Around me there are a sea of open seats. The students’ hindbrains tell them I am a dangerous creature and that I should be avoided. Only a few have gone against instinct and spoken to me—curiosity winning out over fear. But my blank expression and terse responses have driven them away as I intended. Only now the isolation reminds me of Daisy’s fears. In many ways, I am failing her.
After class I attempt to correct this. There are two young ladies who smiled at me when the semester began. They are fresh things, rosy cheeked and with multihued hair. Art girls enjoy hair colors not found in nature. That is weird. I shall tell this to Daisy tonight.
As I approach I can hear them discussing a weekend party at a house known by Greek letters, and a plan quickly formulates. Daisy wants friends and wants to fit in. One of them, the shorter one who wears clunky boots and torn leg coverings, says she plans to hit it like the right hand of an angry god.
I wonder what that means and resolve to ask Daisy. Although she may not know. Perhaps Daniel? Daniel is a former assassin who has retired at the age of twenty-seven to his family ranch in Texas. He is very knowledgeable about idiosyncratic behavior of American girls.
“He does remind me of Chris Hemsworth,” the taller girl replies. She wears a long, puffy jacket that covers her from head to foot. I wonder where she purchased it. Daisy does not like wearing the fur I bought her. She says other students would disapprove because it is not appropriate to kill animals and then wear their skins. I say nothing about the yards of leather that adorn the students that walk by us daily, and accept this as a truth I will not ever fully comprehend.
“Let’s hope his package is godlike or all my efforts will be wasted,” responds the short one.
Ah, it is a sexual reference. She wishes to have vigorous sex with a man who looks like a Norse god. Hopefully she will not strike any part of his package with the force of a god, let alone an angry one. A clearing of the throat effectively gains their attention, and I offer a tentative smile, the one that makes Daisy sigh.
The two turn to me and blink rapidly as if I’ve shined a bright light in their eyes. I hold my smile uncertainly for another moment and then release my muscles. “Ladies.”
They exchange looks with each other in confused wonder, and then the taller one tilts her head and responds, “Hi, there. I thought you didn’t talk to mere mortals.”
“I, ah, um . . .” What would Daniel say here? Unfortunately I cannot text him for advice in the middle of a conversation. I answer weakly, “I am but a mortal myself.”
The tall one arches her brow and quietly says, “You don’t look like a mere mortal.”
Her lingering perusal takes in my bulky sweater and jeans. Most of my marks are hidden but for a few black lines at the front of my neck. She is not put off by them and neither is her short friend. Instead, she flips her hair over her shoulders and opens her stance so that I am welcomed into their circle.
“I am Nick Anders.” I offer my hand.
“Laila Kristiansen.” She shakes it firmly. “This is Terese Erle. Are you an art major?”
“Yes,” I nod enthusiastically. “I study art. This class is interesting. Before I did not make the connection between political activism and art although perhaps it is so obvious that I missed, how do you say . . . the forest for the trees?”
“You aren’t from around here, are you? A foreign student?” Laila asks.
Caught off guard, I slip. “Nyet. I mean, no. I am from here. I live here now.”
“No.” She hurries to reassure me. “I didn’t mean it like it was a bad thing. Your accent is pretty cool.”
I do not like discussing my past, so I change the subject. “I hear you were talking about a party. Do you enjoy those?”
“Sure, who doesn’t?” Terese interjects. “Do you want to come? I’m sure we could get you in.”
“Oh no. I do not need to intrude upon your plans, but I wanted to extend an invitation to you. I am having a party and would desire you to come, yes?”
They both visibly brighten at this, their faces light up, and their mouths curve into eager smiles.
“Sure, when and where?” Laila asks.
Quickly I consider the options. Our home is out of the question. It is bad enough that Daisy wants us to have tenants. At least those I can research so thoroughly I know when their baby teeth fell out. And no one has met my stringent requirements. A public place would be much safer. My mind quickly considers and then discards multiple options. The Village Bean is a coffee shop and the atmosphere is too subdued to host a party. Restaurants in general seem an unlikely source. Twenty meters from the apartment building is a ramshackle two story bar. Daisy and I shared a drink there one night as we explored our neighborhood. At the time, there were other students—or at least people who appeared to be students—drinking and carousing. That place. We will pay them money and they will host our party. “There is a bar on 4th Street called MacEathe’s Irish Pub. It will be held there. Next Saturday.”