Odin's Murder (3 page)

“New folks, this is your focus core, Creative Writing and Journalism. We break into project groups tomorrow. Is anyone where they shouldn’t be?”

Two guys in thick glasses, laptop bags over their shoulders, raise hands like puppets on strings.

“Technology and Hard Science is up a floor,” Zoe tells them, and as they leave she points out another building to a tiny girl with her hair in a bun and feet going odd directions. “Performing Arts is in the new brick building, there.” She turns back to us. “Time for the serious stuff. You will go to class, eat, sleep and study with the people in this room. You each may have your talents, but you are all equals. Every one of you has been selected for the program due to your abilities and recommendations to the faculty.”

I fight back a cough—or a choke—neither of those are how I ended up in this program. I scan the faces, wondering if anyone else is a discipline case with a well-connected social worker.

“Water?” Julian asks, offering me a bottle.

“No, thanks,” I say, clearing my throat again.

Zoe glances at me and smirks at Julian. “This means that all of you have an equal chance at winning the Honors Scholarship. There is no preferential treatment given to returning students, and no special consideration for previous runner-ups.” My roommate glares at her, swigs from the bottle he’s just offered me. She smiles at him and continues. “Now, you’ve been given your daily schedule, starting tomorrow. It includes meal times, classes, free time and group study. Our larger group will be broken into smaller teams, primarily for class projects, but these folks will be your support system during your time here. By the end of your four weeks, your team will feel like family members.”

“Did you write that down?” Memory whispers to Julian. “Hopefully, this means I can find a new brother or sister. Maybe one that doesn’t steal my hair gel.”

I laugh, glancing at Julian’s hair. I’d watched him tug at it for ten minutes before we left for dinner. I rub my naked scalp. One good thing about lock-up is free haircuts. Memory holds my glance for one brief, steady second, before refocusing on the student assistant, who is now describing the dining room, library and computer lab.

Last time I saw her, she was lying in my bed. With her eyes off me, face in profile, I can check her out, and I take a long minute doing so. I haven’t seen a lot of girls recently, not this close up. She’s fantastic, and she knows it. She’s playing some kind of game, dolled up in a quasi-rockabilly pinup thing, shirt so tight I can see the pattern of lace underneath, hair up, showing off her white neck, long and nice, and legs that go on forever. I don’t know what the rules are, but she’s winning, hands down. I can’t keep my eyes off of her and neither can anyone else, male or female.

“Don’t,” Julian says, so low only I can hear him.

I play dumb. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t judge that book by its cover. You want nothing to do with it, I promise you.” He hunches back over his notes, all ears as Zoe starts listing the ground rules for behavior.

“Dormitory doors lock shut after midnight. If you break curfew, security will let you in, but you’ll have four hours with the janitorial staff for the favor. No boys in the girls’ rooms. This program is sponsored by the college, which does maintain a strict conservative campus. Ladies, you are welcome to have male visitors in the lounge only. Girls can go into the boys’ rooms, but only until 10pm.”

“That’s worse than last year,” Memory says. Several other girls nod in agreement. “And it’s completely sexist.”

“Welcome to the Bible Belt. I don’t make the rules. Next: You may not smoke—even if you are over eighteen—drink or use drugs while you’re here. If you are found with alcohol or illegal substances, you’ll be sent home.

“Finally, to keep the integrity of the program consistent, and curtail outside distractions, you may not leave campus unless it is a designated trip with the program.” Zoe looks around the room. “Did you hear that? I’m going to say it again. You may not leave school grounds unless you are with a chaperoned group and a teacher. This campus is on private grounds. I’m sure you saw the gates when you arrived. Should you leave for any reason, security will not let you back onto campus without direct escort by the dean himself.”

She tells us the time and reminds us of the curfew. I stand, and stretch. Memory is talking to some girl half her size, with short brown hair and piles of clothes that make me curious about the body hiding beneath.

“You know what they say SHP really stands for, right?” Memory asks.

The other girl frowns, dark eyes huge in a little face. “No.”

“Sent Home Pregnant.”

“What? Why?”

“Because half the kids here lose their virginity before they go home, and they’re totally unprepared. No protection. They come here for college credit and leave with a new definition of the creative process.”

“You’re kidding, right?” the girl asks. She touches a pendant between her collarbones, like a delinquent’s mother stroking a cross, but the necklace is a naked woman, straddling the man on the moon, curved crescent horn between her legs like—

“I wish I were.” Memory turns and winks at me. “Goodnight.”

I close my teeth with a click. Julian and I watch them leave.

Girls.

*

“I’ve taken the liberty to alter our part of the program a little this summer,” Dr. Anders announces, scratching his chin under the blond beard. I wonder if he ever found his wallet. “The class is still under the heading of Creative and Comparative Arts of course, and the results will still be published with the college’s backing, but I’m assigning each sub-group a specific topic. Within this study I want each of you to bring your area of interest and talent to the table.”

All through orientation the teachers and counselors have stressed the word talent. I wonder if a good right-hook-left-uppercut applies. The rest of the students are clean scrubbed, glowing with privilege and upper education. Their talents involve words and wit, not fists.

“So all of our assignments will be based on this topic? Is there a final project? A research paper?” Julian asks. “Like last year?”

“Yes, but more structured. Your group will need to form a direction of study, collect data on the subject matter and then complete a series of assignments that will lead up to a multi-level project, highlighting each of your skills,” He leans back on his desk, and a stack of papers spills off the edge, scattering across the floor. This guy is a disaster. “Each group will have use of an office in this building to meet, collect data, and create your final projects. Now, to keep everything fair, I’ve already assigned your group partners.”

The class twitches, everyone glancing around the room, guessing to see who they’ve been stuck with. I do too, caught up in the mass tension. There is no way I’m going to be able to get along with any of these kids, all valedictorians and yearbook editors, and me with my GED, majoring in six months off my sentence if I passed. 

Before I can speak, Julian’s hand shoots up again. A coal-black head of long hair shakes in his direction, but he ignores her. “How much total participation will be weighed in the final product? I’m not comfortable working in a group setting if everyone doesn’t uphold their end of the work. Last year I was—”

“I assure you, Mr. Erikssen, there will be no problems. I will be meeting with everyone, both individually and as a group, and you all will have a chance to discuss your participation. Besides. This is a program for exceptional students, remember? No slackers here,” he says. He laughs and straightens his shirt. “Well, except me, of course.”

“But—”

“I work better alone,” I announce. Heads swivel to the back of the room, but I only look at the teacher.

“A group setting is part of this program, Mr. Tyrell, I’m quite sure you’re aware of this.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Does everyone in this place have access to my record? I’d seen Burnett lock my file away, but this guy is eyeing me like a judge.

Dr. Anders shakes his head, gives me a lame attempt at a smile. “The groups are mandatory. In most academic and professional situations, a collective sharing of ideas and skills yields more creative and successful results than a singular approach. For instance, the Manhattan think-tank project of World War II, the Parisian expatriate writers of the early 1900’s, the La Mama Experimental Theatre Club, even the grunge scene of Seattle—”

Who
is
this guy? I look around at the others, but they are enthralled by his babbling. His eyes are still on me though, and I rise to the challenge of the condescending smirk on his face.

I stand up, my chair scraping against the floor. “Look, I’d really rather—”

“Rather what, Mr. Tyrell? Go back
home?
” His easygoing banter from before is gone, and the air snaps between us as the age-old ego battle of student and teacher raises its ugly head. I wonder how far I can push him, but I suspect his threat isn’t empty. I grab my chair and drag it on the ground a few noisy inches, and sit down under the weight of his stare. He moves to the other side of the desk. “I thought not.”

Asshole.

While a couple more kids ask questions, all eager to get started, I try to calm down. Anders is right, and my caseworker had warned me this place focused on cooperative learning or some crap. My fault for not paying attention to the fine print. Not that I have any alternative.

I take a deep breath and begin the calming technique Mary insisted I learn on my fingers at my first counseling session. Ten, nine eight... I start, counting down and focusing on a point in the distance, still hearing her voice as she counted with me, the twelve year old no teacher or foster parent could control ...two, one,
breathe out,
one, two, three, four...

Memory’s bare shoulders come into view when she moves her hair off her face. Her skin glows, smooth and perfect and there’s a loose strand of black against her white neck and I imagine it through my camera lens. I’d use a use a zoom setting, something that pixilated like retro movie film, to go with the plastic cherries hanging from her ears.

“Hey.” The whisper comes from my right. I glance to the side and take in the blond hair and eyes with lashes a mile long, covered in the gunk girls wear so you know that they are inviting you to look. I look. She clicks her tongue against her teeth. “Can you believe he’s assigning the groups?”

I shrug. I wonder what her deal is, what she wants from me, why she’s being chatty at the one hard case in the room, and then I take another deep breath. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six...

The blond smiles, nice. “Maybe we’ll be in the same one together.” She’s acting like I belong there, like I’m one of them.

I can do this. Whatever topic the professor gives, the work should be easy on my part. Five, four, point, shoot and click. The magic of photography, the distance of the camera is my shield and my weapon, perfect digital aim. Mentally, I frame a shot. Three, two, one… smile at the pretty girl. “Maybe so.”

“I’ve left your group assignments in an envelope on the front table,” Dr. Anders says. “Your names are on the front, with the number of your study office. The topic is inside. I’d like to see a list with three to five directions of research by class tomorrow. If you are struggling with this, please see me for suggestions.”

Memory reaches the table first, grabs the stack of envelopes and calls out names.

*

My plan is to follow Anders to his office and beg out of this group thing. I’ll tell him it’s best for everyone if I’m not forced to play with others, but the throng of students hanging around to kiss teacher-butt and ask pay-attention-to-me questions is too thick, and by the time I give up and drop my backpack off in the dorm I’m hauling ass not to be late.

The note Jeremy gave me from Burnett instructs me to go to the side door of the dining hall, and the kitchen racket and blast of steam to my already sweaty face tells me I’m in the right place. I hold up the scrap of paper and read the name again.

Constance Cory, Food Services Manager.

I look around for whoever could be in charge of this zoo, past the women by the ovens and the younger men washing dishes, and my eyes finally land on a small black woman with her hair back in a net and a spotless white apron hanging from her neck, yelling at a boy carrying a huge tub of applesauce out to the hot tables. She’s the commander-in-chief of this army, the way they snap to attention at her voice.

Her eyes narrow at me and she waves me over. I go, taking care not to step in a huge puddle of water on the floor.

“Ethan, is it? You’re late,” she says, waving her hand to the girl at the stove, gesturing to keep stirring a large pot of... something.

I peer into the murky brown substance, stew or gravy or—I decide I’d rather not know.

“Maya! You come mop up this water before someone breaks their neck!” she yells across the room.

“Yeah, sorry,” I mumble. She raises one eyebrow. “Ma’am,” I add.

“Rule number one, be on time.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mr. Burnett told me your punishment,” she nods to my busted lip. “You can work in here but no trouble. I don’t take to trouble in my kitchen. Everyone gets along and everyone works. Since Matthew broke his wrist, you’ll be taking over his station.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, following her across the room to a wide row of sinks. “Dishes?

“Yep. You ever wash dishes before? Like this?”

“Yeah. Er. Yes, ma’am, I have. Not a problem.”

She looks me over. “You’re big. Keep an ear out. I’ll be hollering at you to carry stuff. You can help Eric with the heavy lifting. Mr. Burnett says you’ve got 20 hours to fill. That’s two hours a day for two weeks. Where’s your class schedule?”

“I left it at the dorm. Should I go back?”

She sighs. “Tonight. After dinner, drop it off. I’ll work it around your classes.”

“Thanks.” I don’t know why I’m grateful, but she’s got flowers on her shirt, and there’s no uniform in the corner with a Taser on his belt. We both turn at a loud crash. Eric is on the floor, feet waving in the air, a container turned over on his chest. Carrots roll across the floor. A girl stands behind him with a mop and a guilty look on her face.