Technocracy: Marin/Terry

“Again.”

Taking in a deep breath, Marin rose up on her toes. She vaulted forward, first on one foot, then the next, turned, spun with her arms in the air, twisted gracefully in a pirouette. She leapt again and bowed on one foot, the other sticking far out behind her, only for her to bring it in and bend it and spin again on her single foot. She crossed a foot before her other foot and twirled and spun and leapt and flew, sweat beading in her black hair, knit carefully in a braid atop her head. She pranced, vaulting like a gazelle, and stopped and twirled abruptly on both feet. She vaulted again, stopped, raised her arms and bent one leg into the other knee. She vaulted, moving, leaping, and spun, and back the way she’d come she went, she stopped abruptly, one leg stuck out straight behind her, then crossed her feet around each other, crouched, leapt, vaulted, stopped, spun, and now she stepped forward with quick light steps on her toes, until at last she stopped, breathing hard, and with a flourish, she bowed.

Her blue eyes came up. An older woman with gray hair and green eyes raised her eyebrows.

“Better.”

“Thank you, Ms. Olga.”

“There is still room for improvement,” said Ms. Olga, crossing her arms over her chest. “Your form tends to get sloppy the faster you move. Your echappé and some of your other motions become imprecise.”

Marin puffed her cheeks out. “But you told me speed was important!”

“Not at the expense of technique, Marin. I expect speed from you, yes, but also precision.”

“Ugh!” Marin groaned, stomping over to the wall of mirrors on the other side of the room.

“Marin, you are the one who asked me to spend extra time with you. You are the one who wants to improve, right?”

“Yes,” said Marin. “I want to be the best!”

“Then you must commit to putting in work,” said Ms. Olga. “One doesn’t become great just by wishing for it.”

“I know, I know,” said Marin. She absently rose up on her toes, just for a moment, before lowering herself back down.

“That’s enough for today. The hour’s up, your mother should be here soon.”

Marin nodded. She pulled apart the braids of her hair, letting the sweaty, heavy curtain of black fall down to its normal elbow-length. Slipping off her ballet shoes, she went over to her bag, piled in the dimming corner of the room; its iridescent surface caught the fading evening light. She pulled out her tennis shoes and bowed to Ms. Olga. “Thank you, Ms. Olga.”

“See you next week, Marin,” said the older woman.

Marin then went down a hallway and out a door, and sure enough, her mother was waiting for her, sitting in their car. “Hey, mom,” said Marin as the door automatically swung open.

“How did things go today, sweetie?” asked Bellona, swiveling her seat to face her daughter as the car began to drive itself away.

“Well enough,” said Marin.

“Marin,” said Bellona.

“I’m trying, I am!” said Marin. “But Ms. Olga thinks I get too sloppy.”

“She’s usually right, Marin,” said Bellona. “You should trust the judgment of experts.”

“I know,” she said, glancing off to the side. She peered out the window—“Oh!”

“What is it?” Bellona asked.

Marin glanced off at an angle as the car continued away. “I thought I saw someone I know.”

Terry watched the car drive down the street, the darkening sky ensuring that the cold blue light of the street lamps was the primary thing illuminating the air. He’d thought the car had looked familiar, but in the growing twilight, he couldn’t be sure. His copper eyes narrowed. No, he couldn’t be sure at all.

So he kept on walking, past the vacant lots grown dim and gray and blue in the gathering dusk. Past the homes, some of which had lights inside but some of which did not. Past the trees that loomed, that swelled, dark and ominous, grasping reachings from the forest that surrounded and bordered the neighborhood. He kept on walking, until he reached the house he called his own. The front stoop lights were on, but not the interior lights. He sighed, and walked up the driveway.

“Dad,” he said, opening the door. “Dad?”

“You back?”

“Yes,” said Terry. He walked into the living room and flicked the light switch on. His father sat in a chair, a bottle of brandy clutched in his hand. “I got groceries. There’s some frozen dinners in here, and some milk and some eggs.” He hefted a bag made from composted paper.

“It took you long enough,” said his father.

“I’m sorry,” Terry said. “It was dark and I had to be careful. There was nobody out in the streets, fortunately.”

“You sound like a coward.”

“I’m just being careful,” said Terry. He brushed his brown hair out of his eyes; it had grown a bit long, and he’d need to get it cut soon.

“You always sound like a coward. I didn’t raise you like that. You must get that from your mother.”

If he had been six, if he had been eight, even if he had been ten, his father’s words would have broken Terry, broken him as he’d broken so many times over the years. They would have made him cry. But now, his brown eyebrows lowered, and his copper eyes narrowed, glinting with the shimmer of metal. They did that shift they sometimes did, changing from copper to bronze. He turned up his chin at his father. “Go lie down on the couch, you’re too drunk again.”

“I’m going to bed,” said his father, staggering up from his chair. His motions were jerky, unstable, like a clattering wind-up doll made of tin. He stumbled out of a far door from the living room, disappearing around a corner.

“I’ll cook you some eggs in the morning,” said Terry as his father stumbled out of sight.

Sighing, Terry walked into the kitchen, flicking on the light switch as he entered. Fortunately the state had sent them their welfare check, which he’d used to pay the electricity bill and the gas bill and the water bill just the other day. So, he opened the refrigerator and the freezer, and he deposited his groceries inside. Then he went over to the stovetop, and turned the nearest gas burner on.

Digging into the cupboards around the stove, he fished out his skillet, and placed it on the burner. It grew hot, and steam was rising from it by the time he’d fished things from the fridge and the pantry: a pork chop, some butter, some salt, some pepper, some rosemary, and some olive oil. He went to the sink, and made sure to wash his hands; then he took the salt and pepper and sprinkled down each side of the pork chop with both, patting them firmly.

The skillet was steaming now; Terry turned down the burner a little, careful to make sure it did not get too hot. He didn’t want the pork chop to burn. He drizzled olive oil into the skillet, carefully measuring out a small portion; then he cut a swatch of butter off the stick and dumped that in as well. Using a towel to wrap around the skillet’s handle, he swirled the butter and olive oil together, making a steaming, foaming mixture; to this was added a sprinkling of rosemary. At last, it was ready, so with some tongs he placed the pork chop into the skillet.

“Oh!” he said sharply, awareness washing over him. He quickly ran to a wall of the kitchen and turned a switch, causing the fan above to begin spinning. Then he hurried back to the skillet.

A few minutes on each side and the pork chop was done. Using the tongs again he removed it from the skillet, setting it on the plate he had prepared. Switching the burner off, he carried the plate out into the dining room, setting it down all by itself at the table. The light above had not been turned on, and Terry didn’t bother to do so; the light from the kitchen was enough to see by. So he returned from the kitchen again with a fork and knife, and in the semi-darkness of the dining room, he ate his dinner.

A smile curled his lips as he chewed. Perfect. Not too undercooked and not too overcooked. He didn’t always get it right, but when he did, it was wonderful. He cut another bite, and hummed to himself as he chewed.

It was over quicker than he would have liked; but that was a consequence of how tasty he’d found it. He sat there for a moment, stewing in the shadows, copper-bronze eyes glimmering in the dark. Then he sighed, and took his plate into the kitchen. He needed to get started on the dishes.

A few days later, Terry was walking out of History class, head spinning from names and dates. They’d been discussing the Wars of the Constitution today, and he had been crammed full of the names of the various factions, their leaders, and their most prominent generals. It was all a bit daunting: there had been a half-dozen factions overall in the conflict 250 years ago, and the teacher had insisted that he memorize them all for an upcoming quiz. He’d taken notes as best he could.

“Terry!”

He turned at the voice, which had rapidly become very familiar. “Oh, hey Marin.”

She waved brightly at him as she approached. She was wearing her long black hair up in a ponytail today, which was unusual. It made Terry conscious of how long his own hair was getting. “Come on, let’s go,” said Marin. “Where’s Saera?”

He thought on Saera, how she’d gotten up from her desk and walked to the front of the room, even as he’d lingered a bit in hopes of waiting for her. “I think she wanted to ask the teacher something. She should be coming along soon.”

“That means I can beat her there,” said Marin, a fierce smile on her face. Terry glanced down at the shorter girl. On instinct, Marin glanced up at him.

And Terry saw, with some surprise, that a trickle of clear fluid ran down the front of her forehead. Marin flicked a finger up to wipe it off. “Sweating?” he asked.

“No, water from the showers,” said Marin. “I have Ballet this period, you know that.”

“O-Oh, yeah,” said Terry. “Do you go off campus for it?”

“Nope!” said Marin brightly. “We have a ballet team right here in the school. We’re going to be in competition in the Spring.” Marin clenched her fists together. “I’m going to be first position by then. Count on it.”

“I-I guess so,” said Terry. “If you say so.”

“I do. I am the best.”

“Well, I hope you make it. Really.”

“And you, how’s your, uh…” she wracked her brain, “your fishing going?”

“Oh, it’s… um…” he smiled weakly at her, “It’s going well.”

“Good!”

“Fortunately,” he muttered under his breath, unheard.

Or so he thought. But, actually, Marin had heard it, and she glanced up at the tall brown-haired boy; he was looking straight ahead, and did not see her stare. Her sapphire blue eyes regarded him keenly. They continued to regard him all through Lunch, during which she did not talk much; Saera and Ardo were talking about a magazine article, and they supplied the bulk of the period’s conversation. She picked at her five flavor shrimp, idly dappling on the fringes of the conversation.

So it even remained past Lunch, through Algebra, through English, and through Art, where she did not even notice that Ardo was sitting right next to her. “Fortunately,” she muttered, as she piled into her mother’s car. “What does that mean?”

“What was that, sweetie?” asked Bellona.

“Nothing, mom,” said Marin.

The next day Terry was not at school.

Marin was slow to realize this, sitting as she did in Homeroom, blinking her eyes to crowd from them the last few vestiges of sleep. She’d had an uneasy sleep—she had awoken in the depths of night from an unsettling dream, a dream of of a whirlpool in the sea that had caught her and dragged her into the depths. She had awoken from it and she’d stayed awake all night.

“All right, these obscenity releases are necessary for all your art electives, which includes Theory of Knowledge,” said Mr. Simeon, tapping his desk. Marin blinked, again, and as she blinked the form had popped up onto her own desk. She slid her phone’s connector port onto the plug which emerged from her desk’s right side. This allowed her to download the form, which then appeared on her phone’s screen as she pulled it away. “And these require a thumbprint from your parents for final confirmation. So you won’t be able to forge a signature.” Then the entire class heard the unpleasant clang of an error message from his desk. He looked up. “Where’s Mr. Philips?”

Marin’s eyes bulged. She glanced to her left, where Saera was sitting by the window. Saera’s silver eyes swung towards Marin and met her own sapphire gaze. They both looked over their shoulders. Ardo was staring at both of them, his ruby eyes wide. There was a grimace on his face.

“Well, someone will have to get this form to him,” said Mr. Simeon. “The biometrics in the thumbprint mechanism mean I can’t just mail it to him. I don’t think he has a registered mail address, anyway, which is… highly unusual.” He scanned across the classroom. “Does anyone know Mr. Philips? Can anyone take this form to him?”

“I can,” said Marin all of a sudden, surprising even herself. Mr. Simeon’s eyes moved to her, and Marin was briefly nervous. But her courage rebounded, and she fixed him with a stare of firm purpose. “He’s my friend, sir. I’ll take it to him.”

“All right,” said Mr. Simeon. The plug again popped out of her desk’s right side. Again, Marin connected her phone, and in a flash, the additional form had been downloaded. “These forms are time sensitive, so please be sure Mr. Philips and his parents return their copy within 72 hours.”

“Yes, sir,” said Marin.

“Do you know his home address?”

And this made Marin flinch in her chair. “Um, no, sir, I don’t.”

Mr. Simeon tapped on his desk for a moment. “Fortunately we do have a home address on file. I’ll send it to you.” And in a few moments, an address popped up on her phone’s screen. Marin looked at it, and her eyebrows rose.

After Homeroom had ended, she lingered at the door until Saera and Ardo appeared.

“Are you sure you’d like to do this?” Saera asked. “I could take it, it would be no big deal.”

“It’s fine,” said Marin. “I actually know where it is.”

“You’ve been there before?” asked Ardo.

“No,” said Marin. “But it’s near my ballet tutor’s studio. I know the neighborhood. My mom can drop me off.”

Bellona glanced idly out of the window, her green eyes surveying the neighborhoods they passed. They were moving to one of the outer suburbs, far from the bustle and wealth of Atlanta’s inner core. Indeed, as she glanced from side to side, at the houses that passed, her expression darkened. “Marin, darling, are you sure this is the right place?”

“We’re following the address I got,” said Marin. “You put it into the nav system the right way, didn’t you?”

“I did,” said Bellona. “It’s just that this neighborhood is…” she glanced out the window again. Yards were overgrown. She could see the glitter of cans and scraps of metal in some of the yards.

Marin saw them too. Perhaps more than her mother. But she said, “It’s fine, mom. Terry’s my friend. I’ll be fine.”

The car slowed gently to a stop in front of a house. Its mailbox stood crooked on an off-angled post. Its yard was overgrown. The roof was missing more than a few of its shingles. Bellona looked with lowered brows at Marin. “If you’re sure, darling.”

“I am,” said Marin, even as the house admittedly roused butterflies in her stomach. She swung the door open and bounced out in a quick and fluid leap. “I’ll text you when I’m done, Mom!”

“Okay, sweetie,” said Bellona. The door swung shut on its own. The car silently slid away, its electric motors barely audible—and, in a moment, Marin was alone before the house.

“It’s no big deal,” she told herself. “Terry’s my friend.” She said this as much for her own benefit as for anyone’s. She briefly tried not to think of how the house seemed dilapidated and foreboding. She tried to focus on something, anything else. In that moment, she felt the brush of her hair against her arms. Marin twitched an eyebrow and looked down. Her hair had gotten a bit long. Crucially, it now hung below her elbows, which was always the sign that it wanted cutting. “I’ll have to have Mom do it this weekend,” she said. Then she looked back at the house. “Right. Okay.”

With a final nod, she started forward, her white tennis shoes squicking softly on the cracked pavement of the front walk. She’d worn pants today, khakis with bell bottoms. Something had made her think that wearing a skirt to this part of town would be unwise. Just an instinct, an inkling.

At last she reached the door. There was no bell. Again, just for a moment, Marin was uneasy. But she then reached out a hand and rapped her knuckles on the wood of the door with its peeling paint. She knocked once, twice, thrice, and waited. The hum of distant power cells was audible, a distant whine that glimmered in the early October air. Already streaks of gold and orange were crossing the sky, hints of the evening that drew rapidly across the world, a curtain of brilliance drawn across the stage of the day to signal the final acts. Birds chirped. Marin glanced off to the side; she could see the heavy growth of trees, many of them still green despite the onset of Autumn. She had noticed it before, but now the realization truly washed over her that this neighborhood bordered the huge forests on the edge of the city, forests so big that arms of them stretched deep into Atlanta proper. Atlanta was often described as a ‘green’ city by the adults she was around, but the idea of actual wilderness encroaching on the place she’d always called home was a new one, one she had not yet fully grappled with. But now it caught her abruptly, made her see, made her behold the edges of what she knew as ‘civilized.’

“Coming, coming!”

The shout barked from inside the house, behind the door, and it made Marin jump. Before she could settle her nerves and her stomach the door swung open. A tall, pale man glared down at her. His brown hair was unkempt, and his white skin carried an unmistakable pallor to it. He was awash in the look and feel of illness, and Marin briefly feared that he might be contagious with something. His eyes, a weak hazel, glimmered down at her, hurt and cut, but carrying something that made her spine tingle.

“What the fuck do you want?” he asked.

“Oh, oh,” said Marin, taking a step back off the stoop. “Um, I was told this was the address of a friend of mine. Terry? Terrance? Philips?”

“What the fuck do you want with him, you little bitch?”

Marin’s spike of fear clashed with a twist of anger. She wasn’t sure whether to cry or start yelling. Indecision gripped her, standing there, caught in the decrepit man’s weak gaze, weak yet it still held a pallid sort of terror for her. He held her in a trap, because he was old and unstable and the creeping feeling came over her that he might do something to her—not sure what. Something.

“Dad?”

“Terry!” she cried.

“Dad, what is this? What is—” the sick-looking man was pushed aside, and there he was, wearing dark red pants and a gray shirt. His copper eyes, glinting with metal, saw her, and went very wide. “Marin! What are you—what are you—why are you here?!”

“I…” Marin held out her phone, as if it was some magic artifact. “There’s a form… from school. Needs a fingerprint from you and… and your…”

“Come on in,” said Terry. The older man, who must have been his father, tottered backwards, and Terry swung the door open that much wider in his absence. Marin paused just half a second longer, then took a deep breath and walked through the portal.

The inside of the house was low, and dark, filled with shadows that the growing evening only accentuated. A lamp was on somewhere off to the left, but its light was so weak and brass-hued that it seemed rather to amplify the darkness than dispel it. With the light of the sun taken from his visage, the man seemed suddenly even more feeble, yet also even more ghastly. “Who’s this bitch?”

“She’s…” Terry gazed with unease at the man. “Dad, she’s a friend of mine.” He turned to Marin, and his face was stern, yet not angry. “Why are you here?”

Marin held out her phone again. “There’s a form from class. From Homeroom! They couldn’t mail it to you. It needs a fingerprint from your parents.”

Terry took the phone from her. He observed the extra copy of the form.

“What the hell does she want?” asked his father.

“It’s a form… you’ve got to put your fingerprint on it.”

“Did you get in trouble you asshole?”

“No,” said Terry, his voice flat, even as Marin softly gasped at the way his father talked to him. “It’s a permission slip from school. I’ll put it on my phone.” He turned to Marin and said, “Come with me.”

Obediently, Marin followed him. They walked through the house. Paint was peeling on some of the walls and upper molding. Yet when they passed down a hallway and into a small bedroom, the mood of the surroundings seemed to change. This bedroom was small, yes, but it was neat, and well-kept. The bed was made, the floor was swept, there weren’t any clothes or books lying around. Everything was either in the closet or on the shelves surrounding the bed and the desk. It was to this desk that Terry moved, and with a long right arm he reached out and grabbed his own phone.

“Here,” he said, holding his phone close to Marin’s. “Give me the form.”

“Oh, right,” said Marin. She tapped on her phone a few times, then she touched the upper corner of it to the upper corner of Terry’s phone, transferring the obscenity release form with a soft beep sound.

Terry saw it appear on his screen. Silently, he turned, and Marin followed him back to where he’d come. His father was now sitting in a slightly-tearing chair near the dull glow of the lamp. A brown bottle was in his hand, and there was a dirty glass on the nearby table.

“Dad,” said Terry, coming close. “Dad, I need you to put your fingerprint right here.” He indicated a glinting red square at the bottom of the digital document. It gleamed there, the light from the screen of his phone growing proportionally ever-brighter as the dim October evening progressed, second by second, minute by minute.

“What is it?” growled his father.

“I told you, Dad, it’s a permission slip. You don’t need to do anything else. Just put a finger on the red square.” Silence. Marin’s skin crawled in the low, oppressive quiet. “Dad I—”

“Shut up!” snapped his father. “You’re always bugging me. You’re always interrupting me.”

“Please,” said Terry. “If you do this you won’t see me again for the rest of the evening. Okay?”

Silence. A pause. Terry stood there, like a statue, still holding the phone.

“Gimme that,” said his father, snatching the phone from him with more abruptness than Marin would have preferred. He pressed a grimy thumb into the red square, until it blinked once, twice, three times, and then turned green.

“Thanks,” said Terry.

“Get out of here you little shit.”

“There’s some frozen stuff for you in the freezer,” said Terry, turning his back on the man in the chair. “I’ll do the dishes later tonight.” He moved to Marin and said, “Come on.”

He moved, and she followed, and the two of them went to the front door. Outside the sun was truly setting, painting the clear sky with radiant oranges and gory reds. It was cool, but not cold. Marin tugged at the sleeves of her dark blue cardigan. She was afraid to turn around. She stared at the street at the end of the yard, lit only partly. Some of the streetlights up and down the street had gone out. Thus far, though, the sun had not gone down enough to make sight difficult.

“Look,” Terry began.

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning around. “I know you didn’t want me to see that.”

“No,” said Terry. “You didn’t know. It’s not your fault.”

“I’m sorry.” She pulled out her phone. “I’ll have my Mom come get me now.” Her thumb pulled up the messaging app.

“Wait.”

She looked up.

“Actually… do you want to stay for dinner?”

Her sapphire blue eyes widened. “But you just said… your dad…”

“We don’t need to see my dad again to have dinner.” He flinched backwards, and seemed to fold in on himself, a wilting flower. “I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine. I understand. This isn’t… it’s not… if you don’t want to, that’s fine.”

Marin’s black eyebrows furrowed. She pursed her lips. And she tapped on her phone. Terry glanced to the side, his copper brown eyes hard.

“Okay,” she said. “I just texted my mom. She says I can stay for dinner. I just need to text her when she needs to get me.”

Terry looked back around. Marin was smiling. It was not a beaming smile. It was weak, and betrayed unease. But a smile it was. And it caused a smile of his own to break out. He nodded. “Okay. Let me get some things, I’ll be right back.” With that he turned and went back inside. Marin waited, fiddling with her phone, checking social media. She could barely pay attention to anything she saw. Her head was swimming. She had no idea what was about to happen. It frightened her. Yet something deeper, lower, below her fear, was calm.

Terry emerged from the house less than ten minutes after he had left. He was wearing that same dark green field jacket he always wore to school, and he had a bag slung over his right shoulder. “Okay,” he said, “let’s go.” And with that, he began to walk off towards the left side of the house, Marin following behind. Her boots squished in the overgrown green grass.

They walked briskly, and in no time they had left Terry’s lawn behind entirely. They swung beneath canopies of leaves, and they were soon descending into a ravine, whose walls were snarled and covered in vines and dead leaves and the twisting roots of the trees that loomed high above their heads. The sun chose that moment to set, and it seemed that the wall of darkness fell at a faster pace, the sky above between the tree branches a deep mix of crimson and violet.

All the heavens bent their fading light into the air,

As the stars came one by one out of their hiding spots.

Marin heard running water. They had reached the bottom of the ravine, and sure enough, a stream ran, surprisingly deep and fast. Marin stopped for just a moment to stoop and put her finger in; it was very cold.

“Come on,” said Terry over his shoulder, and so she hurried to resume her pace, fingering the moisture between her fingers.

But they did not go too much further before Terry came to a stop. Glancing past him, Marin saw why: there was a logjam, a makeshift dam, blocking the stream some ways ahead of them, as it descended on its course from the distant hills where it had begun. This had caused a small pond to form, one which only had its release after filling a basin of water, surprisingly large and deep. Towards this Terry moved, and at its edge he hunted for something. Marin saw, in the fading light, as he stooped and tugged at a string that extended into the water. He pulled. He peered. He smiled. “Oh, good,” he said. “There’s more than enough.”

“Enough what?” Marin asked.

“Fish!” said Terry happily. “Hope you’re hungry, there’s about five of them, and we’ll have to eat them all.”

A memory, not too distant, twitched to the fore of Marin’s mind. “Oh,” she said, and heaviness swelled in her chest. “So this is what you meant when you said… you fish.”

“Yep,” said Terry. “And you dance, right?”

“U-Uh, yes,” said Marin. “Actually, my ballet tutor’s studio isn’t very far from here. I’ve ridden through this neighborhood loads of times on my way to lessons.”

“Oh,” said Terry. “I may have seen you some time, then. Or I guess I may have seen your mom’s car.”

“Maybe,” said Marin.

“Here,” said Terry. He walked over to an empty area, an area pointedly clear of leaves. There were ashes and cinders in a pile in the center, and as Marin watched, Terry walked to a bush and reached beneath it. He produced piles and piles of sticks, twigs, branches, even a stray log. These he gathered into the middle of the clearing, along with dry leaves that he hastily snatched up from the edges of the pond. He reached into his bag and produced some rocks that were almost as gray as the gathering night. And he reached into the pile, and he snapped them against each other once, twice, thrice, four times, and there was a spark—

And smoke rose. Marin’s eyes widened as tender, lovely flames began to rise, crackling as they burnt the sticks and leaves. In short order, the fire was blazing away, sending waves of light and warmth into the night, a counterbalance to the rapidly-cooling air. Terry opened his bag wide and produced some lines of metal, which clicked and clicked as he attached them to each other. He set this over the fire, and Marin saw that it formed something like a stand. And this action was further explained when Terry pulled the biggest thing so far out of his bag: a skillet, wide and flat-bottomed, which he placed on the stand over the flames.

“Okay,” he said. “Let me know when that starts to smoke.” He wandered from the firelight, into the gloom of the air that hung above the pond. The water swished and churned, Marin’s own intestines seeming to swirl with the motion of the pond. She watched, as best she could, as Terry pulled some kind of trap from the water. The firelight played vaguely on the slick scales of the fish. Terry dragged the trap into the light of the fire, and pried its lid open, taking the slimy, slippery creatures one by one from their snare. A few of them still twitched.

Marin watched, amazed, as Terry reached into his bag and pulled out an enormous knife. It was thin and broad and sharp. She hissed in fear and wonder as Terry began to gut and clean the fish, one by one, cutting away their heads, their spines, their bones. He reached into his bag for a small platter, and upon these he piled the fillets, their raw meat slimy and white. He tossed the heads and the bones and the tails one by one into the pond.

“Is that pan smoking?” he asked.

“Oh!” She sharply turned. “Yes!”

“Great, it’s ready,” he said. He had by now cleaned and filleted all five fish. Reaching again into that magical bag, he produced a bottle of oil, and drizzled the steaming surface of the pan with an even coat. Then he reached into the bag again, and this time pulled out a jar. Marin could see the label: it was garlic paste. He used the flat edge of the knife to scoop a swab out and dump it into the pan, where it sizzled and dissolved and spread in a slurry over the hot surface, mixing with the oil.

Then Terry put the knife to still more use. Using its flat, broad surface almost as a spatula, he scooped up each fillet of fish and put it, skin-side down, in the pan. The sizzle and smoke of the cooking fish filled all the firelit air with vapor and smell. As soon as all the fish were in the pan Terry quickly pulled his bag around. Out came salt and out came pepper, and as Marin watched, Terry shook liberal amounts of both all over the cooking fillets. Then they cooked, and smoked there, as Terry stooped over them, watching, his long and angular face lit by the orange-red flames. After a certain period of time, he flipped each fillet over, so that now the seasoned sides were cooked by the pan.

“Terry,” said Marin slowly, “I—”

“Shh,” he said, holding up a hand. “I have to concentrate.”

So, in the silence of the wood, Marin sat, and watched, and waited. But she realized, gradually, that it was not so silent. Of course the crackle of the fire and the sizzle of the fish sent their noises up into the air. But further off, further out, the woods came alive with the sounds of the night. The chirp of the crickets could be heard. The squeak and the rattle of bugs of the night drifted along on the cool air. The chirp and the twitter of birds carefully arose, as did the croak of the frogs and the toads. Even in the pond just o’er her shoulder Marin heard the plop and the ripple of the water, made by the fish that had been smart enough to avoid Terry’s trap. Marin looked straight up, up into the sky. Night had settled. The stars were coming out.

“Okay!” he said sharply, catching her complete attention. “It’s done.” He handed her a plate, made from recycled cardboard. “Hold that out.” She did as she was told, and again using the broad, flat surface of the knife, Terry handed her fillets. There were ten small fillets in all, five for each of them; and Terry alternated, first filling her plate, then filling his, until everything was out of the pan. And then, finally, he took a heavy cloth and wrapped it around the steaming hot handle of the pan, and set it off the fire, into the dirt, where it smoked and sizzled.

Marin looked at her plate, and couldn’t resist: “No forks?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I-I didn’t have time to do the dishes yet. They’re all dirty.” His face blanched in that way that had become so familiar. “I really am sorry! I wish—”

“It’s fine,” she said. “My hands are clean, no big deal.”

“Okay,” said Terry. He picked up a steaming hot fillet and scooped some of it into his mouth. “Ooh, ah, be careful,” he said, mouth working widely. “It’s hot.”

“Well it did just come out of the pan,” said Marin. The fillet she grabbed was hot against her palm. She blew on it, careful, tender, delicate, precise. Then she scooped a bite up and into her mouth. She chewed. And her black eyebrows rose. “Oh, this is really good!”

“Yeah,” said Terry. He grinned wider than she’d ever seen him grin. “Yeah, it is! Sometimes I cook it too long. But not this time. This is great. I always try to make things exactly right.” He smiled at her, warm, wide, excited. “I got it right this time. I love it when everything is perfect.”

“Me too,” said Marin, nodding at him. They ate, and she could feel the pleasure that passed between them. Yet the nag in her chest, from before, had not abated, and her happiness could not long keep it at bay. So, finally, after swallowing another bite of fish, she looked across the fire at him. “Terry, how long have you lived like this?”

“Like what?” he said. He did not meet her gaze.

“Terry, you’re practically homeless,” said Marin. “Your father—I can’t believe how he treats you! And you have to do all this for him! You look after the house, and cook, and… I can’t believe it!”

“I do what I have to do.”

“How long?”

Terry glanced off to the side. The fire glinted in his eyes like it was sparkling on sheetmetal. “I never knew my mom. She… died when I was young. Not long after I was born. It was basically my dad and my grandpa raising me.” He smiled gently. “My grandpa was good. He was a good man. He loved… loved me. But he died about four years ago, and I’ve only lived with my dad ever since.”

“Four…” Marin’s brows furrowed. “So you’ve had to live like this… since you were ten?”

“I guess.”

Marin’s blue eyes shimmered and wavered in the firelight. She breathed, and it was a hitched, halting breath. “Someone needs to do something. You can’t… live like this. It’s not right. I’ll tell my mom! She can contact the city and—”

“And what?” said Terry, his voice dropping an octave, sounding more like a growl or a snarl with every word. “And what happens? They send some investigator around, find out how… how awful my dad is. And then what? I’ll get taken away. I’ll get put into some foster home. I’ll leave the neighborhood. They might even take me out of the city. Everything I’ve ever known, since as long as I’ve been alive, would go away.” He fixed her with a stare that made her spine tingle. “I’d leave school, too. I’d go away. I don’t… want that. Do you?”

“I…”

“Please. Please.” Terry was no longer snarling. He had a soft and gentle voice now. “Please. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave…” He looked straight down and shoved a huge chunk of fish into his mouth.

Marin’s heart was pounding. She waited until he’d chewed, and swallowed. “You don’t want to leave…”

“You three,” said Terry. His eyes did that shift again, that twitch, where they seemed less copper and more bronze. It was so strange to watch when it happened. He fixed her with a stare that rooted her in place. “Please. You three. You. Ardo. Saera. I don’t…” He blinked, but his gaze was no less intense afterwards. “It’s weird, and dumb. But you three, I care about more than I care about most people. I don’t know why. It’s weird, I know. I don’t know why. But I love seeing you three every day at school. You… you matter. And I don’t want to lose that, and I know I would if somebody found out about my dad.” He glared at her again, but there was no malice in his eyes. “I know it’s bad. I know that. I know my dad is awful. I know everything. You know I’m not stupid.” He breathed out very hard. “But I know… I feel… that if things changed they would change in a bad way. It would be worse, what would happen to me. And now… you three. You three make me absolutely sure I don’t want anything to change. Because I…” he looked away from her again. “I know it’s weird. I can’t really explain it.”

Marin had been flirting with boys since she was in elementary school. Marin had known what it felt like to draw in a boy’s attention. She knew what it was like to have a crush, to feel love and lust for a boy her age (or younger, or older). She’d had boyfriends in middle school. But what happened in her chest now, as she stared at Terry, was not like that. Her heart moved with a love she was not familiar with. It was not a crush. It was something different. Something that was not a crush and yet it made her chest ache. She looked at Terry and she could not ignore him. It was like how she could not ignore Saera.

“I… understand,” she said. She stuffed a piece of fish into her mouth.

“You do?”

“No,” she said. “I really don’t. But… it feels right. Somehow… what you say makes sense.”

“Hmm,” he said. He chuckled. “So… please don’t say anything to your mom.”

“I won’t,” she said. Then she said, “But I want to tell Saera and Ardo.” Marin’s eyebrows rose when she caught herself mentioning Ardo’s name. Did she care about Ardo, too, the way she suddenly found herself caring about Terry? She shoved that thought aside.

“Actually, yeah, tell them,” said Terry. “Like I said, you three… you’re so important to me. That’s why when you showed up here I wasn’t really mad. I wish things had gone better… you know, with you and my dad. But I’m not mad.” He smiled. “It was actually nice to see you.”

“You too,” said Marin. She looked down. Her plate was empty. “And… thanks for dinner.”

“You’re welcome,” said Terry. He smiled. She smiled back. There was one last chunk of fish on Terry’s plate, and he scooped it up and ate it, chewing slowly, softly, silently.

When he was done he began to pack up. The firelight was dying, but there was still plenty of the ruddy embers and the crimson light they cast. Terry put the plates, the knife, the jars and containers of spices, back into his pack. He put the skillet in last of all, careful that its weight and size did not crush anything else in the bag. He gently set the trap back into the pond, opening its mouth first, then slowly letting it sink beneath the black and lacquered surface of the water. Then, only then, did he pick up a bucket that had been set beneath another bush. He scooped a huge load of water into it, and with little ceremony he dumped the water all over the embers, extinguishing them with a burst of smoke and steam.

Terry put the bucket back where he’d left it. He blew upwards out of his mouth and said, “Ugh.”

“What?” asked Marin.

“My hair,” he said. “It’s getting long, I need to have it cut soon.”

“Oh,” said Marin. “Yeah, my hair needs cutting soon, too.”

“There’s a retired barber who lives a few houses over. I catch fish for him, and in return he cuts my hair once a month.”

“You barter for haircuts?”

“We get some money from the state,” he said. “But I mostly spend it on groceries and utilities. There’s not much left over by the time those are paid for, so I try to save money where I can.” He hefted his bag over his shoulder. “Come on, I know you need to get home.” He began to walk, back the way they had come, Marin following right behind him in the darkness of the ravine.

Very shortly, they had tramped up the wall of the ravine and back onto the overgrown lawn in front of Terry’s house. The stars were gleaming overhead, undeterred by the streetlights that cast their halfhearted glow onto the nearby road.

“Probably time for you to text your mom,” said Terry.

Marin pulled out her phone. She was shocked at how late it was. She had barely noticed the time going by.

>Mom, I’m ready to be picked up!

>That was a long dinner. I’m on my way.

“Okay,” said Marin. “She’s coming.”

“Do you want me to wait with you?” asked Terry.

“No, I know you have dishes to do,” she replied. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“Yes, mother,” said Terry. He chuckled. Marin chuckled too. He turned to her. “I don’t—”

Marin moved faster than she could think. She barreled into him and wrapped her arms around him, clutching him tightly against herself. Her breath hitched. “If you ever need anything, tell me. Please! Anything, okay?”

“I don’t—”

“Please! Promise me!”

And now it was Terry’s turn to feel that feeling, that strange feeling, that feeling that was not a crush, that was not romance, and yet made his chest tighten, his heart ache. He wrapped his arms around Marin, returning her embrace. “I promise,” he said. They held in place, just for a moment. Just for a moment, their hearts beat in perfect sync.

“I’ve got to get started on the dishes,” he said, moving a bit. They released each other. Terry turned, but not before he met her sapphire eyes with his copper ones, one last time. “See you at school on Monday.”

“Definitely,” said Marin. And, with that, Terry turned again, and headed back towards his front door. She watched him go. She noticed, all of a sudden, that his field jacket had epaulets, and that these were even arrayed with golden thread, woven into them, such that one could see them in the dark: an insignia of command. Then he opened the door, and shut it. Marin stared at that door, at the house in which she’d seen so much.

She sniffed.

Five minutes later, the black car with its lighted interior pulled up. Marin walked towards it, and its door slid open automatically at her arrival. “Hey, darling!” said Bellona, smiling at her daughter. “That was some dinner. You’re never out this late!”

“I… I know…” said Marin, climbing into the car.

Bellona eyed her daughter, and frowned. “Marin? Is everything all right? You look like you’ve been crying.”

Marin wiped her bloodshot eyes. “I’m fine, mom.”

Marin poised herself at the mirror, knees bent, ankles tense. She stared at her own reflection, met her own sapphire gaze with an intensity that came out of her own heart. She breathed intensely, but silently, in and out and in and out and in.

“Are you ready?” Ms. Olga asked.

“Yes,” she said, softly, but firmly.

The music came on the speakers above.

“Begin.”

Marin swirled away, and turned, and danced. She rose on her toes and twirled, and spun, and pirouetted, then leapt, and landed on her toes again and bent and spun and raised her arms. As the music came, and swelled, with its strings and its horns, Marin went through her routine with speed and precision. The angles of her knees, her ankles, her elbows, her wrists, all swum and shifted perfectly, as she spun, she twirled, she leapt, she bent, she bowed. She gave a pirouette and leapt and gracefully was on her toes, to bend and move into a pas de chat that led in turn into a vaulting leap that took both feet off of the ground, but on her toes she landed, stepping, moving, moving in an enchainment, forwards and then backwards in en arriére, and stopped, and turned, and spun, and raised, then lowered—and she bowed.

And blue eyes came up, rimmed in sweat. She looked fitful, worried. But Ms. Olga smiled and said, “Perfect.”

“Yes!” said Marin loudly, pumping her fists.

“So much better than last week,” said Ms. Olga. “I don’t know what’s come over you, Marin, but I am glad it did.”

“I love it when everything is perfect,” said Marin.

“Well, you have certainly perfected this. You’re ready to start learning a new routine. We can begin on Monday.” Ms. Olga looked up at the wall. “Our hour is up. Just in time, too.” She bowed. “Congratulations again, Marin. I am very impressed.”

Marin bowed in turn. “Thanks, Ms. Olga. I’m happy to have met your expectations.” Then she waved, and headed for the exit.

“How was it, Marin?” asked Bellona as her daughter piled into the car.

“I did it! Ms. Olga said I was perfect!”

“Congratulations, sweetie. I know how that must make you feel.”

“I feel awesome!” said Marin, beaming with a smile. “I’m the best!”

Bellona’s face, unseen by her daughter, changed for just a moment. For just a moment, it lost its smile, lost its warmth, lost its easy gaze. For just a moment a look passed over Bellona’s face: cold, hard, searching, with eyes that peered keenly at Marin.

But only for a moment. Then she was, again, a doting, smiling mother. “Well, sweetie, let’s go home. I’ve got gnocchi waiting for us.”

“Yay! Gnocchi!” said Marin with delight. The self-driving car pulled out of the dance studio’s parking lot, and headed down the road where it had driven dozens of times before.

But this time, for once, Marin did not glance idly out the window. This time she looked, careful, at the houses that passed. Knowing that eventually she would see—there. There it was. Terry’s house passed by in about five seconds. But she’d seen it clearly.

“Hey, mom?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“We’re not doing anything tomorrow, are we?”

Terry was watching an artistic video on his phone, early in the afternoon on Sunday. He’d already been reading for hours, and now needed some electronic stimulus. His father had spent all night drinking, and had cursed heavily at Terry when Terry had finally dragged him to bed. But, fortunately, his drunken night meant that he was in terrible shape today—fortunately, because this meant Terry had barely seen him. He’d merely tended to his father a bit, making sure he had plenty of water, that he had painkillers for his headache, that he didn’t vomit all over his bedroom. But his father had spent the entire morning and noontide slipping in and out of consciousness, which had left Terry with a blissful amount of free time.

But he had to hit pause on the video. A knock-knock-knock came at the front door. His hackles rose. They weren’t expecting visitors. They never got visitors, least of all on weekends. Who could it be?

The knock-knock-knock came again. Setting his phone down, he moved swiftly through the house, lit vibrantly by the noon sun. In the sunshine the house was not as gloomy as it otherwise was. It even approached cheerfulness. He came to the door, and pried it open. And his copper eyes widened. “Marin?”

“Heya!” said Marin. She was wearing a dress of gray wool. She had a backpack slung over her shoulder.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to do something nice for you!” she said brightly. Terry stared at her. He saw Marin’s cheerfulness waver. Just for a moment. But she redoubled her smile. “Come on, let me be nice to you, like you were nice to me.”

“Um… sure,” said Terry. He stood aside and let her come through the door. “But what do you mean?”

Terry shivered slightly as Marin reached two fingers up and gripped a lock of his hair, of the heavy brown curtains that hung down his forehead. “This,” she said. “You need a haircut, right?”

“W-Well, y-yes…”

“Great! Let me do it for you.”

“You can cut hair?”

“Yep! My mom taught me how. Come on, let’s go outside!”

“Well…” he twitched, and was uneasy. But her smile caught him, and infected him, and he was suddenly happy. “Sure. Come on.”

He led her through the house and into the backyard. Conveniently there was a chair on their concrete patio. “Sit here!” said Marin, gesturing to it, and Terry complied. “Now…” she said, fingers again moving through his brown tresses. He could not suppress a shiver; she had a soft and nimble touch. “You pretty much like this hairstyle, right? You just wanted it trimmed?”

“Y-Yeah,” he said. “I like my hair. I just need a cut. I tend to get my hair cut every month, right at the month’s beginning.”

“Every month…” said Marin gently. She zipped open her bag. She produced a bottle, and she squirted water into Terry’s hair. “Gotta get it damp at the roots,” she said. “Just hold still, I’ll tell you when I’m done.”

Soon Terry heard the clack of scissors, and his copper eyes twitched down to see flecks of dark brown hair falling to the pavement. And he felt an overwhelming sense of peace. Comfort washed over him, like waves of the surf at the lake. He sighed, and something that had been tight inside him for who knew how long grew loose, and slack.

Before he knew it, time had passed, and the clacking of the scissors stopped. His eyes were closed. He did not realize he had closed them. He opened them now. Marin was standing in front of him, holding a mirror up. “Well? What do you think?”

Terry looked in the mirror. And he smiled. “Perfect.”