“They’ll figure something out, Boneboy,” insisted Silt.
“And if Bard doesn’t, we will,” agreed Vibe.
“Could you all keep it down?” asked Winter, two rows behind us and seated with the normal she’d somehow blackmailed into being her date to the dance. “I’m trying to listen to the announcer.”
Of course she was.
•—•—•
The Graduation Games run for a full week. The first three days are all individual events, while the next three are team-oriented, but it’s the seventh day that everyone loses their minds over. That’s when they hold the finals for every contest from the preceding week. More than eight straight hours of the very best third-years demonstrating their skills. If the Academy sold tickets, they could make a fortune.
I wouldn’t be there to see the finals. The shuttle to the Hole left at noon on the sixth day, one day before the finals, and two days before the Remembrance Day dance. Maybe I should’ve been pissed about that, too, but the allure of the games had faded quickly. Turns out watching an event you know you’ll never get to participate in is its own kind of torture, especially for a first-year, and especially with every one of your classmates watching the field in rapt fascination, their hopes and dreams almost literally painted across their faces.
I blew off day four. Spent some of it rehearsing what I was going to say when I finally saw my asshole dad. Spent the rest of it out on that hill-side bench in the woods, watching the ocean. The ocean doesn’t give a fuck about people. The ocean’s going to be there long after we’re dust. Not sure why, but I found that comforting.
I blew off day five too, but this time I spent it in bed with my Glass. That turned out to be a tactical mistake, as it made it all the easier for Jeremiah to track me down.
“Hey Damian, the second-years are having an end-of-year party over at The Liquid Hero. Feel like coming?”
The shuttle to the Hole was leaving in just over sixteen hours. The absolute last thing I needed to do was go drinking.
On the other hand, it was quite possibly the last time I’d get to go drinking.
“What the hell,” I decided, “I’m in.”
Still eighteen.
Still an idiot.
CHAPTER 64
Parties at The Liquid Hero weren’t all that uncommon, especially with classes over for the semester. What made this one special was that it was Capes-only; adults, first-years, second-years, and the handful of third-years who were either done with the Graduation Games or willing to be hungover for the championship round. For only the second time all year, drinks were on the house.
Hektor was working the bar instead of the door, and as we entered, Jeremiah peeled off to say hello. I nodded to Olympia, out on the dance floor with London, Santi, and an over-muscled second-year, and went looking for my classmates. The second-years who weren’t working the bar had taken over the upstairs tables and the booths along the far wall were occupied by third-years and adults. That left us first-years making do with the tall tables between the booths and the stairs. Poltergeist, Cyclone, and the Viking barely fit around one, and Supersonic, Wormhole, and Paladin crowded around another. The last two tables each had open spaces, but since Winter stood alone at one of them and Orca and Prince were together at the other—holding hands and sharing a beer, for fuck’s sake—neither option was appealing.
I went back to the bar and ordered a screwdriver, a drink I only knew from vids. The vodka was cheap and the orange juice was synthesized, but at least it wasn’t beer. Or whisky. After Amos’ priceless bottle, and Mom’s subsequent visitation, even the thought of the stuff turned my stomach.
I tossed back one glass, ordered another, and waited for a minute or two for salvation to appear. Silt, maybe, or even Vibe, as unlikely as that would be. No luck. Finally, I gave in to the inevitable, and headed to the table with Orca and Prince.
I was still ten feet away when Freddy “Muse” Ficus, our Low-Three Switch, took the final spot.
That should have been my first clue that the night was destined for disaster, but the vodka was already working its magic, warming me from the inside, and I wasn’t looking for portents or signs. With a shrug, I changed direction, and headed for Winter’s table.
If Penelope had ever worn heels, she would have been close to my height, and I was the tallest of the first-year men not named Alan Jackson, Eric Thorsson, or Jeremiah Jones. In flats, she was still a head taller than most of the other women, but tonight, she seemed smaller somehow, gazing wistfully into the depths of the empty wine glass on the table in front of her.
“Winter.” I put my screwdriver on the table next to her glass, already resolved to ignore the obnoxious Weather Witch until space opened up at a different table.
“What do you want, Damian?” Our table was on the far side of the bar, right next to the booths, and some careful trick of architecture or engineering helped reduce the deafening music to background noise. It was one of the few places on the ground floor where conversation didn’t require yelling back and forth. Just my luck.
“Does it matter?”
“No.” She spared me a glance. “Do you ever wear anything other than Academy greys?”
“Not often,” I answered honestly. “I’m pretty sure grey is my color.”
“Grey isn’t anyone’s color.” She rolled her eyes, and raised her wine glass to her lips, grimacing when she realized it was empty. “I can’t believe Kayleigh agreed to go to the dance with you.”
There was a reason Winter had been the only one at her table.
“And old what’s-his-name is going with you.” I shrugged. “There’s no accounting for taste.”
“His name is Benjamin, he’s an asshole, and if I ever see him
