Damian was walking down the gravel road to the bus pick up point. The sun was shining (a lovely fact that had already turned feral for most of the summer workers), the birds were singing (again, now feral because they kept you up at night), the breeze was nice (but you froze your tits off at night—so you win some, you lose some). Damian almost felt like whistling. He licked his lips, puckered them and—with a feeling that mimicked being punched in the gut, Damian’s whole world was pulled away. It was like the colors in the sky and the ground and the trees were melting together at a rapid pace. And Damian was being pulled backward in all this—yanked with a nastiness that felt like a harpoon through his stomach. He was a whale: shot, tethered, and now pulled back to the boat.

When Damian finally got his bearings, he was somehow back at the steps of the dorm buildings. He opened his mouth to say something, but quickly closed it. He stepped slowly from where his feet were planted firmly next to a handrail; everything was fine. Maybe it was just another wave of confusion from all the partying last night. He tried to remember something (or, more specifically make up something) about his family’s history with vertigo. He had an uncle on his mother’s side who could never stand for long. It was probably affecting him now. It probably got worse with drinking. Damian would just have to make sure he watched himself from now on. And maybe he’d go talk to some doctors.

A boy, the bartender at the restaurant Damian worked at—Orpheus—ran down the stairs. He looked in a hurry, but Damian followed him anyway.

“Orpheus!” He shouted. The boy turned, shook his head, and forced a smile.

“Hi, Damian. Listen, I’m sort of in a rush…”

“Oh, no, I get. You are not working, no?”

“No, I start at six tonight. I’m working late. But I need to run into town for a few things, and…” he stopped, unable to unravel more of an odd lie.

“Sure. I walk with you? To the autobus?”

Orpheus appeared to take pause. He rubbed his temples, shifted his feet. All of this body language, Damian, of course could not read. He didn’t understand that no, it was not okay to walk with Orpheus, because Orpheus had just found the dead body of a girl his roommate definitely made out with, and likely (if somewhat accidentally) murdered in the shower after standing with it for several minutes. And because it is impossible to be Orpheus, because it is impossible to refuse the hopeful, accepting eyes of Damian Olda—Orpheus, of course, said “yeah, sure, why not?”

They walked down the road in silence for a while. Damian’s English was limited, and Orpheus was quite fixated on knitting together the pieces from the previous night. He’d kissed her, and then… and then?

“You like the party?” Damian asked.

“What? Oh, yeah, I guess. I’m not big on the party scene really. But it was fun, I suppose.”

“Um, may I ask—what is ‘the party scene?’”

“Oh, just drinking and dancing and loud music and all that. I’m a solitary man.”

Damian only nodded, unfortunately catching few words in Orpheus’ sentence. They walked on in silence, until the nerves making Orpheus stretch and tighten his hands a dozen times made him speak. Because maybe if they were talking, he might get the image of the dead body out of his head.

“What about you—did you like the party?”

“Oh me? Yes! Yes, I enjoyed it. I liked…” But Damian couldn’t really think of much he’d liked. While remaining a hopelessly optimistic individual, there was no one thing he could fix onto that was great in the party that Orpheus would have enjoyed as well. The music was too loud, the beer actually tasted like piss (a mistake Damian had made one summer as a boy when his brother gave him a cup of warm, yellow liquid and told him to drink it). The party was fun for Damian—he liked the people and the dancing and the sensory overload. But how could he convince Orpheus of the same thing? That all of the sweat and heat and vomit and piss meant being closer to humanity. It meant a connection that Damian secretly loved. It meant people and friendship and love.

“I hope you got enough sleep. It was a loud night—I’m still tired.” Orpheus offered.

“Oh, yes. Quite sleepy.” He paused, before deciding to add. “And dizzy.”

“Well, drinking will do that to you, I suppose.” Orpheus smiled a bit lopsidedly. He wanted to talk about more—to quiet the horrible events of this morning, but he was drawing a blank. It was like he’d forgotten how to converse, how to talk to normal people. It didn’t help that he’d hidden the body in the linen closet.

“Why’d you hide the body?”

“What?”

“I said—why didn’t you enjoy the party?”

“Oh,” Orpheus laughed nervously. “Just. Bored. I’m not big on drinking, and the place smelled like piss. And when it gets all hot, it smells like warm piss.”

Damian wasn’t really following. “I’m sorry… I don’t…”

“It was gross, uh… nasty? Caca?”

Damian smiled and nodded. He could understand that one. The place was kind of nasty.

Both boys took deep breaths, both boys sighed. Orpheus kicked at the gravel in the road, trying to block out most things. He tried to concentrate on the glaring sunlight—on the headache it gave him so early in the morning after an awful hangover, but it didn’t really work. And he desperately tried to ignore what had happened immediately after he’d found Hera in the shower.

“Oh, fucking—Jesus!” Orpheus stumbled backward out of the shower, landing wet and naked on the cold tile floor of the bathroom. He stood quickly, but didn’t open the shower curtain for a while. “Hera?” He called stupidly. “Hera, are you ok?”

“Did you take a shower this morning?” Damian was asking him.

“Hm?” It was an odd question, really, even if Oprheus weren’t thinking about it. Who asks someone if they took a shower?

“Your hair—it’s wet.” Damian smiled. “I love showers. In Spain I could take shower for three minutes, then done. Here—there is hot water forever.”

“Yeah, yeah, I took a shower. It was nice.”

He pulled back the curtain just enough to stick his arm through to the faucet. He didn’t look, he pressed his eyes shut. But he turned off the water. The silence in the bathroom was now awful.

The door of the locker room was just beginning to open, and Orpheus slammed into it. “Sorry! Maintenance—go down the hall.” The boy attempting access wasn’t convinced. “Listen, fuck off, man. Go down the hall—GO DOWN THE HALL.”

Orpheus slammed the door shut and locked it. He grabbed a towel, and stood in front of the shower curtain.

“Do you know what vertigo is?” Damian asked.

“Vertigo? Like that crazy dizzy feeling people get? Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

“Do you know the sintomas—eh, the symptoms?”

“Not off the top of my head, no. But, maybe… dizziness?”

Damian nodded, taking the suggestion as a doctor’s appraisal. “I don’t feel so good today,” he confessed.

“Alcohol will do that to you, my friend.”

He pulled open the plastic curtain that smelled of piss. He hoped against hope that it had all been an awful hallucination. That everything was a made up image in his head—albeit a sick made up image—but made up nonetheless. When he pulled open the shower curtain, his heart sank. There was Hera Greece. And she was most certainly dead.

“Oh, no, I don’t feel so good. I don’t think it’s the liquor.” Damian looked terrible. He wasn’t walking straight and he’d doubled over a little.

“Hey, buddy, wanna sit down? Here come sit—”

“Oh, no. Not again—”

Both boys spoke at the same time. Both tried to explain and help the other. And both were cut off before their sentences finished. Damian because he’d been pulled back to the boys locker room in the dorm. And Orpheus because his new friend had just disappeared right before his eyes.

Maybe having a dead girl in the closet didn’t constitute the worst day ever anymore.

Orpheus tried to sleep, but it was getting harder to figure out this daylight nonsense. Sure, most rooms were equipped with heavy duty curtains that blocked out almost all signs of light, but they had to be positioned just right. If just a tiny sliver of light peaked through, the whole thing went to shit.

That was happening now, of course. The smallest ray of sunlight landed right on Orpheus’ eye. He sat up, adjusted the curtains—pulled at the thick, woolen fabric. He paid careful attention to the pleats, to the natural rolls of the knitting, hoping it might help it lay perfectly. Light spilled out of the bottom corner. Orpheus pulled the bottom corner—letting light in through the middle part between the curtains. He tugged at this gently and light spilled out the left side. He pulled at the hem, foregoing all care and regard for the fabric. When light once again cut through the middle split in the ugly, light brown shade, Orpheus completely ignored the fact that he was twenty-one years old, and he yanked on them in a fit of rage. They fell into a heap on top of him and his bed. He sighed, and threw them at the corner of the room.

Sleep was a sly vixen of a thing, and today she clearly was furious with Orpheus. She got revenge for his infidelity—for his late nights without her. He stood up out of bed, and went to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

Orpheus turned on the faucet in the bathroom, just beginning to patch together to events from the night before. It had been around three in the morning that he’d found Hera. After that things had gotten blurry. It seemed as though they’d kissed, but it was impossible to figure out how—or more pressingly, why? He rubbed his face and stepped into the shower. He’d found Eros in an odd, somewhat compromising position. He’d walked out of the door, and down the hall. He’d shouted Hera’s name. She’d turned and laughed. And it was right around then that Orpheus got fuzzy. Everything about it was off—like someone had planted a new memory into his head. His emotions felt forced, his movements jolted, his decisions not his own. She had smiled and approached him. He could feel the words coming out of his mouth, his protests, but he didn’t really believe them—he just didn’t rightly buy that they were his own thoughts and desires.

Orpheus reached down to his feet, absently itching his ankles. The water was higher than usual in the showers this morning—were they not draining properly? Later, Orpheus will blame the previous three minutes on early morning sleepiness, on a hell of a hangover, and most importantly on his own confusion with the night before. Because it wasn’t until then, with his hair all full of shampoo suds, and his fingers just beginning to prune, that he noticed Hera lying in the shower with him, the blood stain from the stab wound now washing away with the scalding hot water of the morning shower.

-

At first, after vomiting three more times, Archimedes had headed in the general direction of his dorm room. When, however, the voices proceeded to get louder and more frequent the closer he got to people, he promptly turned himself around and headed in the general direction of fucking middle of Nowheresville. It was a great idea in theory. In fact, it had been an amazing idea entirely—until Archimedes had gotten lost.

It wasn’t so much the fear that worried him, or the ravenous bears or the high chance that one could die out here that was the problem. It was the lack of company. Unfortunately for (what he now assumed to be crazed reactions to his final night of debauchery—some weird STD he’d picked up that made him go permanently crazy around normal people) Archimedes was in no position to find people. They just overwhelmed him now. Apparently before he had been whelmed—now, he was over social capacity. This was a disaster.

Archimedes plopped down on the grass. He absently picked at the grass, blatantly ignoring the rules outlined in their first meeting with the park rangers.

“Our number one goal in the park—in all of Alaska, really, once we step off the trails—is leave no trace, you got that?” The ranger had been a stout man with a moustache that almost rivaled Elmer Fudd. “Leave no fucking trace. I will find the traces you leave, and I will un-trace you.”

Archimedes dug his fingers into the ground, remembering something somewhere in some far-off geology class about permafrost. Maybe he’d find some. Maybe he could dig himself a little shallow grave, and bury himself in the permafrost with the bones of the long-extinct mastadons. He’d chill against the permafrost, find company with the fossils of animals he’d never imagine. And years from now, hundreds of thousands of years from now, someone would dig him up (maybe, if he were lucky mistake him for crude oil) and remember nothing of him. Because he’d like that more than being experimented on as the first man to get a sexually transmitted mental disease. He’d like that more than spending his own eternity in a padded room, whispering to himself, blocking out the voices in his own, kamikaze head.

He flopped down onto the ground, letting his arms flail dramatically from his torso. He pressed his fingers deeper into the dirt, rolled around in the dead pine needles. At the height of this drama he heard a twig snap not far off. He turned to see a girl walking in his general direction. He was so surprised by her disheveled nature, by the dark roots of her hair, by the dark circles under her eyes, that he felt a renewed sense of self-worth. Even if he heard voices in his head—and least he didn’t look as shitty as her.

“Archimedes?” The troll—ahem, girl—appeared to know his name.

“Do I know you?”

“Are you and your inverted twat blind?” The girl stood over him. “It’s me—Penelope.”

“Honey, stealing someone’s identity only works in the movies, and for very unattractive, very intelligent nerds. You are no Penelope Itahca.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Archimedes, it’s me. Something happened last night, and I…” She stopped, ran a hand over the bridge of her nose again. “Something changed.”

“According to your story, a lot of things changed. Penelope, sweetheart, you look like an old hag.”

“Oh yeah, well you’re covered in moose shit. Which, I shouldn’t be surprised by, I suppose.” She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes.

“Oh my god, it is you!” Archimedes took her hand in his own muddy one (which she promptly pulled away), and guided her down to sit next to him. “What happened?”

“If I knew, I’d fix it!” She picked at an acne scab, which started to bleed. “This is awful! What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? I can’t do anything if I look like this! I’m hideous!”

Archimedes didn’t say anything, but decided to let his silence agree with her.

“What the fuck were you doing rolling around in the mud for?” Penelope asked, trying to change the subject.

“Oh, that.” He said, as though trying to bury oneself is something every normal person does at least once a week. “I might have contracted a slight disease wherein I hear voices in my head when people are around.” Penelope instinctively drew back. “But no worries. I just planned on staying out here in the wild until I got eaten by something. Preferably a rabbit. I’d imagine it wouldn’t hurt so much being eaten to death by a rabbit. Thought, on second thought, it might take a while.”

“Hear voices?”

“Yeah, and feel just absolutely shitty when people are around.” Archimedes paused, and picked at the dirt some more. “I saw some chick—uglier than you, which is saying something—do the walk of shame back to her room, and I felt so absolutely awful for her that I vomited five times. Not only did I hate vomiting, but I quite strongly disliked the empathy. It gave me the willies. My emotions weren’t my own, and I kind of want to claw out someone’s eyes because of it.” He paused before, “is that what you feel like when you’re on the rag?”

“Ha, ha.” Penelope closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and rubbed her face. “I am going to kill someone.”

Archimedes gaped at her. He couldn’t help himself, it was just so surprising, and how quickly it had, just—

“Stop. Pointing, ok? Don’t you think I’ve seen what I look like enough? Don’t you think I’ve made that exact face twelve times already this morning, just looking in my own mirror? I don’t need you guffawing at me for the rest of my life.”

“Not the rest of your life, sweetie. Not ever again.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

Luckily, Archimedes always kept a mirror on him at all times. He pulled it from his back pocket, and opened it at Penelope.

“I’m… I’m…”

“Normal? Average?” Archimedes suggested. “Looking like my number one fag hag with perks?”

“Beautiful again!” She grabbed the mirror, and held it remarkably close to her features. “Look at my tiny pores, and my button nose! Look at my perfectly plump lips and expertly crafted eyebrows! Thank God! I spent over three thousand dollars on this face, just last week.”

Archimedes tore back his compact mirror and snapped it shut. “If I’d have known beauty was going to bring you such joy, I just would have shown off my own face.”

“Give it back!” She reached for the mirror. “I want to make sure everything’s normal again.”

“Calm your tits, woman!” Archimedes shouted, but Penelope just rolled her eyes. “You look fine. All normal. All fixed.”

Penelope grinned. “Thank God. I was afraid that was going to last forever.”

“Hooray. Your flared up skin peel has now flared down again. Sound the alarms. Hooray.” Archimedes did not sound impressed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, some of us have real issues to deal with. Like the second-hand regret I feel for having slept with that d-bag last night.”

“Boo hoo. Get over yourself, whore.” Penelope was checking herself out in the reflection of her cell phone. She set it down and looked at Archimedes. “You’re just going through a phase—like me. It’ll go away, I promise.”

Archimedes sighed. “Please excuse my total lack of confidence.” He fell dramatically back onto the dirt. He rolled over, not looking at Penelope. “Don’t think anything—or I might become a second-hand bitch. Oh, wait.”

“Stop being such a self-pitying loser. We’ll figure this stupid thing out. And then you can go back to whining about things that matter—like taking your meds on time.”

Archimedes didn’t reply. He just shifted a little on the dead pine needles. He, of course, ignored the tiny pinpricks of pain in his arms and sides. Because the point of all this was to prove that his argument was valid, and that it was useless to return to the dorms. Penelope just didn’t understand the gravity of the situation—she didn’t realize just how awful it was. She thought it was a joke, she thought it was something to be laughed at and fixed. But the thoughts of others, were just off limits, ok? The thoughts of others—

Archimedes sat up, not realizing that Penelope was still speaking. When she saw his sudden shift she stopped (thankfully).

“What is it?”

“I just… I just…” He stood up quickly, brushed the brown needles from his arms. He ran in the direction of the dorm.

“What the hell, Archimedes?!”

“I just…” He paused, shouting, “I just realized something amazing!”

Penelope Ithaca woke up in bed. Her alarm clock played the Westminster bells chimed softly, hitting the notes ever so quietly, and gradually growing louder. It was nice. She imagined herself as Kate Middleton, walking out of the church doors with Prince William on her arm, her whole kingdom watching through the camera crews. Oh to be royal felt just lovely.

She pulled the eye mask from her face and stretched with a practiced formed. Waking up the morning was just such an ugly business really, that Penelope had taken it upon herself to try to look good doing it. She’d sit up slowly and wipe the sleep from her eyes with a soft caress. She would press her wrists out into the air, leaning toward the light streaming through her window. She’d smile, place her feet onto the (ideally cherry hardwood) floor with pointed toes, and bounce to her dresser. And this morning, as Penelope bounced toward her dresser the events of the previous night came rushing back to her in an awful flood of emotion. She felt incredibly dizzy just thinking about it. Her veins pushed against her skin, pulsing with something Penelope knew as strength, but felt as something entirely different.

She rubbed the palms of her hands across her cheekbones, pressed her fingers along her forehead. Something was off—something wasn’t right. It felt awful this feeling. A bulk that made no sense, a tension in her shoulders that itched with knots. Her legs took more effort to move, and she was more aware of how her abdomen moved. It felt new and odd, but somehow—exhilarating. Her muscles were thick tendons of tissue, she could feel them move and lift. She felt so aware it made her a little lightheaded. It was as though her whole brain was focused on every aspect of her anatomy that it couldn’t pick just one. It was a feeling that Penelope could only describe as terrifying.

She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. Apparently this was what a hangover from shitty Alaskan beer felt like. Honestly, did no one know what Stella Artois was? Or Smithwicks? Hell, Penelope might have even enjoyed a nine-dollar bottle of champagne over the shit she had last night.

Her fingers drifted along her temples and forehead, and Penelope’s heartbeat quickened. Her skin felt oily. She could pick at the new pimples that had cropped up along her hairline. She forced herself to look in the mirror. When had her nose gotten so big? And what were those caterpillars doing above her eyes? What about the dark circles? And the discolored spots on her cheeks? What the hell was this?

And more importantly—how did she make it stop?

-

“You’re late.” Eros’ manager tapped his watch. It was seven past eight in the morning. Considering that Eros had just woken seventeen minutes before, he thought this was a pretty decent timeline. Of course, he didn’t say this aloud, despite a strong desire.

He mumbled an apology and opened his locker. An extra uniform (that certainly didn’t belong to Eros) was curled into a ball in the top half—it probably hadn’t been washed in several years.

“This does not happen again.” Mr. Chaso hovered next to him. Eros sighed, just wishing for a minute of understanding—that for once in his life he wouldn’t have disappointed someone, that they might have just understood that he was under a lot of stress, and moving to another state, in the middle of nowhere was fucking hard, and damn it, did no one have compassion?

“Eros,” he jumped when Chaso placed his hand on Eros’ shoulder. “Listen, I know this is a little hard—what being in a new town and trying to work and make friends. I understand, really I do. I started off my whole career through the summer Denali work program. It’s hard, I get that. I’ll let you slide on this one. Chin up, kid.”

Ok, that had to be a coincidence… right?

Eros watched his manager leave through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Chaso turned and waved through the window. He gave Eros and thumbs up before going through the second set of doors.

That was certainly odd, but not entirely unbelievable. Sure, Mr. Chaso was known for being a hard ass, but we all had to break at some point, right? You can only be a twit for so long before it started to get into your blood and give you a heart attack. Chaso had had that little heart attack, apparently. It was merely a coincidence that he’d happened to say exactly what Eros had been thinking, right?

Eros slammed his locker door shut, and walked into the kitchen. Had it really only been twenty minutes since he’d woken up? Fuck you, long day. Fuck you.

-

“Dad?” Artemis cradled the phone in the crook of her shoulder and her neck while she rummaged through her backpack. The reception was awful on the bus into Denali, and the bumpiness certainly didn’t help. “Dad, can you hear me?”

“Of—sweetheart! But—outside—looking—squirrel scat!”

“Dad, I’m coming into town, I need to see you. I don’t think I can stay here anymore. I wanted to spend the summer with you, Dad, but I can’t stay in the dorms. I want to talk about going to Aunt Dione’s for the summer. I know it isn’t ideal, but I was hoping to get out of here.” Her father didn’t say anything. “Look, I’m sorry, ok? I just feel gross about this whole thing. Kind of like Luke when he’s trying to figure out The Force. And yeah, I know, Dad, Luke kept working at it, and totally made it work, but what if he hadn’t? What if he hadn’t figured out how to use it, and then just got in his space ship and went home to Tatooine? And lived out the rest of his days with his aunt and uncle in peace? The Rebellion could have gotten on just fine without him—just like you’ll get on fine without me!” Still he said nothing. “Dad?” She looked at her phone. CALL LOST.

“Great,” Artemis threw her phone into her bag. It clattered into several pieces. “Great!”

“The Rebellion would have completely lost without Luke.” A voice said from the seat in front of her. Artemis didn’t say anything. “Honestly, that was one of the worst arguments I’ve heard.” A face appeared above the seat. “And my father’s a politician.”

“Wait, don’t I—” Artemis recognized the boy. He was the one from the party—the DJ.

“Prometheus.” He extended a hand, which Artemis did not take. “We met last night.”

“I remember. You wouldn’t turn the music down, and your friend Apollo took me downstairs to a fight club where my roommate treated me like I was the Death Eater dummy from the Room of Requirement and kicked the living crap out of me.” Artemis purposely didn’t mention the kiss. “See this bruise? I blame you.”

“Well good for me, then, because I don’t see a bruise.”

“What?”

“You don’t have a bruise, sweetheart. Just eyes that remind me of Lily Potter.”

“I’m going to ignore that.” She pulled out her netbook, took a quick look at herself in the webcam. Somehow, remarkably, there was no bruise. She pressed her cheek, and it didn’t even feel tender. “Well it hurt, so there’s that. I can blame you for both the emotional and physical pain—even if you can’t see it today.”

Prometheus only shrugged. He looked out the window, resting his chin in his hands folded in the back of the tall bus seat. Someone had drawn two breasts and burned out the nipples with a cigarette just below his pinky finger. He looked at her again.

“You had to admit it was fun though right? You got to be crazy and a little adventurous. You stepped outside your comfort zone—just like Rose Tyler when she first got into the TARDIS.”

“First of all, Rose Tyler initially declined being the Doctor’s companion, so your argument is rather weak. Secondly—no, I did not have a good time. It was not fun; it was terrifying. I didn’t wear any sort of protective gear—like most people would in a fight. I never got to use my inhaler, which made matters worse. I was convinced I’d lost a tooth and that I’d broken my nose. And this morning I woke up passed out on a concrete floor next to a girl in a pickle costume. So no, I didn’t have fun.”

“Adventure?” Prometheus asked, ever so sweetly.

“Bugger. Off.”

“Sooner or later, Rose, it will hit you. You’ll get back into that TARDIS, and you’ll fly through all time and space.”

“If by ‘TARDIS’ you mean basement, and by ‘time and space’ you mean a makeshift, teenage fight club you are sorely mistaken. Thankfully, I won’t have to step back into your creepy TARDIS ever again. I’m leaving this awful place.”

“What?” Prometheus stood up straighter.

“You heard me—I’m leaving. I hate this place. I’m going to spend the summer in Hawaii with my aunt doing underwater basket weaving.”

“But you can’t leave!” Prometheus was sitting next to her now, invading her (she had to admit, very large) personal bubble. “The summer is just getting started. I have a terabyte worth of music I was going to play. That’s over 500 days worth of music. It can be 500 days of summer—all the time!”

Artemis shook her head, looking out the window. “I’d prefer it not.”

She did her best to ignore him for the rest of the bus ride.

Penelope hated girls that made out with each other. Seriously? Can you think of no other way to get men? You have to pretend to be a lesbian? Please.

She walked down the basement stairs, already bored with the evening. She had hoped that a fight club would spice things up. And maybe there was an attractive man somewhere in the mix. An attractive, sweaty man like Brad Pitt or Edward Norton. Or at least one with a defined jaw line. Instead she found two chicks making out in the middle of a circle of men shouting. Then the shorter one, with big, frizzy hair passed out. The crowd cheered.

“Aw, young love. So beautiful is it not?” Archimedes had followed Penelope down the stairs.

“Your kind has never been less attractive.” Penelope smiled, and continued down the stairs. “Besides, you know those two were only doing it to give some big ass boners to the dudes watching.”

“Which was a beautiful primer for me!” Archimedes clapped his hands like a little boy.

“Didn’t I tell you to go away?”

“I don’t remember that. Besides, you have no idea how great of a wingman I can be. I’ll tell any guy here how great you are at the sex. I’ll even pretend like we did it.”

Penelope blinked. “Do you understand how to interact with people? Like… at all?”

“Please, darling, I’m great at this. Watch.” Archimedes approached the crowd of men. A new fight has already started, and few people were paying them any attention.

Penelope knew this was an awful idea. Her confidence in Archimedes stood somewhere between nonexistent and inconsequential. She could be sure she would not find anyone to speak to, let alone make out with, if Archimedes was within a ten-foot radius of her. But there was some part of her that couldn’t help but watch the train wreck. Besides, she wasn’t going to fuck any of these guys anyway.

(Shit, three months was a long ass time.)

Archimedes tapped a boy on the shoulder. He whispered in his ear, and pointed at Penelope. The boy smiled, waved at Penelope. She (somewhat grudgingly) waved back. More whispering, more pointing. Penelope rolled her eyes and leaned against the stairwell. At least this is something, sweetheart. At least you’re not sitting alone in your room.

“Hey,” the boy had approached her without notice. And, she had to admit, he wasn’t horrible looking. He smiled a bit lopsidedly, and he could use with a real haircut, but he didn’t smell of body odor and marijuana, which was a really step up in the crowd. “I’m Hector.”

Penelope nodded. She had a rule of never speaking until the opposite party had said at least twenty words. She’d learned this from Cosmo and late night television.

“I just wanted you to know, I think you’re quite pretty just the way you are. Archimedes told me about your eating issues. I had a sister who was anorexic. It really destroyed our family. So I just wanted you to know that I think you’re beautiful. And I don’t think you need to lose weight at all!”

“Fuck off.”

“I just—”

“FUCK. OFF. HECTOR.”

Archimedes giggled without remorse for a solid two minutes. He tried to hold it in, but it just made it worse. He knew this, of course, but he couldn’t help himself. He loved it. Loved it so fucking much.

Penelope approached him. She folded her arms over her chest, and waited for him to finish laughing. She kept a remarkably straight face. She had an anger that coated her mind and skin like the candy shell of an M&M. She could be sweet and hard—and then she’d fucking claw out your eyes.

Finally, when Archimedes finished, she spoke.

“Get this through your head, Archie: We’re. Not. Friends.” She walked away.

“Oh, come on, Pen! You know I was totally joshing you! I couldn’t help myself! It was funny!”

Penelope ignored him, and pushed through the crowd of sweating, shouting people. It wasn’t that she was angry with Archimedes, or even ashamed, or embarrassed. It was the shock and awe that came with the very fact that Penelope Ithaca had never been spoken to in that way. It just—didn’t happen. No one had the audacity, no one had the money or the power. They knew her family, they knew her wealth, they knew what she could do. She had destroyed girls for less in high school. This asshole Archie did not seem to understand the rules that surrounded the Ithaca family. Or if he did, he ignored them. Which was actually somewhat terrifying.

“Hey, sweetie pie.” Penelope looked at the man who now had her wrist in his hand. Hemp necklace. Dreadlocks. Missing front tooth. Eyebrow ring. Ironic muscle tee.

“No.” She stated simply, attempting to pull her wrist away. Apparently, he was stronger than he looked.

“It’s nothing honey, I’m just looking.”

“And touching, you motherfucker. Hands. Off.” Still he wouldn’t let go. This was the part where Penelope’s heartbeat quickened.

“Just want to see you, babe. And touch your soft skin.” She was pretty sure his fingers were beginning to leave bruises.

“Let go, you asshole. You’re hurting me!”

There was a lot of shouting around them. There was screaming and loud music and punching and stomping. Nobody could hear much of poor Penelope Ithaca.

“Let’s get out of here, baby. I’ll get to feel more of your soft skin.”

“You can also feel my knee in your balls if you don’t let go of me.”

“Nah, baby.” Somehow he pulled her through the crowd. And somehow, terrifyingly enough, no one stopped him.

Once out of the crowd, Penelope squirmed violently. “Get your hands off me!”

“Hey, ugly Rastafarian—gets your hands off my friend, here.” Archimedes had taken a hold of Penelope’s other hand.

“Get out of the way, fag.”

“Ah, the classic.” Archimedes stepped in front of Penelope and placed two fingers of the other kid’s chest. Mercifully, the kid had to let go of Penelope’s wrist. “Fuck you, asshole. If you don’t leave this girl alone, I’ll cut off all your hair in your sleep. And maybe I’ll force feed it to some chickens. And Lord knows that’ll be the apocalypse for you. I hear they kick you out if you don’t have the dreadlocks anymore.”

“Fuck you, cocksucker. We were just having a little fun, weren’t we?”

Penelope stepped out from behind Archimedes.

“Touch me again—even think about touching me again—and I will cut off your balls along with all your hair. You forget about me, or I will end you. Got me?”

“Prude cunt.”

He spit at their feet, and left.

No one said anything. The crowd raged on in the background, oblivious to Penelope’s struggle. For a little while it felt like a vacuum. Like the last horrible ten minutes had created a void in just about everything. Penelope felt an icy lump in her chest that made it hard to breathe.

“Are you ok?” Archimedes finally asked.

Penelope looked at him. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“Come on,” he put his hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” She screamed, jerking away.

“I’m sorry!”

“Just…” She stared at him for a moment. She bit her lip, disgusted by the tears she held back. She shook her head, and ran up the stairs.

Archimedes was just about to follow when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned, and Hera smiled.

“I’ve got this, love.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll go help her.”

When Orpheus returned to his dorm the lights were out. The moonlight shone through the dirty window, and he could just make out the shadow of his roommate lying in bed. Orpheus did his best to shuffle his way through the dark. He knew Eros had a girl, and he knew the roommate vibe would go to shit if he interrupted. That was, until he knocked over the bottle of beer on the nightstand.

“Oh, shit!” He whispered. “Sorry, dude!”

There was no response.

“I’m just leaving, man, I promise.”

Again, there was nothing. Not even the sound of movement, or sheets, or breathing.

Orpheus called his roommate’s name. When again there was no response, he turned on the lights.

There was something definitely wrong with Orpheus’ roommate. Eros lay in his bed, not saying a word, and grinning like a child. Of course, you couldn’t say that Eros looked worried, or fucked up—in fact, he looked eerily happy. But that didn’t mean it didn’t freak Orpheus out.

Orpheus shouted at Eros—nothing. He shook him, he hit him, he slapped him—nothing. Eros seemed down for the count.

“What the fuck did you take, man?” Orpheus sat on the edge of the bed. “Should I be worried?”

Eros said nothing.

“That Hera chick seemed like trouble. Unless of course, this is just the greatest orgasm you’ve ever had. In which case, I’m sorry to be interrupting.”

Still Eros said nothing.

“Listen man, you’re scaring the shit out of me, ok? Just, say something so I know I don’t need to call the hospital—or, you know, the cops.”

A tiny whisper escaped Eros’ lips. Orpheus got closer, asked him to repeat it.

“Hera…”

Orpheus swore, and stood up. He paced back and forth in the room, and actually punched the ribbed metal wall.

“Really, dude? I have to go find the chick that boned you?”

“Hera…”

“Oh, fuck me. What is this? Some shitty horror film? I am not amused, Eros.”

“Hera…”

“All right, shut the fuck up already. I’ll go find her, and figure this all out.”

“Hera…”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna go ahead and assume that’s your new way of saying thank you. So you’re welcome—and you owe me, hot shot.”

“Hera…”

“Fuck you.”

-

Artemis found it hard to believe that these type of things happened in real life. In fact, she was just short of pinching herself. Two men, about her age, both stood bleeding in the middle of a large circle of spectators. One of them, a lanky boy with dark hair and a fair face, spit blood and saliva onto the concrete. The other, a toe-headed kid with a little more meat on him, looked up with a puffy face and a blatantly bruised right eye. He lunged at the gangly kid, but missed and tumbled head first into the crowd. Apparently, this was one giant game of dodge ball—but with people.

“What is this?” Artemis shouted.

“What does it look like, sweetheart?” Hera asked with a laugh. “It’s a fight club!”

“But… why?”

Hera and Apollo shared a laugh. They both gave her a pitying smile.

“You are sheltered, aren’t you?”

Artemis shook her head, but didn’t respond.

“So are you going in, Hera?” Apollo asked, reaching for his wallet.

“Probably,” she replied with a grin Artemis couldn’t read. “But let’s get closer.”

Hera took both Artemis and Apollo’s hands and pushed through the crowd. She pulled them all the way to the front of the circle, just as the lanky kid got pinned to the ground and punched repeatedly. Artemis jumped back, narrowly missing a spray of blood. Apollo and Hera shouted their encouragements.

“Shouldn’t somebody stop him?” Artemis yelled. “It doesn’t look so good—what if he kills him!”

“If you’re so worried about it, go in there and save the day,” Hera said coolly.

Artemis didn’t say anything. The Doctor, while a good man, never threw himself into a fight when he could help it. Maybe he’d save the day occasionally, but… Artemis couldn’t imagine either one of them (her or the Doctor) jumping into this fight. She felt an immense sense of relief when the dark haired kid gained the advantage and stood back up. He did not look good, though. His face sustained several cuts that dripped blood onto his chest and the floor. And without a doubt, he had a broken nose somewhere in that mix.

Thankfully another kid stepped in, and declared the meaty kid the winner.

“Oy, Charlie!” The announcer called to the winner, “want another round, mate?”

Charlie shook his head while it hung somewhere between his knees. Charlie didn’t look so great either. The crowd booed.

“Doesn’t look like Charlie’ll be up to it again. He’s fucked as is. Any ladies in this town wanna give Charlie his reward for winning? He did good, this one. Plus, the extra lovin’ Charlie’s got? More cushion for the pushin’!”

The crowd cheered and laughed.

“He’s a real winner, ladies! This is pretty much a one time opportunity to fuck him senseless!”

A group of girls across from them stood laughing hysterically. They pushed a bespeckled girl forward into the circle. She waved with a shy innocence at Charlie.

“And again, we have a winner!”

The crowd shouted—Artemis could make out a few profanities that made her nauseous.

“You two kids have fun,” he threw a condom at Charlie. “And stay safe!”

Charlie and the girl pushed their way through the crowd again, the girl giggling like a mad hyena. There was little hope for them in the future, Artemis was sure of this. They were no Aragorn and Arwin that was a certainty. But the movie version, of course—cause Lord knows Tolkien didn’t much care for the romance plotlines. Which is a shame really, because it was so beautifully told. And even though it was slightly sacrilegious to say (or think) that the movie romance plotline was better than the book, Artemis couldn’t help herself. She wanted a romance like Aragorn and Arwin from the movies, ok? For goodness sakes, they lived forever, and still loved each other! He wore her soul on a necklace! They saved each other’s lives! That was the romance Artemis wanted. Not some condom chucked at her after some awful basement fight club.

“Artemis!” Hera was shouting at her. Wait, she wasn’t the only one shouting. The whole crowd was chanting her name. “Artemis! Artemis! Artemis!”

Somewhere within the previous one hundred and thirteen seconds several terrible things had happened. One: Hera had stepped into the circle for the next fight. Two: when asked an opponent, Hera shouted “Artemis.” Three: the whole fracking crowd had joined in.

Apollo pushed Artemis into the circle.

As Captain Mal of the Serenity would have said: Da-shiong bao-jah-shr duh la-do-tze.

Crap.

In her best attempt, Artemis turned around to book it out of the basement. Unfortunately, the crowd would not have it. With a whole lot of shouting, laughing, body odor and beer breath, Artemis was shoved back into the circle.

“Come on, Artemis, it’ll be fun!” Hera shouted, hopping up and down in mock boxing form. She punched the air around Artemis’ head playfully. Or, she might have argued it was playful. Artemis just thought it was aggressive and terrifying.

“I don’t want to fight you, Hera! I just want to go home!”

“Throw a punch!” Hera stopped moving and stretched out her arms. “Look, I’ll even give you the first shot. Free punch for the troubles.”

“I just want to go back to the room!”

The crowd booed. Someone in the back shouted “take your top off.”

“Just try and hit me, Artemis. It’ll be fun! And the sooner you try to punch me, the sooner I can knock you out.”

Artemis felt the nauseous. She could feel the taco and rice and beans and root beer she’d had for dinner creeping up her esophagus. She was pretty certain she would vomit all over the basement floor. Which wasn’t the worst thing really. It would just blend in with the blood and saliva and sweat already there. And then, maybe Artemis could return to her room, and cry herself to sleep, and tell her father she needed to go back to Minnesota for the rest of the summer. She loved her dad, sure, but this was something else entirely. She couldn’t live here. She couldn’t handle these people, this environment for three months. She was about to pass out. She needed sleep.

“Time’s up, sweetie.”

Hera charged at Artemis, ducking low. Somehow, with the help of Aslan, or something, Artemis dodged her.

“Good girl,” Hera said with a laugh as she turned back around. “But you can’t dodge me forever.”

“Can’t I?” Artemis swung to the left as Hera lunged again. “That sounds like the best idea I’ve had all night.”

“Sure, but sooner or later you’re going to tire out. And I’m still going to be just fine. And then, unfortunately, you’re going to have to feel what my right hook does to your pretty little face.”

Again, Artemis dodged her, but this time it was a bit closer. Too close. And the crowd was starting to get anxious. They threw hand out, grabbed at her to hold her in place. She wasn’t only fighting Hera, but it seemed like the whole party.

“You know, you’re an awful roommate. And to think—“ Jeez, this was getting close! “—I came out to save you from whatever the hell you’d gotten yourself into. Clearly, I should have just stayed in bed.”

“Ah,” and shit, Hera had grabbed a hold of her arm. “But where’s the fun in that?”

In case you’re wondering, television and movies make punches out to hurt a lot less than they actually do. You know how most people just shake their head, roll their shoulders and stand back up? Holy frack, was that wrong. Like, crazy wrong.

Artemis’ face felt like she’d just been hit by a shovel—again, something which she assumed hurt a lot more. She actually saw stars when she both opened and closed her eyes. She could taste something metallic on her tongue, and was pretty sure she’d lost a tooth or broken her nose. She could feel the tears come up, but that stung even more. And her cheek felt like it had completely collapsed onto the rest of her face. She was broken, of this she was sure. And she was pretty convinced she was going to die.

Hera pulled her back to standing. Artemis could hear almost nothing out of her left ear. The sounds of the crowd gurgled like she was underwater. Hera pushed her, and Artemis stumbled backward.

“Come on, love—hit me.”

Artemis wanted nothing more than to pass out. She wanted to crawl into her bed and sob into her hypoallergenic pillow. She wanted to push through the crowd, vomit on the stairs and run until she reached Canada. She hated this place. She hated her roommate. And mostly, she hated her situation. And Artemis took all that rage, all that desire, all that nausea and charged at Hera with a battle cry that would have gotten applause out of Gimli. Because screw this chick and her psychotic idea of fun. If Artemis had to fight, at least she’d try, right? Well, that was until Hera kissed her.

She said yeah, can we get married at the mall? I said, look you need to crawl before you ball. Come and meet me in the bathroom stall, and show me why you deserve to have it all.

“Can you turn it down?” Artemis was shouting at a kid with big headphones. She couldn’t even hear herself shouting. She could just feel it. She was pretty sure she was speaking, anyway. Actually, it was more like hoping she was speaking.

“WHAT?”

“CAN YOU TURN IT DOWN?”

“WHY?”

“I NEED TO GET TO SLEEP!”

The kid just laughed. He turned the volume up a little more.

“YOU’RE JUST NOT HAVING A GOOD ENOUGH TIME.”

“OF COURSE I’M NOT!”

He looked at her, and laughed again.

“What’s your name?”

“Artemis.” She shouted her reply, but was pretty certain he couldn’t hear her.

“How adventurous are you, Artemis?”

“I’M NOT.”

Bougie girl, grab my hand. Fuck that bitch, she don’t wanna dance. Excuse my French, but I’m in France (I’m just sayin’).

He called another kid over to them, and said something into his ear. They both looked her up and down.

“I’D APPRECIATE IT IF YOU’D JUST TURN IT DOWN.”

“Artemis, this is Apollo.” His friend nodded. “He’s gonna show you a good time.”

“What? Good time? Is this some kind of weird sex thing? Because I’ve read that in enough Alan Moore novels to know it’s not what I think it means!”

Apollo laughed.

“Nothing like that,” he held up a hand, “Scout’s honor.”

Artemis shook her head. “I need to find my roommate.”

“Here,” Apollo dug into his pocket and produced his wallet. He took Artemis’ hand, and placed the wallet in her palm. “That has about two hundred bucks worth of cash, and my ID in it. You keep it for the night. I promise nothing’s gonna happen to you, but think of this as insurance.”

On a scale of one to walking into Mordor, this was probably about a seven. But, Artemis reasoned, maybe Hera was wherever Apollo was taking her. Maybe she wouldn’t be taken away to an awful crack house where she might be taken advantage of. Maybe, she was going to Hogwarts and about to fight off Lord Voldemort (thought, truthfully, Artemis would not have survived the last battle). Nope, no matter how she tried to spin it, this was an awful idea. A boy she didn’t even know was talking about taking her some place she knew even less. It was probably a freaking creepy basement, just like in the movies.

“Where are you going?”

“The basement.”

I got that hot bitch in my home. You know how many hot bitches I own? Don’t let me get in my zone.

“I can’t, I’m sorry.” She handed him back his wallet. “I never did trust Boy Scouts.”

And then the most important moment in Artemis’ life took place—or at least she’d tell you later on. She found Hera. And with Hera things took a bit of a turn.

“ARTEMIS!” Her roommate screamed her name she was Gandalf come back from the dead. Actually, probably less like that, and more like when Leia discovered that Han Solo wasn’t dead.

“Hera,” Artemis said with a relieved laugh.

“Oh, good! You found Apollo! I love this kid—so fucking funny!” Hera had a bottle of gin in her hand and her eyeliner was a tad smudged. She was screaming over the music, so her voice cracked frequently. “Is Apollo taking you to the basement?”

“What? No—Hera, we should get you back to the room. You’re not well.”

“Oh, pish posh! I’m great. I’m drinking just as much as a man, and I’m doing wonderfully. I can hold my liquor. Now let’s go down to the basement.”

“Hera, please!”

“Just 20 minutes, Arty! Please! And then I promise I’ll make Apollo take you back to our room. You just have got to see this!”

Why she went downstairs, Artemis would never be able to say. She was convinced that it was a meth lab, or a make-out party, or an orgy, or a furry sex party, or a porn lab—everything that Artemis kept away from in one place with a high volume. She thought it would be horrible, and she was just beginning to get sick, and nauseous, and was pretty convinced that she would vomit all over the stairs when she caught the metallic scent of blood. And she could make out through the shouting the sound of slapping skin.

Merlin’s beard.

It was a fracking fight club.

-

Penelope waited for friends to come to her. She didn’t go out looking for them. When you had a trust fund as big as Penelope Ithaca had, you did not need to look very hard to find friends. Or subjects. Tomayto, tomato.

The problem, of course, was that Penelope Ithaca did not much like the people here. They wore a bit too much hemp, and smelled like they hadn’t bathed in several weeks. The girls didn’t much wear bras, and leg shaving seemed to be a rare occurrence. Where was the friend potential in that? It’d take the whole summer just to get them up to par, and Penelope did not have that kind of time.

The men were clearly delinquents. There was a killer in there midst, for Pete’s sake!

Penelope splashed her face with water from the sink, and looked into the bathroom mirror. This was going to be an awful summer.

“Got a light?”

A boy with pants a bit too tight, and a shirt even tighter leaned against the bathroom wall. He grinned with too much joy.

“This is the ladies room,” Penelope stated.

“Well good thing it’s just us girls!”

“Excuse me?”

He held out his hand. “Archimedes, wanton sex god.”

Penelope ignored his outstretched hand.

“Still a girl’s room. Even if you are… gay.”

Archimedes held a hand to his chest and gasped. “I’m gay?”

Penelope rolled her eyes, and pushed past him.

“I would have never pegged you as a -phobe.” Archimedes began. “I would have thought you bought a rich gay best friend shipped in directly from the Upper East Side, and started your first date with a perfect manicure. Then you guys braid each other hair, and talk about shopping and think about fucking the same boys.”

“Piss off.”

“I’m always saddened by pretty, yet dumb girls. I guess I just have too much hope for the world.”

“Fuck you, you cock sucker.” Penelope shouted. “At least I don’t have AIDs.”

Archimedes laughed. “Really, that’s the best you’ve got? A sad, 90’s, cliché stereotype? God, I had hoped since you’re so pretty you were used to catfights. I see I haven’t picked a very good opponent. My apologies. I hope I haven’t made you piss your white, cotton, granny panties.”

“You know what? I’ve had enough shit from you! But I guess that’s what you’re used to—shit? Isn’t it? Because fucking up the ass is just so exciting to you. So why don’t you go find some sad, drunk loser and shower together. Because I can smell your last partner from here.”

Archimedes stood for a moment without a word. He looked almost hurt. And then a grin crept onto his face, and he began to applaud slowly.

“That,” he said, “was fantastic. What’s your name?”

“Penelope.”

“Thank you, Penelope, for that refreshing retort. I’ve heard the insult ‘faggot’ enough in this hellhole to lose all hope in the world. You have just restored my sense of optimism for the future of America. At least some of us are creative.”

Penelope took a deep breath, very confused. She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it.

“Penelope, darling, you’re going to let the flies in.”

“I’m confused,” she stated.

“Ah yes, I should have guessed so. This is probably pretty foreign territory to you, my dear. Let me put this simply—I think we just became friends.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re rich, I’m gay—it’s a match made in TV heaven!”

“But I don’t want to be your friend,” she said without apology.

“Because you have such a long line of possible candidates?”

“No, because I don’t like you,” she said. “You’re annoying, loud, and could do with a major, wardrobe makeover.”

“Good thing my best friend has a big trust fund.”

“Oh, do you have a rich fag hag to hang out with? I bet she’s a bit fat.”

“Oh, honey, don’t talk about yourself that way!” Archimedes laid a hand gently on her arm. “You could bear to lose a couple of pounds, sure, but I hardly think you’re fat.”

Penelope opened her mouth, unable to speak. She closed it, took a breath, and opened it again. Still nothing.

“I see you’ve already started your exercise regiment—good for you! Dr. Oz says you lose about 30 calories an hour just by breathing. Goodbye muffin top!”

Penelope shook her head, and walked out of the bathroom.

“Toodles, bestie! I’ll see you soon!”

Everyone within a five-foot radius of Orpheus thought him a little off. Unless, of course, they were of the female gender—then they just thought him moody, and attractive. Because honestly, isn’t it only the lost souls that have their ipods playing (we’re assuming) sad, beautiful music in the middle of a party? They could just see the world through his eyes—it looks something like a film noir, and everything is moving slowly. We’re all just pawns in a post-modern world, and in the end everything is meaningless. But you can find meaning in music—so listen to music whenever you can! Save your souls from the nihilism!

Just about every girl in the room wanted to edge up next to him, elegantly take a headphone out of his ear, and join him at seeing the world so listlessly. And every girl would have been surprised to find not a single note coming from the tiny speakers. Because Orpheus wasn’t listless, or post-modern (in fact, he might not actually know the definitions of those words), he was just ignoring people. He knew he couldn’t stay in his dorm room (this party was freaking loud—and his roommate was macking on some new chick in there), and he liked the feeling of anonymity in a room full of partying people. Plus, there was free booze, and he was safe as long as he didn’t make eye contact with anyone. That was, until he saw Penelope.

A girl like Penelope appeared out of place in front of the peeling, painted red walls of the metal dormer. She looked as though she had intended to go to an exclusive party in some warehouse in Manhattan and had wound up in Alaska because of a rather large mix up. She moved like a disco ball underwater—she shimmered, but you couldn’t figure out what was keeping her from floating above them all.

The moment a girl like Penelope spotted a boy like Orpheus, the wheels in her head started turning. The planning began: the walk, the movements, the words, the second movement, the touch, the subtle, double entendre, the invitation, the touch, the movement, and the departure. But, let’s all be clear: Penelope is not a slut. Penelope just wants what she wants; and most of the time she gets what she wants. When her father told her he had been asked to be the American ambassador to China, it was Penelope that convinced him that he really wanted to be the ambassador to Fiji (seriously, who wants to vacation in China?). When her sister was going to marry Sir Franklin’s eldest (gorgeous) son, it was Penelope who suggested that Chloe reconsider what it would be like to be so famous and inaccessibly rich. When her mother suggested she spend the summer working in Denali, Alaska it was Penelope who—oh, wait never mind, that one didn’t quite work out in her favor.

“Hey,” she stood next to Orpheus, and waved her fingers gently—it was something between a hello and a come hither. Orpheus, in response, pointed aggressively to his ears and shrugged. He looked out into the crowd, perhaps trying a bit too hard to ignore her. Without missing a beat, Penelope gingerly pulled in the wire of his headphones. Without removing them from his ears, she let her fingers slid down the length of the wire, gently touching his abdomen, and his stomach and the waistband of his jeans. She slid until she got to the end of the wire. When she found the unplugged end of the headphones, she smirked.

“What’s your name?” She asked over the loud rap music.

“Not interested.”

Now, any normal girl would lose confidence here. She’d shrug, maybe think a few nasty thoughts about the boy in front of her, and turn her cute ass around, thinking he’d certainly regret it. But not Penelope. She’d muttered those five syllables enough to know how to work around them.

“Fine. I’ll just have to fill in the blanks. It’s more fun this way.”

“Knock yourself out.” Orpheus leaned back, and closed his eyes.

“You’re Danny. You’ve been sent to his hellhole because you dead-beat Dad found your stash of MDMA under your bed next to your porn. This is your final warning, and if you don’t turn your life around in four short months, you’re on your own, kid.”

“Wrong.”

“You’re Tyler. You knocked up your girlfriend while on a ferris wheel, and now you’re torn if you should just hot wire a car and go tell her the abortion was a mistake.”

“Sick, and wrong.”

“Oh my god, wait. I know you.” Orpheus opened his eyes, sensing the familiar tone in her voice. There was an urgency there, something just short of disgust and comprehension. “You’re that kid who killed his sister.”

He stood up without a word.

“I know you! You were on the news all the time!” She followed him out of the room, shouting as she did. Orpheus pushed past people with more force than he should have, an acute tension forming in his chest. He needed to get back to his room. He needed people to stop looking at him.

“You’re a fucking sicko, you know that?” Penelope shouted at him down the metal hall. Orpheus paused, considered turning around. He saw the vision of pressing her violently against the wall, screaming in his own defense. He sighed, shook his head, and continued to his room.

“I’m fucking glad you’re not interested! It means I’ll live a little longer, you psycho!”

Now that’s more like a normal girl, Penelope. Bring out the claws.

-

Archimedes was just short of peeping into the boy’s locker room. He stood outside the door. He knew Damian was changing inside. He was pretty damn positive he was now naked. Fucking hell, that kid had a nice body. He looked like Christian Bale had fucked Heath Ledger and had given birth to an even hotter son. And it was pretty much clear that Damian was hiding a massive cock under those extremely tight pants. And Archimedes hoped that just maybe, an accidental peep show would be just the thing to start the heinously awkward “are you gay” questionnaire. He pushed open the door.

The shock of it may have been the worst part. Thing one: Damian wasn’t alone. Thing two: Damian most certainly had a huge dick. Thing three: everything about the situation was normal with the glaring exception of Archimedes now staring at the nudity of the man in front of him. Thing four: thankfully, somehow, Damian miraculously avoided this fact.

“Hola,” He waved, and went back to putting on clothes.

“Hey yourself! And hello to your little friend.” He pointed down, and grinned.

The other two boys in the locker room turned away, stifling a laugh.

“Is that your cock out, or are you just excited to see me?” Archimedes asked, leaning against the locker next to Damian.

“Um, sorry. My English—it’s not so good?” Damian’s thick Spanish accent sounded so fucking hot. Poor Archimedes could think of little else.

“Oh! Ok! I got this… I didn’t fail three years of Spanish just so I could fuck up this… attempt at fucking. Um… Me gusta su… penis-o.”

Damian shook his head, confused. He laughed a little, and put on his shirt.

“Sorry…” He shrugged, clearly not following.

“Here, I’ll make it simple. Me gusta you! Y su poquito… su.”

One of the other boys turned around at this.

“Archie, the kid’s not fucking gay—give it up.”

Archimedes turned dramatically.

“First of all—my name is Archimedes, not Archie. Second of all—how the fuck do you know? Just because you’re a homophobe, Josh, doesn’t be everybody else isn’t exploring. Plus—the dude is fucking Spanish. If that isn’t a big sign that says ‘I love cock,’ then I don’t know what is.”

Josh sighed and turned to Damian.

“Oy, Damian. ¿Eres gay?”

“Qué?”

“¿Este chico aquí? Quiere tener sexo contigo. ¿Quieres joder le?”

“¿Joder le? ¡Ay! ¡No! ¡Me gustan a las mujeres! ¡Vaginas!”

“OK! OK! I took enough Spanish to know the word ‘vagina’ when I hear it.” Archimedes shivered. He glared at Josh. “We’ll just have to see if Damian here—or you, sweetheart, we’re all confused individuals—thinks the same thing at the end of the summer. You will want my cock. I guarantee it.”

“Dude, you’re fucking weird.”

Archimedes turned with his hand on the swinging locker room door.

“No, Josh. You are soon to be fucking me.” He left.

“That doesn’t even make any sense!”

Archimedes poked his head back inside the door. “Exactly,” he whispered.