The Church of Urzoth Shieldsworn is all about strength and physical prowess. Most of what I’ve heard is rhetoric from his mom about how real devotees of Urzoth don’t show weaknesses like getting sick from alcohol—which is just,what—or how they don’tstumble down paths of nonsensical frailnesslike academia rather than doing something that requires brute strength. Orok’s wrested some saving graces by focusing his studies on Urzoth’s relics and playing on the rawball team. Despite being proud of these accomplishments, and generally loving her son, his mom refuses to see me as anything other than a black mark against him.
I should send Mrs. Monroe a photo of her baby in all hisI can handle my alcoholglory, then explain that I’m the one who isnothungover despite the rampant anti-Sebastian propaganda she pushes. He did drink more than I did, but whatever.
Though beingnot hungoveris all I’ve got going for me this morning.
The dryer lurches worryingly, jostling everything in the kitchen, but the cycle continues, and my frantic rushing throws me to a stop in front of it.
Do I need a shirt? Is it that important?
If I leave right now, I’ll make it to campus on time. Ish.
I look down at my threadbare AC/DC shirt and briefly think it’d be pretty badass to do the T-shirt-under-a-suit-jacket look, but am I capable of pulling that off?
Doubt hits me, or rather, catches up to me, and I stagger from the force of it body-slamming my brain.
You know who could pull off that look? Who probably isn’t running late. Who’s likely already at campus, polished and chatting up the grant committee, not at all worried about his post-graduationplans being dependent on this grant because if (when) he doesn’t get it, he’ll still have a cushy job lined up in any number of his family’s businesses.
I grab my half-drunk coffee from the counter—but no, okay, I rethinkthatat the last second and check the label.
No charisma potion, like I suspected, but it does have a quad shot of espresso added to my regular drip coffee. I’ve only been poisoned by caffeine and my own neuroses.
Great, great morning. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.
I’ll get to campus, change at warp speed, and sneak in while everyone’s getting their brunch food bits. No harm done. The decision about who gets the grant has already been made, anyway; I doubt the committee will change their mind based on a few minutes of tardiness. Right?
I glare at the dryer and seriously consider blasting it with a fireball.
“Yeah, I’m still going to church,” Orok says behind me.
I laugh. Loudly.
He lets go of the water bottle to flip me off.
“I know,” he keeps saying to his mom. “I’m still working with Reverend Dregu. Yeah, we get together every week. Mom.Mom. I’m not sending you my research reports. There’s nothing in them you’d care about! They’re all spells and equations, not—yeah, I talk to Reverend Dregu aboutmy soul,too. No, I didn’t take a tone with you. I’m sorry.I said—”
Ironic how Orok’s mom is all about pushing him to exert his strength, but him standing up to her isn’t something she tolerates.
There is no sweeter sound in the world than our crappy dryer beeping.
I chirp triumphantly and open it. My shirt is dry, wrinkle-free, and doesn’t have that weird mildew smell.
Things are looking up, see?Everything is fine.
The knot in my stomach that has nothing to do with strong coffee pulls tighter.
I delicately tuck my shirt into the garment bag and double-checkI have everything. Why do I feel like I’m forgetting something? I probably am. I’ll probably get to the brunch and realize I forgot pants and have to go in wearing my gray sweats.
But no, I packed pants. And a normal belt, too. Look at me, adulting.
My unsteady hands fumble the garment bag’s zipper and I spin around to down the rest of my coffee—I really,reallydon’t need it—only to slam right into Orok’s chest.
Still on the phone, he clamps his free arm around me and draws me into a brutal hug. Hereeksof smoke, and the side of his shirt is crunchy where it got singed during Blast Off.
But I let him hug me. Just for a second.
“While I appreciate the sentiment,” I whisper, “you’re making me stink.”
He squeezes me tighter before releasing me with a pat on the head. “Good luck,” he says softly. “You’re gonna kick his ass.” He flinches. “No, Mom,I’mnot kicking someone’s ass; it was metaphorical. I’m not—” He sighs, and the sound of his mom guilt-tripping him for not embracing his family’s religion by randomly crushing skulls is a muffled drone between us.
