Page 68 of Distortion
The reminder of my mom has me finding the two notes in my drawer and putting them in my pocket, so that I can enlist Lu’s help later. After our Grinder shift today, I’m supposed to be going with her to her dorm, so she can show me the spare battle gear she’s going to lend me. The battle is on Friday and I’m already getting excited for it.
I look at the clock. Almost eight.
First things first. I get dressed and jump in the bathroom for a quick toilette in cold water. I don’t see any of the guys,thankfully, as I grab what I need for the day from my room, and then go down to the kitchen.
No one’s there either. In a burst of inspiration, I go through the cabinets. I find a box of Pop Tarts. I used to love these when I was a kid. John put a stop to me having them because he said the e-numbers and the sugar made me worse than usual. Maybe he was right, but what a dick move.
I put two in the toaster and, while they heat, I take a quick look around. The pledges have been cleaning everything up, so there are no messes from the guys’ late nights during the weekend.
The toaster pops up and I take one hot Tart out, wrapping it in a paper towel to save my fingers. I leave the other one in and change the setting to the maximum, and then I push it down again with a small, cold grin. For the first time, I notice that there are sprinkler heads in the ceiling and my smile widens.
I’m so glad their safety measures are up to scratch!
I half wonder if the system here works the same as the one at The Heath. We had a couple of fires during the time I was there and not all of them would go off, just the ones near the smoke. Guess I’ll find out later.
I’ve forgotten my boots, so I run upstairs and grab them quickly, glad I wore my sneakers on the river, and at least it’s not my favorite shoes that are soaked.
I open the front door just as smoke is filling the kitchen from the Pop Tarts currently burning in the toaster, and I take a deep breath of the cool, crisp early morning air.
Today’s a new day, I think as I hear water spraying and the smoke alarms begin to blare out. I close the door with a small click, walking down the driveway with a pep in my step and a lingering smile on my face.
I see a silvery-blue butterfly on the pavement in front of me and I pick it up carefully so it doesn’t get trodden on inthe impending evacuation from the house. It walks along my finger as I go down the driveway and takes off into the air a moment later. I watch it as it flutters off in the breeze; such a fragile thing, and yet they migrate a thousand miles to stay alive.
If a tiny insect can do that, then surely I can survive here, maybe even flourish if I put my mind to it.
It’s time these men who think themselves so far above me learned that while the daisies in their world might be easily ripped up, or crushed underfoot, in my world they have thorns ... and also they bite. It’s my world so maybe they’re radioactive, too. Anyway, they’re smart and dangerous.I’m smart and dangerous.
Stoke and the others went on and on about cause and effect during my years at The Heath. ‘All actions have consequences’, they said, and I think I finally get it. It’s just that at The Heath, it was only the residents’ actions that had consequences, not the staff.
I don’t think that’s very fair.
A kitchen full of smoke and water is Kappa Iota Pi’s consequence for my weekend from hell. I do hope that most of them were still sound asleep in their little frat boy beds when the alarms began to blare. I assume that the pledges will be cleaning up. Fitting. But that leaves Shade, Blake, and Mav without a real punishment. I’ll have to think of something to restore the equilibrium.
Checks and balances. That’s what’s been missing.
Once I’m away from the house, I refuse to think about it, or the guys I’m being forced to live with. I go to the library first, because I know it’s open early. I get rid of the Chaucer and the Shakespeare at the hole in the wall for returns. It’s an almost symbolic gesture that makes me feel much lighter because, even if I can’t follow through with my plan, I’m never going to have to suffer through those boring classesnor attempt to read anything other than modern English ever again.
I’m not doing it and that’s that.
Once I’ve dropped off the books, I go to the back where there are a couple of computers amongst the shelves. There’s no one else around as I drop my bag next to me and begin.
First, I check if I can change majors and find that it’s easy in the first year. But I’m not in my first year. I’ll need to put in a request with the chair of the department I want to change to. I check my campus map. Looks like I’ll get to see inside the precious Novelle building sooner than I thought.
Next, I search up everything I can find on my mom and her life as a Novelle. There are photos of her at parties and, when I look at the captions, they’re at galas she held for charities. The names surprise me. Association for Autistic Community. Autistic Women and Nonbinary Network. Autistic Self Advocacy Network. Others. All of them are for neurodivergent people.
I keep reading, finding out things about my mother I never knew from fluff pieces, like she loved the piano and dark chocolate. But there’s nothing about her life before becoming a Novelle. Nothing. There’s also no mention of her having a daughter anywhere, or a marriage with Mark Evans before John.
I sit back in the chair and regard the screen thoughtfully.
The Novelles scrubbed my mom’s life of the things they didn’t like. Me, they got rid of all together. I was right. The rumors all over the campus must originate from Shade. There’s no way anyone else could know anything about me. There’s nothing online. My name isn’t mentioned anywhere; not as Novelle, nor as Evans.
Just to torture myself a little more, I search for anything regarding the death of Michael Larson. Of course I remember it. I was there, but it’s sort of faded, like a dreamor a nightmare. However, except for an obituary on a local news site, there’s nothing. Not about him, nor about his death. It’s like he barely existed either.
The Novelles strike again.
His birth and death dates sear themselves into my brain. It’s only a couple of months until the anniversary of when he died. Ten years to the day.
I close the window quickly and I glance at the clock. It’s eight. Maybe the guy I need to see gets in early.
