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Chapter 1

Ori

If you'd have asked me who I'd choose to start a punk band with, a sweater-vest-wearing, stick-up-their-ass poindexter would not have been it. I guess college is just weird like that.

I can trace it all back to that morning. I dropped my phone in the sleeping pool and snoozed through my alarm again. Probably would've missed class if I hadn't felt sunlight dancing on the ripples above me. I got up, got dressed, grabbed my keys, and kicked Sylvia (my feline roommate) out of the bathroom so I could hastily apply some eye-liner. I gave the mirror a toothy smile and turned my head side to side, deciding that my disheveled blue hair would dry just fine by the time I reached campus. Then, I was out the door and down the stairs before you could say “you forgot your backpack!"

I sat down at my desk, nonchalantly draped a hand over the back of my chair and watched my fellow students file in, all the while thinking “man I look pretty put together." As usual, the TA, a red-eyed nixie whose name I had already forgotten, was seated in the corner, writing something and looking like they'd read about things like 'oversleeping' in a book once. Dr. Blackburn walked in, hands in his pockets, bookbag over his dark, scaly, dress-shirted shoulder. He smiled.

“Gooooood morning class!" he said, placing the bag on the desk, “Why don't we start with your riveting responses to last week's reading assignment?"

Students around me opened their backpacks and binders and produced their homework. Fuck. Maybe 'I left my bag at home on accident' would've been a valid excuse if I'd actually read the piece. I slid down in my chair and tried not to meet anyone's eyes. Dr. Blackburn, as usual, paced back and forth asking us various questions about 'themes' and 'Floro's use of gap'.

“Why spend a whole scene on a character like the Crypt Keeper who never appears again?"

Some of the students shuffled their feet. The deutyrian next to me raised a hoof and Blackburn quickly pointed at him. “Hari."

“There was um," he pursed his lips, “a long scene where Mylus struggles with the decision to kill his friend. But we don't see it happen. Does the Crypt Keeper represent, like, rumors?"

“You tell me," replied Blackburn smoothly.

Hari scratched his forehead, next to his antler. “Alright. I think that's why. Floro wanted to show us that Mylus is underestimating how quickly word gets out."

Blackburn nodded encouragingly. “And what do you think?" He pointed at the insectoid behind me with three arms raised. I slumped in my chair and looked away as if his clawed finger was firing an invisible laser.

“I think the Crypt Keeper represents the judgment of the afterlife," she clicked. “He kept talking about how all beauty is erased by death. Mylus is handsome and wealthy. But he's saying death will come for Mylus too eventually and none of that will mean anything."

Blackburn nodded again. “I like that. Anyone else notice anything peculiar about this scene?"

Timidly, the canid in the corner raised her paw. Blackburn pointed in that direction.

“I kinda feel like the scene was out of place. The tone was off. Like it was trying to be funny and sad at the same time."

“Interesting. And why would you have humor in a scene where the main character is giving last rites to his best friend? Seems unceremonious doesn't it?"

The insectoid behind me raised her hands again. “Theaters had different standards at the time right? He probably just needed to keep his audience entertained."

And so it went, agonizing and desperately slow, for an hour. I admit the guy had a way of easing his students into natural conversation. But today, it only made me feel worse for being unable to participate. After the discussion was done, the TA got up and walked around the room, stiffly collecting everyone's papers. Despite their lean, diminutive stature, the nixie was still taller than I was standing. But, as they reached my desk and raised an eyebrow at its emptiness, I felt as if they were towering over me like the bow of a ship, if the ship was wearing khakis and had a pencil behind its ear. Soon, though, they were turning toward the next desk. I pretended my flip flops needed adjusting.

After that, Blackburn began today's lecture on Floro's contemporaries during the Settlement Period and I focused all my attention on trying to survive the next thirty minutes. Before long, the clock read 9:30 and I was out of my seat, heading straight for the door, already picturing the Theater Building in my mind's eye.

“Ori, can I speak with you for a moment?" Blackburn's deep, reverberant voice was quite warm, but I felt icy panic creep into my heart. I took a deep breath and turned around, as the other students weaved past me toward the safety of the hallway. Blackburn smiled as I approached his desk. The TA stood next to him, holding a binder and adjusting their reading glasses. He mercifully waited until my classmates were gone before continuing.

“Ori, I just want to start by saying you're not in trouble."

“Oh what a relief", I thought.

“Look," he continued, “I wasn't a good student when I was working on my degree. A lot of people don't know this but I had to take a whole two extra years just to graduate." He took off his own glasses.

“The whole concept of grading students on their ability to focus and regurgitate rather than on their aptitude and comprehension is unbelievably backwards. It's why I've structured this class around dialogue, not testing."

The TA nodded slightly in approval as they watched him speak. It was no secret they admired the doctor. Blackburn's eyes, however, were fixed on me in that scrutinizing way that makes you want to turn tail and swim back into your crevice.

“When you read the material, Ori," he said, “you have some of the most compelling conclusions in this class. But I haven't heard you speak at all the past three weeks. What's going on?"

I struggled to form a response. I didn't think my conclusions were particularly compelling. They certainly didn't use words like 'aptitude' and 'conclusion'.

“I dunno, Professor." I shuffled my feet and adjusted my fins. “I guess I just keep forgetting."

“Call me Brad," he laughed. Then he pointed his snout at the floor and raised his eyebrows to fix me with an almost conspiratorial gaze.

“Here's the thing, Ori. This class doesn't matter at all."

His TA's expression changed to a look that said 'did you just call Gate of Midnight overrated?' Blackburn continued on, gesticulating all around him as he spoke.

“As a matter of fact, none of this matters! Grades, GPA, all your hoity-toity professors with doctorates in fields you'll never need to study." His posture relaxed. “What matters is the experiences you're having and the relationships you're building. Do I make sense?"

I could only nod my head slowly, though I understood him about as well as I did Floro's poetry.

He pursed his lips. “You told me you're working on a degree in the Arts, yes?"

I nodded, faster this time. “That's right. I'm a music major."

“Music! Fantastic!" he spread his arms wide, then placed his hands on his knees, tail swishing back and forth. “I have no doubt you'll make a great musician if you apply yourself to the study of music and of people. I don't want my class to get in the way of that."

He stood up, looking suddenly serious, obscuring the entire chalkboard with his broad shoulders. “However, since this is an educational institution, I am obliged to see to the academic needs of my students. As such, I am assigning you a tutor."

I could feel my eyes grow wide. “But, you just said this class doesn't matter! And this class-I had-I have work!"

He plowed on. “I'll see to it that your work and school schedules are unchanged. You will meet once per week to complete the reading assignments and, if you attend every meeting, I will pass you, despite your lack of engagement in the dialogues these past few weeks. Now, when are your classes? Webster, write this down."

The TA hurriedly shuffled through their binder, taking the pencil from behind their ear.

“Well, after this I have Music Theory at 10:00, and Mus-uh-History of Music at 2:00. And on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I have Ceramics at 9:00 and Finance at 11:00. But-"

“And when do you work?"

“I go in at Five every day and I work at the pool on weekends but-"

“So Tuesdays and Thursdays you've got a large space between the end of class and the start of your shift. It just so happens that Webster here has a space there too," he clapped his assistant on the back as he spoke, jostling them and causing them to drop their pencil on the ground. They turned to the professor in shock.

“But Dr. Blackburn, I-"

“Don't worry Webster, I have every confidence in your abilities as a tutor," he patted their shoulder firmly as if the matter was resolved. I couldn't help but feel a little twinge of satisfaction knowing I wasn't the only one being screwed over. Then Blackburn turned to his desk and picked up his laptop to place it back in his bookbag.

Webster had a pleading look in their eye. “Please Dr. Blackburn, I have so many papers to grade! And I still need to submit my thesis proposal! I've got only two weeks left!"

“Just Brad, as always," said Professor Blackburn, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “Webster," he fixed them with a serious gaze. “You're more than capable of doing this. If you're going to teach Florian Literature someday, you have to start by actually sitting down with your students."

Webster stared up at him searchingly through red, slitted eyes. Their thick eyebrows were knitted in an expression far more vulnerable and uncertain than I'd have expected from someone like them. Then, they nodded slowly. “Alright."

“Faaaaaantastic!" declared Blackburn, smiling broadly. “Now." He addressed both of us with his gaze. “I have to get something in my stomach before my next class or I'll likely pass out from low blood sugar." He took several heavy steps toward the door, raising a hand in farewell as he filled the doorway.

“See you at 10:30, Webster."

And, like a loach in a piranha tank, he was gone.

I turned and met the TA's red eyes and there was a moment of shared fatigue over that whirlwind exchange. Then, Webster went back to their straight-backed, incredulous demeanor and, as they cleared their throat, I remembered how much their fully buttoned shirt annoyed me.

“Let's meet in the library at noon-thirty tomorrow. I'll book us a room. Should give us time to eat before we get there." They crouched down and unzipped the backpack at their feet.

“Yeah, food! Alright!" I scoffed, doing little to hide my disinterest.

Webster dropped their folders into the backpack, then stood back up.

“He really cares about his students you know," they said, slipping it on.

“If by caring you mean giving me a ton of extra work and threatening to fail me," I said. Truthfully, I liked Blackburn. I just don't like people telling me what to feel, and I wasn't too excited about being alone in a library with Textbooks McGee once a week.

“Yeah. That's what he's doing," Webster said sarcastically, rolling their eyes and walking out of the room, to follow their beloved teacher like a shadow. I stuck my tongue out at their back and made a face. Then I took a deep breath and decided that I too should be getting on with my day. I left the building and took a circuitous route to the theater building to avoid running into Webster.