A Monday Evening

“Hurry up,” I try to rush my partner in Mutation of Organic Tissue 340. She’s a freshman, only here because of the Advisor requirement. She has no respect for her elders or betters, not yet at least.

“What’s the rush?” Irene asks. It’s so frustrating when people talk back. Especially freshmen. Acting like they know anything. It’s a year into this program and I’m starting to lag. I’m still at the top of the class, but people are overtaking me in skill, in understanding, in knowledge, in just about every single category. I blame Abdul for making me take Chem instead of something useful. The only thing keeping my number one rank is my grades from first semester. It’s stressful, but it isn’t why I want this project to finish.

“I just, I’ve got plans. Plans that don’t include being stuck here with you. So, let’s just get this over with,” I mutter back, going through our list again. The rat should’ve lost its tail, but the tail is still there, waggling at me. “Are you sure you copied everything down right?” I ask her.

Irene nodded. “Yeah, why?” she replies quickly.

“Because it should be done, but it isn’t,” I say quietly, so Magister Leyten doesn’t hear.

Irene glances at the list as well, then whispers back, “Your mind is clearly somewhere else,” pointing to the arrow. The arrow that I put on the sheet. The arrow to remind me to flip the notecard over. Flipping the card over, there are two more steps. One overly complicated, the other the mystic equivalent of slapping the side of the TV.

We both go through the final step, half drowning the rat as we carefully add the leftover ointment, which we prepared for the rat, to the bath, as well as several dried herbs and two different salts. Taking it out the rat, Irene lays it out on a small paper towel, and holding our hands around it in a circle, we chant a phrase in some old language. I don’t know it, meaning it isn’t Greek. I made sure to write it out phonetically, so the pronunciation is correct. Around the second repetition, the rat’s tail begins to slowly retract back into its body. By the end of the fourth, it’s gone entirely. Irene raises her hand, and Magister Leyten comes over. “Irene, Greg,” she says.

“I just called you over to let us out,” Irene says. Interesting, she is taking the credit or blame for our rushing. I’m not sure what to think about that.

I add, “We already finished today’s lab, see?” I gesture towards the tailless rat lying on the table.

Magister Leyten nods. “I can see that,” she says, “Alright, take your notes, put your rat back, and you two can head out.” And turning away, she heads back to her desk at the front of the classroom.

I lock eyes with Irene, and neither of us budge. Perhaps she, too, has plans for the evening. “Let’s take our notes quickly,” I finally say, picking up the rat and putting it back in its cage. The end notes took very little time. The tail is gone and, after a few minutes, the rat is moving and not particularly happy about its tailless future. The tail should return once it is dry, but it doesn’t know that. I set up our webcam to record overnight, to tell us exactly when it starts to grow back, and how long that process takes. Our notes and prep finished, we excuse ourselves from the classroom.

As we exit Pembarton, I give Irene a nod. “Thanks. Until Wednesday.”

She nods in return, and heads over to a bench in the middle of the quad, sitting down. I walk across the quad to my new dorm, in Weston. Getting up to my room, I quickly change into a fancier version of my usual Monday outfit. I decided yesterday. Today is going to be the day. No time like the present and all that. I pull out my deep crimson dress shirt, a slimming pair of blue skinny jeans, and my classic grey zip-up hoodie. Laying them out on the bed, I get undressed and hop into the shower. Five minutes later, I hop on out, and, wrapping a towel around my waist, I head back to my bed. Drying my bits just before I pull on the appropriate pieces of clothing, I gradually get dressed. Staring at myself in the mirror, I carefully part my damp hair. Walking out my door and locking it behind me, I flip my hood on over my hair.

As I walk out of Weston, I see Irene on the bench. Sitting beside her is Therese. That’s worrisome, I think to myself. Especially since, as far as I can tell from this distance, Irene actually looks somewhere near happy. Shaking my head to rid myself of such disturbing imagery, I head into town. It’s been a while since I’ve walked through town this early. Normally, I wouldn’t be getting out of class for another ten minutes. The streets are busier than I’m used to. I suppose this is the time most people should be out and about. All these people about, living their normal, mundane lives, does nothing to help my confidence levels. They have absolutely no idea what’s going on less than a mile away from their homes. What sort of hysteria might happen, if they found out? One wrong thing spoken between someone from the Villa and someone from the town could throw the world into chaos. And it’s not like with email, where someone can edit things sent from villa accounts before they get sent from the outbox. There was no such thing for casual chatting. It’s all on us.

I shake my head. No, I can pull this off. It just requires discipline, and that’s something I have. In spades. Focus in, Calm down, and everything will be fine. No matter how often I try to convince myself, I know that may not be true. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t keep trying to convince myself. Walking across the Run, I look down at the river. Always moving forward swiftly, yet always it seems so calm. Like the flow of the mystic itself, unless you get caught up in it, it seems almost at peace, but even so much as dip your toe into it and you know it isn’t as calm as it may seem. I stop. What am I doing? I have doubts like this about a lot, but this is stronger than just my usual self-doubt. If this doesn’t go well, I’m losing my favorite bar. I’m from out of town and only show up once a week, she’s a local and there pretty much daily. No big loss for the world, I suppose, but I’d feel bad. But if this does go well, if this goes like I want it to, I’m forcing someone to not just dip their toe into the mystic flow, but take a swim. What right do I have to make anyone do that? I can’t. I turn around, start to head back to my dorm. As I step off the bridge, I shake my head again. No, I can’t be thinking so fatalistically. I refuse to doom myself to failure. No, I can do this. And, if it works out, then it works out. We can take it one day at a time. And if it doesn’t work out, I’m still going to go to the West End. It’s not like amicable breakups aren’t a thing. I refuse to let the future get in the way of the present. I turn back around and cross the Run, more confidently this time.

I enter the West End Lounge and head right to my normal seat at the bar. The music hasn’t even started yet. This week’s band, a couple guitarists and some kind of fiddler, are seated around one of the tables, chatting with one another. After watching them for a minute, while Rachel was dealing with some other regulars, I know a couple things. First, they’ll probably be pretty damn good. Good enough to go places. Second, they won’t last long enough to. Go places, that is. The two guitarists are both into the fiddler, and aren’t shy about it. Third, they’re going to get way too drunk by the end of the night. It’ll be entertaining to watch, to say the least.

Gathering up my nerves as Rachel walks over, it doesn’t work as well as I’d like. “Hey, Greg. You’re early. The usual?”

Rather than saying what he wants to, his voice says, “Yeah, for now.” As I slide my card across the table. She pulls out the bottle and pops it open. I finally work up the nerve and begin to ask, “I don’t know how to bring this up without sounding weird.”

“You’re pregnant?” she jokes, smirking.

I shake my head at her. “Oh, screw you,” I reply, and putting on my best faux pout, I add, “I just won’t tell you, then.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” she begins, then seeing my shirt, suddenly she understands. Rather than say anything, she starts to ask leading questions, “Wait a second. What’s with the fancy shirt? You have something special planned?”

I, of course, keep up my best pout. “Nope,” I reply, “Not talking to you.” Leaning over, I overtly start loudly drinking my beer. Even the drunk bandmates look over. The few regulars here look over as well, but seeing the noise coming from me and Rachel talking, turn back to their conversations and drinks.

Rachel waves the band off, as though this is perfectly normal. After a moment, they look away, mostly because they have to go set up their set. “See, you’re causing a commotion with no one paying any attention. Now, why ain’t you wearing your usual black tee?”

“I wanted to look nice. You know how it be,” I reply.

Rachel nods. “So,” she asks, “Who’s the unlucky gal?”

I give her a look. She knows damn well who it is. She’s probably my second best friend, after my convo with Abdul last year made me realize I like our dynamic too much to shift the boat. I tell her almost everything that doesn’t involve altering the fabric of reality with my will. “Who do you think?” I ask right back.

“Katie’s gonna be late today. She got caught up in a parent meeting,” Rachel replies, “And she tells me to save the seat next to, and I’m quoting here, ‘that creepy kinda hot dude you like talking with’.”

“Who could that be?” I muse, “After all, we both know you hate talking to me.”

Rachel nods, smiling. “Yea,” Rachel adds, “And I’m still not positive you really count as hot.”

“So, I hope you don’t mind drinking alone tonight,” I say.

Rachel shakes her head. “No, don’t be like that. Don’t be one of those clearly last minute planner guys.”

“So, what do you propose?” I ask in response.

“Invite her to dinner on like, Friday or Saturday. That way, she doesn’t have to teach the next day, so, dot dot dot,” she answers me.

I shake my head, not so much at her idea, but at the fact that she said the ellipses aloud. “Sounds like you just want to chat tonight.”

“Well, duh. But it’s still a better plan than yours.”

She is right of course, but I can hardly admit that to her. “I suppose, as a favor to your weak constitution.”

Rachel starts to laugh, then quiets rather quickly, noticing something. I look up, towards the door. It’s Katie. “It’s go time,” Rachel whispers to me as she starts making Katie her usual.

Katie seats herself next to me. “Hey, Greg,” she says, “You think tonight’s band will be any good?”

I smile, turning slightly to face her. “I have a good feeling about tonight,” I reply. Behind the bar, Rachel turns around, probably because she can’t hold back her smirk. “What about you?” I ask.

“I do too,” she replies, smiling at me. Then, she adds, “By the way, I like the shirt.”