Trouble Chases

I walk the quietest walk down the vacant hallway, always thinking we should’ve better matched up our schedules as I make my way to Fiends of Flight. As the sole class we couldn’t agree on, perhaps our schedules never would have matched as long as I insisted on learning about pixies and faeries, sylphs and sprites and he “refuses to waste time on such beasts.” But they’re not beasts; they’re often as intelligent as we are, albeit with a little less willpower to control their impulses and abilities.

“Hey faerie-lover!”

My foot falters; I bump into the wall, catching myself with my fingertips to prop myself up, continuing forward rather than facing my pursuers. I’m not interested in whatever new taunts or tricks they’ve come up with this week; I just want to get where I’m going. Head down, I clutch my books tighter, plunging forward. It’s only another hundred meters to class; I can make it.

One of them appears in front of me, smirking wickedly.

I yank back, stutter-stepping to keep my balance. My hood falls back from my head as I twist in place, identifying how many of the gang are here and attempting to find an escape. Two, four, six… eight. This week, eight have come to see how much it will take me to explode, and only two of them dare stand within the blast radius.

When I try to mind my own business, trouble chases me down.

“Off to class, faerie-lover? Running a little… late,” he steps toward me, crossing his arms, “aren’t you? I heard Professer Pixiedust doesn’t appreciate tardiness.” He clicks his tongue at me. “Tsk, tsk. Perhaps you’ll be put on notice again? What a shame that would be.”

“That isn’t her name,” I growl.

“Look at you,” they start to circle around, even the distant six closing in. “Do I detect a hint of protectiveness in your voice? About a professor? Oooh, sounds like someone has a crush.” I grind my teeth. “Maybe you should ask her on a date. I wonder where pixies like to go to eat… Do they even eat?” He turns to his companions, chortling and sneering then turning back. “Probably not. You might have to stick with drinking pond scum.”

My eyes flicker up as I fight my breathing to stay steady.

“All those faerie-types like that kind of thing, right?” He nods, a vicious upturn to the corner of his lips. “That’s good. Well, good for you and all of your faerie-loving friends. That’s pretty much what you are, pond scum. Not even your dreadful old pal – what’s his name?” He turns to one of his friends who shrugs and shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.” He turns back to me. “Not even that guy wants to hang around your kind.”

I close my eyes, focusing on my breathing.

“Nothing to say? Probably a good thing. You wouldn’t have anything intelligent to say, anyway, so why waste the energy? Better conserve it for when we start rationing again; your kind will be the last priority, you know. You might not even get rations after that incident last time with one of your little buddies trying to magick the whole lot of it off to a private stash. Thieves, the lot of you!”

My eyes bolt open, the flesh behind my ears flaming white.

A hand settles on my shoulder from behind. Instead of jumping to bite, I yank about quizzically. As the hand drops, I find, a hand-length away from me, a brunette with soft brown eyes spiked with jade. She grins gently at me. “Are you headed to class?” It takes hearing her voice for me to recognize her. Perhaps I’ve never looked at her before.

“Yes,” I nod, “Fiends of Flight. Class.”

“Of course, the transfer student here to save the day,” he jeers. “What a waste of time and space, the both of you. You and your fiendish friends should all just-“

“What did you say your name was again?”

I blink hard, facing her, seeing her. She grins, emanating hospitality, but my mind is still on the taunts of my pursuers. As I watch her, her eyes quickly pinch near-closed for a moment, then re-open as she twists her head. She knows. “Gabe. My,” I swallow hard, tugging my books closer to my chest, “my name’s Gabe.”

Her grin grows warmly. “Nice to meet you, Gabe,” she extends her right hand, “I’m Dezzy.”

As I focus on her hand, she holds it there kindly, and my pursuers seem to loose their luster. Cautiously, I reach for her hand; as my hand gets closer to hers, a member of the outer circle fades to non-existence. As I take her hand, another quickly disappears. As I shake her hand, yet another vanishes. “Nice to meet you, too.” Another evaporates.

“Head demons?”

I try to take my hand back, but she holds it firmly. I look at her hand gripping mine which is twice the size. Again, I tug, but she doesn’t falter, doesn’t even seem to notice that I yank. Unlike normal situations where I might become frustrated and even angry, I simply marvel at the audacity of such a small hand holding captive one such as mine. It takes guts to do something like that to someone like me.

“I used to get them,” she confesses. “There are more effective ways than running.”

I nod, moreso because I don’t want to disagree with someone with this much courage than that I actually know what she’s talking about. I don’t have head demons, I reason to myself, I have pursuers. Then I look up: there are only two left, and both of them look pretty paltry. My gaze meanders back to hers. “Right.”

She grins. “They’ll disappear altogether soon. For now, let’s get to class.”

“Right,” I nod, swinging back in the proper direction. She keeps hold of my hand, stepping with me and swinging it loopily as she goes. As we make our way to class, I look over and wonder who she is to dare to touch me at all, let alone without my permission. Dezzy. Her name is Dezzy. A grin starts to form on my face, funny though it probably looks on me.

As we near the classroom, she turns to me. “See you on the other side!”

She slips away from my hand, gliding to a back corner of the room with a single open desk. As I make my way toward the front of the classroom, to the only seats still vacant, I watch her dissipate.