Page 93 of Endless Anger
She’d never talk about it with anyone outside her family though. Not even me, who spent half my life harboring a crush on the entire Anderson family, though I’d never admitted it to anyone out loud, because Asher wouldn’t have liked sharing the attention. Or me finding his family attractive, I’m sure, since he didn’t take it well when I kissed him back then either.
I glance at the office hours listed on Quincy’s page, wondering why she’s back, working under the same dean she claimed to abhor. What could have possibly changed?
Did she come here knowing her brother would be enrolling? To protect him, since the entirety of campus has some strange love-hate relationship with their family?
A photo in the bottom right of the faculty gallery makes me do a double take; I lean in, squinting at the computer screen, trying to ignore the massive knot that materializes in my throat.
Quincy, standing in the quad before the statue of Demeter. It’s an older photo and sort of grainy, probably from when she was a student. She’s next to a pretty brunette I don’t recognize, her dark gaze glued to the other girl’s face, her hands wrapped around a small gold talisman.
So small, I almost don’t notice its shape until I see the points. The tail curling around her pinkie.
A three-headed beast.
“So how much do youneed before the shelter accepts a donation?”
I glance at the glass mason jar on my tabletop, then at Tag Holland,the only student to pass through my line the entire hour I’ve been set up. A part of me wants to lie and create some sob story, but I’m raising money for the Fury Hill Animal Shelter, which is at capacity and close to picking a euthanasia date to cut down costs and free up space.
If that doesn’t appeal to someone without me needing to throw in a whole fucking show, I don’t know what else I could even do.
Personally, the thought of an open-intake shelter makes me sick to my stomach. I understand why they exist, but having grown up with my mom’s shelters in Aplana, which have a strict no-kill policy, it’s hard for me to fathom. Though I suppose the latter is easier to pull off when you have the disposable funds to hire adequate staff and maintain resources.
It’s not as if the government gives a single shit about these animals.
Or its people either. To them, and even Avernia alike, if you can’t directly contribute to society in a way that benefits those in power, you don’t deserve rights or equity.
Which is utter bullshit, but I digress. The government and higher education being disasters is nothing new.
Still, this is why I try to sponsor this high-kill shelter each fall during Avernia’s big Philanthropy Week, which we do in lieu of homecoming.
Frankly, despite everything else, Avernia College’s decentering of sports is still one of its main appeals for me. That and the fact that credits are nontransferable are the reasons I haven’t left.
Plus, I’d rather shoot myself in the face than let Dean Bauer think he’d gotten to me.
Even if I can feel my spirit draining with each passing day the campus murders go overlooked, as if Celeste and Frances Sweetgrass—the Curator found in my room—never existed in the first place.
It’s fucking creepy, but it is what it is, I suppose. If they won’t make a fuss about it, neither will I.
What’s the point when no one would believe me anyway?
“Technically, I can make a donation of any size. The shelter won’t sayno,” I tell Tag, watching him run a hand beneath his black wolf cut, pulling strands of hair out of the collar of his shirt. He keeps his darkeyes on mine, listening intently. “But I don’t feel good about throwing a hundred or so bucks their way and calling it a day, you know? That’ll buy one or two bags of dog food and not much else. Definitely not the robust support they need at this point.”
Tag’s face falls. “All I’ve got is a fifty…” He reaches into his back pocket, sliding the bill from his wallet, and stuffs it into the jar. “There. Maybe once people see the first donation, they’ll flock over to you and do more.”
Doubtful.“Thanks, Tag. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank me with words,” he says, placing his palms on the table and leaning down with a small smile. “Why don’t you let me take you out? Professor Dupont’s putting on his winter play, and auditions are open to the public. We can go and poke fun at the Curators who truly have no business trying to act.”
I stare at him.
His grin widens. “I know you want to say no, and you probably think I’ll take my donation back if you do. I’m not like that. I would have asked you out either way.”
“You don’t want to go out with me,” I say finally, something unsettling in my stomach, like a boat being thrashed on angry seas.
“Au contraire, mademoiselle. I’ve wanted to go out with you since freshman orientation. You just never let me talk for more than two minutes at a time, so I’ve not had the chance.”
My face heats as a couple of students walk past, glancing over their shoulders, eavesdropping. They walk away whispering and snickering to each other, and I grind my teeth together to keep from calling them out.
“I don’t think a date with me would be good for your social standing,” I try again, folding my arms on the table. “It would be rude of me to do that to you.”
