Fates' Folly (11 page)

"But-"

"Never trust, never bargain, never question
and never go against a god. Do you understand, Myra? We do as we're
told and, in doing so, hope to avoid the attention of any god."

I didn't necessarily agree with the whole do
as you’re told mentality- it's just never set well with me. But I
didn't think I should test the serious look on Riley's face, so I
kept my mouth shut and moved on to more important things, like me
checking out Morgan Hill.

"I'm going with you tomorrow. You've got me
curious and besides, your southern charm could use some work."

Like a passing shadow, Riley's mood shifted,
a wide smile spreading across his face. "The blonde at the gas
station didn't seem to find me lacking."

"It wasn't your charm she was impressed with.
Seriously, Riley, you have to let me go. I'll never get another
chance to step inside the gates of Morgan Hill."

Riley stared at me intently for a second,
adjusted his glasses and then said, "Okay. Do you have anything to
eat that isn't sugary or chocolate?"

"No, but we can order out. How do you feel
about Chinese? Mr. Chiu has the best Cashew Chicken and he
delivers."

"Anything but chocolate."

"Suit yourself. Personally, I think
everything is better with chocolate.”

The
next morning, after a shared breakfast of cold Cashew Chicken and
Mongolian Beef, Riley announced he had to go out. He said he was
craving more Krispy Kreme donuts, but I knew that was said just to
get a reaction out of me. Not that I cared, but Riley was way too
good for the likes of Linda Farnsworth.

Though cold Chinese food was always a good
choice for breakfast, I had awoken with a hankering for chocolate
chip cookies. So, not long after Riley left, I was in my kitchen,
one cookie already consumed, the plastic bag filled with the rest
of the cookies held securely under my arm, while I stood in front
of the open fridge stealing a swig of milk. Hey, it's my milk.

"What do you think you're doing?" Barty asked
nastily, pushing me aside while taking the half gallon of milk out
of my hands and putting it back in the fridge.

"Having a second breakfast," I answered
calmly, though inside I was having a temper tantrum because I had
put Barty in my denial box and forgotten about him. Now he was
standing in my kitchen, glaring at me and I didn't think I could
get away with sneaking out or killing him.

"Why?" he asked, using his body to push me
further away from the fridge.

"Because I think I'm a hobbit. Because I want
to. Because these are damn delicious cookies, and they shouldn't be
neglected and allowed to go stale. Because this is my kitchen, in
my apartment, and I can do whatever the hell I want!" I said, not
so calmly.

"All wonderfully delusional reasons. Now hand
over the bag."

"No." I clutched the bag to my chest.

"It's three minutes after ten- past time to
begin training. Hand over the cookies."

"No. I'm not ready for training. I haven't
even brushed my teeth yet."

"You haven't brushed your hair or put on
make-up yet either. It is still time for training," he said.

"I don't wear makeup."

"That's not exactly a shocker. We'll work on
your grooming habits later. Right now, you need to hand me the
cookies, go brush your teeth, then we can get started."

"No. I'm not feeling up to dealing with you
today. Come back tomorrow," I said, planning on turning away from
him and running to my bedroom so that I could lock the door and
hide.

Instead, I turned to run, Barty grabbed my
shoulder, spun me around so my back was towards him and snatched my
cookies- that sounded a little like a sexual innuendo didn't it?
Let me rephrase- snatched my bag of cookies- not much better is it?
Basically, he spun me around, grabbed the bag of cookies out of my
hands, turned me another half turn so I was facing him, hooked his
foot around my ankle and pulled my leg forward, so that I lost my
balance falling on my ass. The same ass I fell hard on yesterday
that was already black and blue, and was now not only throbbing,
but also shooting spasms of pain into my tail bone straight up my
spine.

Barty casually looked at his watch and
laughed, "Only five minutes. I knew I'd enjoy this."

I stood up. "I hate you. I hate, hate, hate,
hate, HATE you!"

"Is this another example of your mother's
choice vocabulary?"

"My mama would sweep the floor with you if
she was still alive!" I yelled, waving my hand in the air for
emphasis.

"Really?" he asked, sounding genuinely
curious.

"I don't know, probably not. But she'd bluff
really good after she got a few drinks in her."

"You're being honest," he said.

"I usually try to be," I said, feeling
stupid.

"So do I. The proper phrasing, by the way,
would be she'd bluff really well, not good."

"I hate you."

"We've established that. Now are you ready to
start our training? Or are we going to banter some more?"

"My butt hurts or I'd be wittier. The pain is
distracting," I whined, rubbing my rear end.

"Then maybe our first lesson should be how to
fall," he said, like the patronizing bastard he was.

"Why don't you just teach me what I need to
know so I won't fall? Or, here's a novel idea, you could just stop
tripping me."

"Technically, I have never tripped you. I
blocked your kick yesterday and lifted your foot until you lost
balance. Today, I hooked your leg with my foot, again until you
lost balance. So, as I said, technically, I have never tripped you,
just assisted until gravity and your own clumsiness took over."

"Bastard."

"Is this your idea of wit? If so, I am very
disappointed," he said, casually leaning against my dining
table.

I took a deep breath. “Fine. Please show me
how to fall without bruising my ass," I asked.

He stood up from the table, smiling-his line
of a mustache spreading wide. "I will be happy to help you save
your derriere."

We spent the next three hours practicing
falling. When I say we, I mean me- falling over and over again,
trying to spread the impact throughout my body, moving my legs, so
I could catch myself before I landed on my backside and improving
my center of gravity, so I wouldn't lose my balance in the first
place.

"Okay, we can stop," Barty said, looking
cool, calm and relaxed.

"Good. I'm starving," I said, putting the
couch cushions back on the couch and limping into the kitchen.

I put a jar of peanut butter, marshmallow
cream, and chocolate hazelnut spread in the center of the table
next to the loaf of squishy white bread and a box of vanilla
wafers.

Barty picked up the jar of marshmallow cream.
"Is this what you plan to serve for lunch?"

"No," I said, going back into the kitchen and
grabbing paper plates, two butter knives and two bottles of Coke. I
returned to the table, put a plate and a bottle of Coke in front of
Barty, and said, "This is what I plan to serve for lunch."

"Exactly how are we using these ingredients?"
he asked, sniffing inside the box of vanilla wafers.

I went back into the kitchen, filling up two
jelly jars from my Tom and Jerry collection with ice and returned,
setting a Tom glass beside Barty's Coke.

"Peanut butter and marshmallow cream
sandwiches with hazelnut spread and vanilla wafer cookie sandwiches
on the side and a cold Coke poured over ice to help wash it all
down," I said.

His face turned a little green.

"I suppose you could have the marshmallow
cream on the vanilla wafers, and the hazelnut spread would be good
with peanut butter, this is just how I prefer it," I said, sitting
down across from him.

"Is this how you have always eaten?" he
asked, now sniffing the ice in his glass.

"Pretty much. The hazelnut spread wasn't
around when I was a kid, so I used chocolate frosting, but I like
the hazelnut spread better."

"Your mother made this for you? For your
lunch? As a meal?" he asked.

I opened up the peanut butter and started
spreading it on a piece of bread. "No. My mama wasn't into cooking
all that much. Plus, she didn't really eat, her only nutrition
coming from a bottle of Jack Daniels and cigarettes. Every once in
a while she would smoke a joint and then she and her date for the
night would raid the kitchen, but for the most part, I would take
the food stamps and any change I could scrounge up to the grocery
store and do the shopping."

Barty made a funny face. If I didn't know any
better, I'd say he was feeling sorry for me. "As your trainer I
cannot allow you to eat this poison. I will make a healthy diet
plan for you to start tomorrow," he said.

"No. You can make suggestions, you can even
ridicule me if you want to, but you will not plan out my meals or
tell me what to eat like I'm a child. I don't care if you're right,
and this food is unhealthy, I may even agree with you. Hell, I'll
take out an ad in the Cade county paper saying its nutritional
suicide if you want, but you will not decide what I eat. Ever," I
said.

"So as long as I don't tell you specifically
what to eat or plan out your meals, I can do anything else I want,
to get you to eat healthily?"

"Except physically forcing me," I added,
hoping I wasn't making a mistake.

"To even suggest such a thing is an insult,"
he said, sounding truly offended.

I rolled my eyes. "Why does it matter? I'm
immortal, it's not like I have to worry about heart disease."

"You need to have Riley explain how
immortality works, but mostly you're right. It's about
self-worth."

"Look, don't go all sympathetic on me because
my mama wasn't much of a mother and loved men and whiskey more than
me. I made my peace with that years ago."

"Why would you think I felt anything other
than disdain for you, T.T?"

"Because you have that look, the one that
says, Oh look she's been neglected. Let's make her our pet project
and we'll feel better about ourselves."

"Poor pitiful Myra," Barty said,
sarcastically, as he started making himself a peanut butter
sandwich.

One hour later, when Barty was finally about
to leave, Riley arrived. I was laying on the couch with a towel
over my head, trying to soak up the sweat dripping down my
face.

"How did it go?” he asked.

Barty sighed, "Miserable. She's a walking
disaster. She doesn't have the ability to follow direction or keep
her mouth shut. She has the attention span of a ferret, and I'm
beginning to wonder about her intelligence-"

I yanked the towel off my face. "Hey, I'm
sitting right here!" I shouted.

"See, she felt the need to point that out,
though we obviously both see her."

Riley was staring at his feet. I recognized
this pose. He was trying to keep from laughing. Barty, seeming not
to notice, was still in mid-rant, listing my failing attributes.
"No patience, lazy, poor balance-"

I gave up, crawled off the couch and went to
take a bath. Twenty minutes later, Riley knocked on the bathroom
door. "If you're still going with me to Morgan Hill, I have to
leave in five minutes," he said.

"Is he gone?"

"Yes."

"Did you leave this morning because you knew
Barty was showing up?"

"Yes."

"I don't like you very much right now," I
said, menace oozing from my voice.

"Okay. Five minutes."

I guess Barty could add, ‘unable to convey
deadly violence with her voice’ to my list of shortcomings.

Morgan Hill was all that I'd thought it would
be and more.

“Large brick buildings with arched windows,
architectural columns and wide marbled steps framing a large
courtyard neatly divided by cobbled paths, stone benches and old
bent oak trees, draped in graying Spanish moss. Ivy climbing the
corners and sides of the buildings, beautifully manicured to add
texture and age-"

"Are you finished?" Riley asked, annoyed.

"Sorry, I guess I was thinking out loud,” I
hate it when that happens, “but don't you think it's beautiful?
There's a kind of presence, like it's been here forever. You have
to admit that's pretty impressive for a campus that's only ten
years old."

Riley frowned. His voice coming out a little
rough, he said, "Honestly, I have seen much more beautiful
buildings, not including Olympus, which is beyond magnificent. With
time, what I once found beautiful has become mundane or excessive,
leaving me feeling bored and unimpressed."

I folded my arms around my middle. "Wow,
immortality just doesn't seem all that cool right about now."

Riley lifted my chin until I was looking into
his gray eyes. "I've been around a very long time, Myra, and I was
a dreary S.O.B. to begin with. You'll be fine."

I wanted to accept his comfort, to give him a
smile to show my appreciation, but his light gray eyes held a
shadow of despair I didn’t feel comfortable with, so I took the
cowardly way out.

"Hey, are we going to go all, Mystery
Incorporated on this or what? Don't we have some investigating to
do?"

Riley nodded and walked ahead. Feeling like a
jerk, I followed.

Would it kill me to have a real conversation
involving real feelings without becoming an obnoxious moron? Don't
get me wrong, I'm a big fan of Scooby Doo, have two sets of jelly
glasses to prove it, but sheesh, I just reduced a moment of soul
sharing camaraderie to a quip having to do with a cartoon dog and
his stoner sidekick. Sometimes I can be such an asshole.

Clyde Hedrick, the Headmaster of Morgan Hill,
was in Atlanta for a meeting, Ms. Gardner, his administrative
assistant informed us, as she directed us to a cluster of chairs
and a desk, grouped together in a small alcove. Dark cherry paneled
walls, oriental rugs in green and blue, leather furniture and a lot
of intricately placed knickknacks decorated the foyer and outer
office. Ms. Garner's little space was much the same except for one
large potted peace lily filling up a corner of the room, as well as
taking over a good part of her desk.