Manuscript Preview - The Young and the Dead - Prologue + Chapter 1

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Prologue

            For the third time this week, Marvin was going to be late to work. In his head, he tried to justify it, but in his heart, he knew it was his fault. A popular mantra his dad would often repeat was that, “If something makes you five minutes late, you should have left five minutes earlier.” His boss could have been his dad’s clone.

            Up ahead the traffic was clearing. Eureka. He slammed the pedal of his ’08 and shot the gap into the fast lane of I-5 towards Los Angeles. Maybe – just maybe – if he could get ahead of the pack before the next construction slowdown he could make it in time. The speedometer climbed to three digits.

            Now he was facing oncoming traffic from the emergency lane. He blinked and shook his head, not sure what he was seeing through the cracked glass. His head was woozy. The airbag had deployed and there was blood on the dashboard. Light smoke trickled from a ruined engine that was a mess of metal in front of him. His ribs felt broken.

            Gingerly, he lifted his arm – his ribs were definitely broken – and found the door handle. With some effort, he was able to force it open and fell onto the pavement outside. A sea of vehicles had come to a standstill in front of him. People gawked in horror from behind their pristine windshields. The majority were not looking at him, though. Most eyes were fixed further up the road.

            He turned to see what the others were looking at. His heart fell into his stomach and he dropped to his knees. Shock still overtook him, but now he could recall a shaky version of what had happened. He was flying in the fast lane, trying to get ahead of a group of cars. A van in front of him merged to the right. He didn’t have time to stop. Instead, he slammed into the back of the other vehicle, sending it reeling into the wall. From there, he spun around and came to rest in the emergency lane, but a sedan must have then struck the van a second time.

            The vehicles were entwined together – a melody of steel. The driver of the sedan lay motionless in the middle of the fast lane twenty yards in front of the rubble, clearly dead. The driver of the van was infused into the wreckage, motionless and drenched in blood.

            From his knees, he curled into a ball and cried. Because of his actions, two people were dead or dying. How important was it for him to be punctual? What was a few minutes stacked up to a few lives? He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the EMT shook him to ask if he was injured. Marvin pushed the woman away and fixed his gaze ahead. Firefighters were prying away at the wreckage with the Jaws of Life, desperately trying to reach the other driver.

            Marvin had never been a religious man, but today he prayed like a saint. He begged every god that he’d ever heard of for some kind of sign the second man was alright. As his eyes tore into the scene, desperately searching for a hint of life, he saw it. Ever so slight, but clearly not imagined, the driver’s hand twitched. The man was alive! Marvin’s tears turned to those of joy as he sobbed hysterically.

            The driver was wearing a lab coat, now stained red from drenching gore. He must have been on his way to work or making a delivery of some sort, from the look of the van. As Marvin focused, attempting to spot more movement, he caught small spasms. After a few minutes, the driver’s eyes peeled opened. Marvin hoped he wouldn’t panic, as he could easily cause further injury if he tried to pull himself from the carnage.

            It was hard to tell from a distance, but there seemed to be no panic in that haunted stare. In fact, there was no emotion at all, from what Marvin could tell. The eyes looked eerie. That was the only word that came to mind. Maybe it could be explained by a head injury, but the man didn’t react as someone in a traumatic situation would be expected to. His neck rotated slowly, surveying the surroundings.

            As the firefighters pried another piece of frame away, an old veteran swooped in to try to remove the debris that had pinned the driver’s legs. As he reached out his arm, the trapped man became agitated, lurching unnaturally from his prison and ripping open his stomach against a sharp piece of metal. Marvin watched in terror as the man grabbed the firefighter’s arm and tore into it with his teeth. The veteran reeled back, shouting in pain. The only word Marvin could make out was “shock.”

            Like some kind of demon, the trapped man writhed as the other firefighters pried more debris away, watching in stunned disbelief. Suddenly, the driver forced himself away from his seat, leaving his legs behind him. The EMT that had been attending to Marvin sprinted towards the wreckage as the firefighters struggled with the victim. The legless man pushed forward, his mouth snapping at his rescuers, finding flesh more than once. One of the bitten men collapsed and the driver fell on top of him, gnawing mercilessly into the screaming man’s throat. As one of the firefighter’s comrades pried the driver off, he too was bitten grievously.

            Marvin couldn’t process what he was seeing other than knowing it was horrible. A part of him urged that he should help the firefighters, but base instincts won out.

            Turning from the chaos, he sprinted in the opposite direction, never looking back. 

Chapter 1

Arrivals

            The squeal of the bus brakes threw Clark from a deep slumber. Rubbing his eyes, he peered out of the window and was greeted by a sea of trees. Damn, he thought, I must’ve slept the entire way. Flying always took it out of him, even though it had been a short hop. As he turned his head he jumped, startled to find someone had filled the empty seat beside of him. The boy in the frayed red cap cracked a wry grin, which - for him - was tantamount to howling with laughter.

            “Sorry, I was out of it,” Clark mumbled, embarrassed and groggy.

            “What and you thought I was a murderer or somethin’?” The boy chided with feigned severity. Around them, the din of soft conversation washed with the whine of the engine, melding into a soothing sort of white noise.

            “No,” Clark replied defensively. “I know you did that on purpose! C’mon D.B., you let me sleep the entire way? You coulda at least said hello instead of scaring the hell out of me!”

            “You were snorin’ so peacefully, I couldn’t bring myself to wake ya,” His friend chuckled. D.B. laughing? Someone must have hit him over the head too hard this summer, Clark imagined.

            Strawberry blonde hair, long and unkempt, poked out the sides of the boy’s hat, which had a blue car manufacturer’s logo emblazoned on the front. When his dark, green eyes caught the light, they seemed to shine with the kind of pensive twinkle that was uncharacteristic for someone their age. A West Virginia native and son of a successful farmer, he was easy to dismiss because of an exaggerated drawl and shabby appearance, but those who knew him well would attest to the strength of his character and sharp intelligence.

            D.B. was strong – in a workman sort of way – and extremely dexterous. At home, he was an avid hunter and prided himself as an excellent forager as well, which made him one of the dean’s favorites. Daniel was his first name, but even the professors called him that only rarely. It was unclear what the B stood for, though Clark often speculated.

            “I don’t snore!” Clark stated indignantly. The impact was lost as he tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

            “Whatever ya say, boss,” D.B. answered dryly. The wry grin on his face betrayed his thoughts, however. “How was your summer?”

            “Not so good,” Clark replied, allowing his friend to change the subject. “I broke my collarbone early on, falling off a rope swing into a lake near my house. Mistimed the jump and hit a rock, snapped it trying to brace myself on the way down. Spent the summer in a sling, but I’m feeling alright now. It’s still a little stiff, but I’ll live. You?”

            “Sorry to hear about your luck. My summer was same old, same old. Mostly helped my dad around the farm, but we did take a family vacation to the beach. I hadn’t been since I was knee high to a grasshopper! Really made me feel small, ya know? Don’t matter how much I’ve grown in the meantime, I’m still nothing standin’ next to the ocean.”

            “I think I understand,” Clark assented, though in reality he’d never given it much thought.

            “You still seeing that girl back home?” D.B. inquired.

            “Nah,” was the simple response. The other boy nodded his head and mercifully refrained from asking any more on the subject. Clark would rather break his collarbone again than relive that memory.

            “Whatcha got on the schedule for this semester?” Clark asked to continue the conversation.

            “Nothin’ special. Calculus, World History, Bio. Oh, and I’m takin’ Philosophy, too.”

            “With Professor Matthews?” Clark perked up.

            “Yeah, I had a free elective and you wouldn’t shut up about how great he is, so I decided to throw it in there,” D.B. explained

            “I’m in that session, too!”

            “Of course, you are,” D.B. mocked. “You’re like his teacher’s pet.”

            “Oh, you’re one to talk! You and Dean Kurtis are so chummy, I’d swear you were his son if I didn’t know better!”

            “Relax, Clark, I’m only jokin’. I’m lookin’ forward to his class. If you’re singin’ his praises like you are, I have to trust your judgment.”

            The two chatted amiably the rest of the journey. D.B. didn’t have much cell coverage where he lived, so it’d been awhile since Clark had been able to catch up. Eventually, the forest parted, revealing their destination at last.

             “Looks like we’re here!”  A student seated in front of them exclaimed.

            Ahead gleamed the great, gold-gilded bars of Grand Gate, the primary entrance to Fallen Pines Boarding School’s campus. Intricately forged copper embellishments, designed to resemble branches and caked with seafoam green patina, wrapped around the railing. In the center of the arched gate was the school’s symbol; a golden tree laden with red apples and surrounded by a sea of leafy green paint. It was assumed by most to be a representation of the biblical Tree of Knowledge. Once, Clark had asked Professor Matthews if this was factual, and the man had chuckled, explaining, “The truth is far less regal than that.” The professor refused to elaborate.

            Alongside its two brothers – Hunter’s Gate, to the northwest, and Far Gate, tucked away in the northeast corner of the grounds – the southwestern Grand Gate interrupted the otherwise unremitting wall that encompassed the campus of Fallen Pines. Ivy and other various greenery creeped their way up the weathered, nine-foot stone barrier bestowing an undeserved aura of ancientness upon the site.

            A stone arch capped the top of Grand Gate allowing for a service path to continue unabated along the ramparts. Parapets topped the fortification, designed to safeguard the groundskeepers from falls as they fought their eternal battle against the ever-encroaching new growth. It was strictly forbidden for students to mount the wall, but Clark and his friends chanced it occasionally to get a scenic view, though they usually climbed on the far less patrolled eastern side.

            The gate remained fully parted today, allowing buses to pass under, ushering students back to work after the long summer break. In the distance, Thompson Creek reflected the sunlight through the windows as it bent and flowed wildly through the rough center of campus.

            Dean Patrick Kurtis had founded Fallen Pines during the Great Depression. Losing his job in the city, the young dean had fled to a small cabin that had been passed down to him by a distant relative, as the story goes. At some point, he discovered an immense reservoir of natural gas tucked away under the property. Around the same time, the use of the resource skyrocketed, and the dean went from pauper to prince overnight.

            Though old Dean Kurtis – at least the way that Professor Matthews recalled – was by no means an intellectual prior to his lucky break, the man immediately dedicated a large portion of his newfound wealth to the establishment and construction of Fallen Pines. He bought up land surrounding the humble cabin where he made his start before cutting away the Tennessee forest around it. Later, the great edifice that now encompasses the school was erected in order to protect the students from wandering wildlife, which had supposedly been a problem in the early years. Legend had it that the cemetery located behind the church on campus interred a student who’d been mauled by a bear. Legends couldn’t always be trusted when considering the history of Fallen Pines, but Clark had a personal reason not to doubt this particular one.

            “You gonna go to the Welcoming Party tonight?” D.B. questioned as the bus screeched to a halt next to several others in the cul-de-sac known as Campus Circle. Just to the east was the football field. Banners hanging from the goalposts advertised a welcome speech and cookout hosted by Dean Walter Kurtis, who was the grandson of the original dean. It was a tradition for Move-in Day, but had slipped Clark’s mind.

            “Are you going? I’ll go if everyone else is, I guess.”

            “What ya mean to say is that you’ll go as long as Snip’s goin’,” D.B. chipped in slyly.

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” Clark blushed from indignance.

            “Nothin’ at all, pal,” the other boy rose from his seat to join the throng filing out of the bus. “Catch ya later!”

            After the aisle cleared, Clark followed suit. As he stepped into the sunshine, the southern heat greeted him like a punch to the face. Rarely did it get this muggy in the mountains of western Maryland and, despite spending the last two years at Fallen Pines, he’d never acclimated. In a few weeks, autumn would bring some cool air, for which he would be thankful.

            D.B. had disappeared like smoke in the wind, which irked Clark. The nerve of him to assume something like that! As he joined the queue to retrieve his bags from the undercarriage, someone called his name.

            “Julius!” Clark exclaimed. “You made it on time, huh? That’s a first.” He clapped his sandy-haired friend on the back and they shared a laugh.

            “Aw, come on man! That hurts. New year, new me. My days of being late are over. You watch!” Julius seemed confident in his change of character.

            “I got faith in ya buddy,” Clark lied. The joke around campus was that Julius earned his name after forcing his mother to have a Caesarian Section. The boy was so late to his own birth that they had to evict him. “How come your sister isn’t with you?”

            “Oh, Sam got here way early. I think she’s unpacking her stuff back at the dorm.”

            “You guys didn’t leave together?” Clark asked in confusion.

            “No, we did,” Julius offered innocently. Clark was incredulous.

            “You gonna go to the Welcoming Party tonight?” He asked Julius, unable to process what his friend had just said.

            “Of course! Archie was on my bus and I told him we could walk down together. I’ll see you there, man!” And with that, the boy departed, lugging a suitcase behind him.

            Clark grabbed his bags and commenced the short trek to the male dormitory, Brahm’s Hall. The building rested on the southwestern bank of Thompson Creek, near the area of the stream known as Lesser Bend. A little upstream, near the brook that was its namesake, stood Stone Ford Hall, the female dormitory. Across a cobblestone bridge – which had been built merely inches wide enough to allow the monthly delivery trucks to cross – was the cafeteria and storeroom. Together the three buildings formed the area of campus known as the Triangle.

            Birds tweeted and darted overhead, bobbing from tree to tree along the path. A pleasant breeze had kicked up, cooling the sweltering air considerably, especially in the areas that were shaded. Clark was still breaking out in sweat, however, from dragging his belongings behind him and the weight of his overstuffed backpack. The air conditioning in Brahm’s Hall was terrible, but luckily, the Gothic-style building was constructed using heavy, grey stone, keeping the heat out in summer and the warmth in during winter.

            Students trickled by him on their own slow haul; some familiar, but most not. Charlie, a nervous, frail sophomore he’d shared several classes with last year, stopped to greet him and offer to help with his baggage. Politely, Clark refused, but regretted doing so. Charlie bade him farewell and continued walking the opposite direction.

            A few exasperating minutes later, Clark reached the entrance to the dormitory. Today the great, steel-banded oak doors were swung inside and locked down with a heavy rod inserted into the set hole. Opposite the entrance, another set of matching doors were locked open, generating a vortex of cool air that whipped through towards the courtyard beyond.

            Crossing the threshold into the common room, Clark was flooded by the dull roar of conversation. Old friends embraced while bragging about their adventures over the summer recess, timid freshmen stood in groups, awkwardly trying to forge fast friendships, and the advisors barked out names to take attendance and finalize room assignments. For a moment, he was shell-shocked. It had been a long summer spent away from crowds, tending to his broken bone.

            “Name?” Asked an older woman as she approached.

            “Clark Midlan,” he replied. She scanned the paper pinned to the clipboard in her hands.

            “Room 314, boarding with James Marshall. Do you need assistance with anything?”

            “Has Marshall checked in yet?” He inquired. The lady nodded in answer.

            Clark had been randomly assigned Marshall as a roommate Freshman year and they’d quickly become best friends. Back then, they started on the ground floor, but now, as Juniors, they were ascending another level both in the dorm and in their lives.

            Brahm’s Hall was five-storied, with the older students being afforded the better view. The fifth story had once been reserved as quarters for the groundskeepers and other various workers. With living on site becoming rarer, the floor now solely sheltered the two professors who had volunteered as chaperones for the semester, with the remaining rooms being largely utilized for storage. Most staff commuted from the nearby town of Bradford, but there were some that stayed in the campus domiciles that had been built in recent years near Far Gate.

            Shouting suddenly poured into the common room through the open courtyard door. Clark recognized one of the voices, unfortunately. The woman with the clipboard’s attention was drawn briefly by the ruckus, until a student interrupted to ask her for their room assignment. She seemed to welcome the distraction as an excuse to not investigate.

            Clark bolted towards the door, leaving his bags behind. Outside he squinted, adjusting to the bright sunshine as it juxtaposed the dim common room. The courtyard was a perfect square thirty yards across and completely encompassed by the confines of Brahm’s Hall, with a small copse of ash trees in the northeast corner. Near the trees, a student was sprawled out on the ground with another, much larger boy hovering over him, travel bags scattered nearby. Other students watched nonchalantly from various parts of the courtyard, maintaining a safe distance.

            “What the hell is your problem?” shouted the student from the ground, cheek swelling and blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

            Marshall’s already got himself into trouble and the year hasn’t even started yet, Clark thought bleakly. The assailant was a familiar face as well. Dark haired, tall, and sporting his precious letterman jacket, Brendon Mendel had never seen eye to eye with Marshall, to phrase it lightly. More often than not, when Marshall was being made miserable around campus, the other boy was either directly or indirectly involved.

            Today – as always, – Brendon was flanked by two lapdogs; part of an entourage of lackies that deified him. Whenever there was trouble, they were always conveniently around to back him up.

            “I’m not putting up with your mouth anymore, fatso!” Brendon yelled, skulking over Marshall. “If you wanna get smart with me, it’s gonna be a rough year for you, little man!”

            “I wouldn’t worry about that! Getting smart with you is a waste of my time,” Marshall retorted.

            Brendon kicked the boy squarely in the ribs causing him to gasp in pain.

            “Come on man. Leave him alone before you hurt him! He’s trying to get under your skin and you’re letting him,” Clark pleaded, walking swiftly towards the two. One of Brendon’s lackeys stepped to block his path.

            “Back off, Clark,” the boy threatened.

             “What’s it to you, Bradley?” Clark shoved him out of the way. The boy glared back menacingly, but that dog was all bark and no bite. Jeremy – the other lapdog – sniggered at Bradley, drawing the boy’s ire.

            Brendon turned to address him. “I donno why you stand up for this worm, Clark. He’s worthless! You’d be a decent enough guy if you didn’t hang out with weirdoes like him.” For some strange reason, Brendon had always liked Clark, though he never returned the sentiment.

            “Careful man; or I’ll tell Snip you’re calling her a weirdo,” he joked. Brendon laughed uneasily.

            Marshall hated Brendon for two reasons, both primarily rooted in jealousy. First, Marshall came from a poor upbringing and had an atrocious family life. He had made it to Fallen Pines through grit and his high intelligence, while Brendon had coasted in on the coattails of his rich father who had starred on the school’s football team years ago. He envied Brendon’s good looks and popularity, so he prodded at the other boy’s stupidity every chance that arose, which often resulted in situations like today. Marshall considered getting Brendon riled as a win, even if it resulted in him being bruised and bloodied.

            The second reason Marshall hated Brendon was Snip. He was in love with her. Everyone knew it. Clark often winded up playing mediator, even though he wanted no part. It was good that Brendon liked Clark, for whatever reason. Good for Marshall, rather. Not at all good for Clark.

            Perhaps it was because Brendon thought they had a lot in common. He assumed Clark was another rich kid raised with a silver spoon in his mouth, while the reality was that he came from a poor, loving family that worked hard and saved for years to send their son off for the best education possible. Because of his upbringing, Clark harbored sympathy for Marshall, except when the boy brought things on himself. Often, Marshall’s mouth got him into trouble that Clark was forced to pay bail on.

            “What were you going to tell me, Clark?” Snip appeared as if summoned. She sauntered towards the group from the shade of an ash tree, long, coffee-colored hair blowing in the breeze. Her bright orange blouse seemed to catch fire in the sunlight. In her hand, she lackadaisically clutched the sketchbook that she so treasured.

            “Oh, hey Leslie!” Brendon stuttered shakily, suddenly becoming the epitome of a model citizen. “Glad you made it in okay.” He smiled and extended his hand for her to take. She crossed her arms and stared at it, arching an unimpressed eyebrow.

            “Shut up Brendon,” she replied snippily. “And don’t call me Leslie, you know I hate that.” She looked at Marshall on the ground and sighed. “If this is how you’re going to act, it’s gonna be a long, cold semester for you.” Her fierce brown eyes shot daggers in her boyfriend’s direction. Brendon sensed that it was in his best interest to leave and departed, Bradley and Jeremy tailing like puppies close behind.

            Snip fiddled with her prized necklace – a silver chain that ran through a leather bounded tuft of brown fur, – waiting until Brendon and company were out of earshot before speaking. “Looks like you’ve not changed a bit over the summer, Marshall.”

            Clark offered a hand to the boy and pulled him up. Marshall dusted himself off while staring at the ground, blushing red from embarrassment. “He started it,” the boy grumbled.

            “I highly doubt that,” Snip interjected.

            Clark chose to stay silent. Snip was a few inches shorter than him and a few inches taller than Marshall, but when she turned her glare at you, she may as well be a skyscraper. Leslie Martinez was her real name, but she abhorred it and went by her earned nickname. When she wasn’t angry, her eyes conveyed innocence and her voice was sweet and childish. She had a disarming smile that could get her out of almost any trouble she found herself in, which was fortunate, because she prided herself as a master of mischief. Snip got herself and others – usually Clark – into jams, but always wiggled out of them with her well-practiced charms.

            “Yeah, well, he deserved it,” Marshall stated defensively. “And I can handle myself next time.”

            He smiled widely at her but was met with the same piercing stare she had cast at Brendon moments earlier. The innocent glint in her eyes disappeared when she was displeased and presently she looked more like a hawk eyeing a mouse than the playful sprite Clark knew she was at heart. A cold chill shot up Clark’s spine as he took in her glare. He was happy that it wasn’t directed towards him today.

            Marshall’s smile dissipated in a heartbeat. “Look, I’m sorry, I just got carried away. I’ll do better this year, I promise.” He was a nervous wreck around Snip.

            “I’ll believe that when I see it,” she replied sternly. Suddenly, the sternness metamorphized into a fit of laughter. “It’s good to see you again.” She strolled to Marshall, squeezing him into a friendly hug.

            The boy blushed an even deeper shade of maroon and glanced towards Clark. “It’s good to see you, too,” he stammered, hesitantly pushing out of her embrace. “I’m going to go get unpacked. I’ll see you guys at the Welcoming Party.”

            He walked a short distance to gather his bags from the dirt; significantly less luggage than most. Offering to help him with his meager belongings would hurt the boy’s pride, so Clark decided to stall a while before he would join him in their shared room. Despite Marshall’s tough persona, Clark knew that the physical abuse bothered him. He tried his best to allow his friend time alone after these kinds of incidents.

            “Marshall!” Snip called. The boy stopped in his tracks, but didn’t turn to face her. “Take care of yourself.” There was more than a hint of pleading in her voice. Marshall waved his hand dismissively and then let it fall limply to his side. He crept away, disappearing into the common room. Clark didn’t fully comprehend how Snip perceived her relationship with Marshall. She would have to be blind not to see that the boy adored her, but whenever Clark tried to address it, she would spin the subject in a different direction.

            “Clark,” she whispered softly. He had been staring reflectively at the open doorway until her voice drew him back to reality. “Watch out for him. For his own good. I don’t have to tell you that; I know you already know.” She smiled at him, bright and warm. Clark nodded and returned the smile – decidedly more awkward than her’s.

            “How’ve you been by the way? You look great! You’re growing up on me,” she said with a playful wink. When she felt like being mischievous – which was most of the time, – she acted and spoke in a way that seemed to convey deep, ulterior meanings. She was a master of misdirection and no matter how hard Clark tried, he was no closer to figuring her out than he was to touching the sun.

            “I can see you’ve grown, too! Looks like you still haven’t outgrown your taste for trouble, though. What kind of maniacal schemes are you planning to wrap us all up into this year?” Clark winked back, turning red in the face. He often tried to match Snip’s chiding affection, but was by no means her equal on nerves.

            She burst out laughing again. Snip was always laughing – rarely taking anything seriously, – which further amplified her intimidating presence while angry by contrast. She had an uncanny ability to lighten the whole room, making her all the much more elusive when weaseling out of trouble. “Oh, don’t act like you aren’t just as guilty as I am. But, if you must ask, I do have some plans for this year,” she trailed off mysteriously, folding her arms and tapping her cheek with one finger. An all too familiar grin spread across her delicate face.

            Clark didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so he smirked clumsily instead. “I’m just playing, Clark,” she giggled, reaching out to touch his arm. Clark did not believe her for a second, but at heart he didn’t mind. Much.

            The two walked a short distance to sit upon a stone bench stationed beneath the ash trees. A light wind blew lazily, wafting the mild, earthy smell of the foliage. It was pleasant. They sat side by side and chatted about their summer vacation. Clark enjoyed listening to Snip tell stories. She always had grand tales to tell and conveyed them in ways that had her audience hanging on every word. Clark mainly listened rather than speak. He’d sooner forget his summer, for obvious reasons.

            The courtyard was empty, aside from them. The students from before had only emerged to observe what was going on between Brendon and Marshall. Now that the excitement had subsided, they’d retreated inside, busily unpacking and catching up with schoolmates. Clark was surprised no adults had heard the shouting and came to investigate, but it was understandable due to all the hustle and bustle around campus today. The lady with the clipboard had seemed more than happy to ignore it.

            “Snip, I hate to cut it short, but I need to unpack, too,” he stated after several minutes. Rigidly, he rose from his seat. Stone benches were never his first choice, but he did enjoy relaxing in this spot from time to time.  

            “I’m glad to have bumped into you though, besides the circumstances,” he smiled at her again, this time genuinely. “I’ll see you tonight!”

            “Can’t wait,” she said without hesitating, more warmly than she may have intended. For the briefest of moments, Clark could have sworn he’d seen her blush. Now that would be a first, he thought. She rose, walked up to Clark, and pulled him into a hug. Instinctively, he squeezed her close and she let out a squeak. She felt warm against his body.

            “Clark?” She whispered.

            “Yeah?”

            “You take care of yourself too, okay?” He doubted she was being serious.

            “I will if you will,” he promised, laughing softly.

            At that, she pulled away. A twinge of regret manifested before he could suppress it. “Don’t I always?” She giggled richly. Clark laughed alongside her. Slowly, their mirth faded and they stood in awkward silence, eyes locked. “Bye!” Snip blurted abruptly. She trotted off without another word.

            Clark raised his hand slowly, bidding farewell to her back. He assessed the last few moments in his head and was perplexed as always. Snip was like a sister to him, but the rare occasions they spent alone together often seemed to end in similar fashion. Everything that girl did confused him, but he was glad that she was back in his life again.   

            He quickly scanned the third floor of Brahm’s Hall, trying to figure out which oval window was 314 – the room that he and Marshall would be sharing this year. In each of the four corners of the building rose tall spires that contained the staircases, as well as a fifth spire built atop the common room. He sectioned it off in his memory and turned east, where he thought the room should be.

            In one of the windows, he spotted Marshall staring down directly at him. He waved, but his friend only gazed coldly before turning away from the window. Marshall was jealous of anyone who spent time alone with Snip and Clark was no exception, unfortunately. He prayed that Marshall wouldn’t slip into one of his moods this early in the year. The boy had a tendency to become melancholy for weeks on end when the stress piled high. Clark loved him like a brother, but he was frustrating to be around when he acted that way.

            Reluctantly, Clark turned to walk towards the common room, Snip still tugging at his mind.