Chapter 16: Early Bird

Chapter 16: Chapter 16: Early Bird

Something thumped against the wall.

Jared cracked one eye open. A drawer slammed. A muffled voice swore. Something heavy clattered across the floor next door and rolled to a stop.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling.

’That’s Zoey.’

Her room was beside his, and the wall between them was roughly as thick as a cracker. He listened to her thump around for another 30 seconds, opening and closing things, muttering to herself in a rapid, anxious whisper. Then he turned his head and squinted at the clock on the desk.

It wasn’t that early. Barely 6 am.

[Rise and shine. Someone’s excited.]

’It’s only six in the morning.’

He groaned, kicked off the blanket, and sat up. His hair stuck out in three directions. He dragged a hand down his face, shuffled to the bathroom, and took a long, hot bath that left him pink and half awake. When he got out, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stood in front of the mirror.

The face looking back was strange but familiar. Sharper than his own had been. Healthy. A little cocky around the eyes.

He pulled on something casual from the closet, a plain gray shirt and loose pants. He stopped, looked in the mirror again, and frowned.

’No. That’s not going to work.’

People would probably be paying him attention today. It was the truth, and there was no point denying it. He had been mentioned in that documentary. Mentioned by name, on national television, by the leader of the Golden Bear C Team. Even a hospital aid understood that kind of thing travels fast.

’I’m going to be recognized. I should at least look like I own a mirror.’

He changed.

The closet was enormous. That surprised him all over again. In his old life, he’d owned 4 shirts, 2 pairs of pants, and a jacket held together by prayer. Here, an entire wall was lined with neatly folded clothes. Jackets, vests, boots, and a drawer full of belts he could only assume were for fashion.

"Why do I have this many clothes?" he muttered.

[Because you’re rich.]

"I don’t need 30 pairs of socks."

[Nobody needs 30 pairs of socks. That’s what makes them luxurious.]

He picked out a dark fitted jacket, a clean white shirt, and sturdy boots, and began pulling the shirt over his head.

The door banged open.

"Come on, you aren’t ready!"

Jared yelped. He yanked the shirt down so fast he nearly strangled himself. Zoey stood in the doorway with a bag over her shoulder, arms crossed, looking him up and down with deep disapproval.

"Can’t you knock?" he demanded.

"Oh, please." She waved a hand. "There’s nothing there I haven’t seen."

"That’s not the point."

"You’re, like, 17 years old and built like a coat rack. I’ve seen worse."

"Though you’re a very well dressed coat rack." She tapped her wrist. "Hurry up. We’re going to be late."

Jared’s ears had gone hot. He pulled on the jacket, hiding his face in the collar, and didn’t look at her.

[Oh, that’s adorable. Look at him. He’s blushing.]

’I’m not.’

[You’re the color of a ripe tomato.]

’It’s warm in here.’

[It’s 6 am and the window’s open.]

He didn’t answer.

Zoey had already disappeared down the hall. He grabbed his pouch, checked the gems, tied it to his belt, and headed after her. In the kitchen, she was rummaging through the cupboards, stuffing things into a canvas bag. He leaned against the counter and watched.

’She’s nervous. She’s talking too much and packing too much.’

"Do we need all that?" he asked.

"We might be there a while."

"It’s a few hours."

"It could be a lot of hours. You don’t know."

"I do know. It’s the association. It’s always a lot of hours."

"Then you should be helping."

He sighed and picked up a loaf of bread. Between a block of cheese and a jar of pickles, he slipped in a small paper bag of sesame crackers, her favorite. He’d noticed them on the shelf last night, hidden behind the cereal.

"What’s that?" Zoey asked.

"Snacks."

"For you?"

"For me."

"They’re my favorite crackers."

"They were the closest ones."

She narrowed her eyes. He met her gaze evenly.

"Fine," she said finally, and zipped the bag.

* * *

Their mother’s car sat in the driveway, a compact silver thing with a dent in the left fender. They both knew better than to touch their father’s. It was a huge black beast of a vehicle that smelled like leather and gasoline, and he had once declared that anyone who scratched it would not live to see the next sunrise. Both of them had licenses. Neither of them had a death wish.

Jared reached the driver’s door first.

"I’ll drive," he said.

"No."

"I’m the one with the..."

"No."

"Zoey."

She stopped, turned slowly, and placed a hand over her heart. Her voice dropped into a trembling whisper.

"Jared. I can’t believe you’d say that. Just because I’m a girl?"

"What?"

"I always knew you were like this."

"That’s not what I said!"

"You think I can’t drive?"

"I never..."

"I’m hurt. Truly."

He stared at her. She stared back, wide eyed, mournful, a single tear glimmering at the corner of her eye. It was a performance of astonishing quality.

[She pulled the card. And she’s good at it.]

’I hate that this works.’

[It’s not about whether it works. It’s about whether you’re willing to risk it.]

He folded. Immediately. He handed her the keys and slid into the passenger seat without another word.

"Thank you," Zoey chirped, instantly cheerful. She bounced into the driver’s seat. "You’re so understanding."

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"." He wanted to ... But..

The engine rumbled to life, and they backed out of the driveway.

* * *

The drive was quiet.

Zoey drove with both hands tight on the wheel, her eyes fixed on the road. She didn’t speak. Her knuckles were white. At every red light, she drummed her fingers against the dashboard in a fast, jittery rhythm.

Jared noticed. He noticed her leg bouncing too, and the way she kept swallowing.

’She’s shaking.’

He hesitated, then cleared his throat.

"It’s not that bad, you know," he said. "The awakening. I mean, my memories of it aren’t great, but I don’t remember it hurting. It isn’t anything excruciating. It’s mostly just waiting."

Zoey didn’t answer.

"It’s over fast. You go in, it does its thing, you come out."

She said nothing for another block. Then, at the next red light, she exhaled and loosened her grip.

They soon arrived at the association headquarters. She pulled into the lot and cut the engine. For a moment she just sat there, hands in her lap.

"I know it’s not excruciating," she said at last. Her voice was small. "I’m just scared, you know?"

"Of what?"

"Of settling." She turned to look at him. "I don’t want to settle for a weaker beast. I don’t want to start out with really sickly low mana. What if I get something tiny? What if it’s, like, a beetle? And everyone laughs?"

Jared looked at her.

She was staring at the dashboard now, her mouth twisting. Her voice was cracking at the edges, and he realized she wasn’t being dramatic. She was genuinely afraid.

’She’s terrified.’

"I’ll be right here," he said gruffly. "By your side. The whole time."

Zoey blinked.

Slowly, a smile spread across her face. It wasn’t a big one. It was small and surprised, and a little wet around the eyes.

"Really?"

"I said I would."

"Why though?" she asked. "You hate waiting."

"I didn’t say I’d enjoy it."

She laughed, soft and shaky. Then she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and her voice turned a little distant.

"Julius said something once. In an interview. About how a weak start isn’t the end of the road, but it’s a steeper climb. I keep thinking about it."

Jared hissed through his teeth.

"Don’t."

"What?"

"Don’t quote Julius. I just survived that guy for 50 minutes."

"He’s smart!"

"He’s a brochure."

"He’s inspiring."

"He’s a walking billboard." He pushed open the door. "Whatever. Let’s do this. Hopefully we’re here on time."

Zoey grinned and followed him out.

It was past 6:45 am.

* * *

The lobby was huge and bright and echoing, with a floor of polished marble and a ceiling so high it swallowed the voices. A handful of people drifted across the floor.

They found the elevator at the far end, a brass cage with a polished lever, and rode it up in silence. When the doors opened, a wide, quiet corridor stretched ahead, lined with benches . At the end of it stood a pair of enormous double doors, carved with the association’s crest, a beast’s silhouette within a circle.

Beyond those doors, he knew, was the prime room. And behind that, the awakening process, in all its glory.

Zoey stopped at the end of the hall and let out a long, slow sigh.

She was early. Actually early. The benches were mostly empty, the corridor quiet. Only a scattering of people sat waiting, flipping through magazines, dozing against the wall. Today must not have been a busy day.

Jared counted quickly.

"About 50 people ahead of you," he said.

"That’s not bad."

"It’s not great."

"It’s still much better than I expected."

She dropped onto a bench and tucked her bag between her feet. He sat beside her, leaving a polite gap.

[This is going to be a long morning.]

’Don’t remind me.’

* * *

It was long.

By 8 am, Zoey had eaten half the cheese. By 9, she had read every poster on the wall twice. By 10, she’d found a small crack in the ceiling and named it Gerald. Jared sat through all of it with his arms folded, nibbling crackers, answering her questions in monosyllables.

At 11 am, a clerk stepped through the double doors, checked a clipboard, and called her name.

Zoey stood so quickly the bench rocked. Her face went pale.

"That’s me," she said.

"I know."

"That’s me. They said my name."

She took one step forward. Then another. She turned back, gripping her bag, her eyes wide.

Jared looked up.

"Good luck," he said, and he smiled. A real one.

Zoey wanted to smile back. Inside, she really did. But at the moment, she wasn’t sure she knew how. Her face felt like wax. Her stomach was a knot. So she just lifted a hand and waved.

Then she turned and walked toward the doors, her footsteps small and uneven on the marble.

The clerk held one open. She stepped through.

The door swung shut behind her with a deep, hollow thud.

Jared sat very still.

The smile had faded from his face, replaced by something quiet and serious. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the carved crest on the door.

[You’re worried.]

’I’m not.’

[You’re staring at that door like it owes you money.]

’Shut up.’

He didn’t look away.