepish chuckles scatter across the high grass.

A melodic composition thrums from the player in her denim vest pocket, the stars projecting it through the carnival speakers. It’s a song that she’s played on repeat in her room, a track graced with a gentle keyboard tune and transcendental lyrics that suit the moment.

Merry trembles. A set of graphite eyes trace her, the irises once vexed but now exuding a tame sort of lacquer.

Anger swallows. “I’m sorry about earlier. I could have taken our disagreement more calmly. I should have tried to.”

“Don’t apologize,” she replies. “It’s who you are, and I’m not sorry to know you.”

---