Freya emerged from a black hole deeper than any the Lunesta had ever produced. The night was gone so completely it was like waking from anesthesia, and the fevered desire did not return.
Was that all it took? Could she have simply asked the Starball for no dreams this whole time? The blowup with Lassa could have been avoided, along with all her sleepless nights and days of needless suffering.
Freya flipped over her phone, smiling at her texts from Dan. Today she would be stronger. No tears, she would fix the bicycle, she would report the slashing, she would do well in Krav Maga. She would run and practice guitar. There would be progress.
“Thank you,” she said to the Starball, picking it up. It was warm in her palm. Her stomach felt strangely full as she rose from bed, and there was a chalky taste in her mouth. Frowning at the feeling, she went out to the kitchen.
There were seven empty cans of Ensure lined up on the kitchen counter. Freya had no memory of drinking them, but she couldn’t deny the aftertaste in her mouth or the sloshing feeling in her stomach. Had she hunched over the sink in her sleep, shotgunning can after can? She stood naked in the kitchen, staring at the row of empties, and feeling deeply unsettled.
Why was the Starball doing this?
Did it think she wasn’t eating enough? It was probably right; she’d eaten almost nothing yesterday. Still, the thought of the Starball walking her around the house in the dead of night to chug Ensure was strange. She wondered if she’d been sleepwalking, or if the Starball could directly control her movement, like a puppet. She started to shiver.
You chose this. You knew what you were agreeing to, Freya told herself.
She wondered if she should go throw up. Ensure was fortified with vitamins. Seven cans of it might make her sick. She paused, trying to gauge how she felt, but other than a little bloated, she was okay. She inspected herself again in the mirror again before her shower, and she looked fine. Her color was good, the dark wells under her eyes seemed less pronounced.
Still the unease would not slip from her mind. She remembered Lassa telling her how serious sleepwalking was.
You could fall and hurt yourself or wander into the road.
Freya didn’t believe the Starball would hurt her. There was nothing she could do now but hope she didn’t throw up in class.
The thought of school reminded her she needed to bring tools to work on the bike today. She took the toolbox and added the metric hex-wrenches in case the quick release on the brakes didn’t work. She also took the bike multi-wrench in case the axle nuts were stuck. She didn’t need tire levers. She was going to pull off the damaged wheels and bring them to Bailey Bicycle on Thoreau Street to get new tubes and tires put on.
With everything ready, Freya packed up her things and took out her phone to call a cab. She felt a flicker of unease she couldn’t place, and her eyes fixed on the calendar icon at the top left corner of the screen.
Wednesday November 7th.
Freya frowned. First the battery, now the clock was messing up. She really ought to get a new phone. She went to the phone’s settings, assuming NTP server sync had been deactivated somehow, but it was on. Then she pulled up time.gov.
It was Wednesday.
Freya had to sit down. She clamped her hands on the rim of the kitchen table, squeezing as hard as she could. Where had Tuesday gone? Had she really slept for thirty hours straight? Her hand thrust into her pocket for the Starball. Was it warmer than usual?
I probably needed the sleep, and the vitamins, Freya told herself. Maybe it’s taking care of me. She went back to her texts. She’d told Dan she would see him at class tomorrow, but she hadn’t, and he hadn’t texted to see if she was okay. She clung to the rim of the table, feeling everything crumbling beneath her.
Freya called the taxi.
When the Buick rolled up, she winced. The driver was the chatty old man with the grandson at Bowdoin. His face lit up when he recognized her. The drive to school felt like an eternity. Her ears still rang with second-hand football glory when they finally got to Grayson, and she made her escape.
Freya had arrived early, so she’d have time to go to the office before first period. Mr. Evers and Officer Ed were already there. They both had the same “Oh, no” expression.
“Sorry to bug you again,” she said, holding up her palms in apology. “You must be so sick of me.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s just been a tough morning. He’s going to be okay. It’s good you’re here. We were just about to come looking for you.”
“Wait, what happened?” Freya asked, suddenly confused.
Mr. Evers and Officer Ed looked at each other, and Mr. Evers nodded quickly.
“Radomir Stich was attacked last night. He was badly beaten. It’s not life-threatening, but he’s in rough shape. He’s at Flying Horse Regional Hospital,” Officer Ed spoke slowly, making strong eye contact.
“Oh, my God,” Freya said. Her hand snaked into her pocket to grip the Starball automatically. “How bad is it?”
“He has a fairly serious concussion and a broken nose. We think he was attacked by several people. We’re not sure who they were yet.”
“Malcolm Lewis,” Freya said without thinking.
Officer Ed nodded. “I’m looking into that. It happened outside of the school. They got him walking home.”
“Can I go see him?” Freya asked.
Officer Ed shook his head.
“He’s hurt too bad to see anyone yet. He couldn’t really give a statement. We’re going to make an announcement about the attack later this morning and ask people to come forward.”
“Oh, my God. I should have reported this on Monday night. I’m so stupid.”
“What do you mean?” Officer Ed asked.
“The tires on my bike were slashed on Monday. I found it when I was getting ready to bike home. It’ll be on the security cameras.”
Mr. Evers sucked in air through his teeth.
“That’s what I was coming to report. It was probably Malcolm. He got thrown out of a party on Sunday. He’s probably still pissed-off about it. He was calling me a snitch and trying to start a fight.”
Freya took out her phone and showed them the pictures she’d taken of the slashed tires and shredded seat. “I know I should have come and told you right after school when I found out. But I was too upset. I just wanted to go home. And I was sick yesterday.”
Mr. Evers’ mouth was a flat line, and the corners of his eyes were wrinkled with disappointment. He had told Freya to report anything to him right away. Even though he had the good sense not to say that, her stomach lurched with guilt. Why hadn’t she just come to the office?
“It’s okay, Freya. I wouldn’t have gotten the report until this morning anyhow. It would have been too late,” Officer Ed assured her. Freya wondered if he was just lying to make her feel better. It didn’t matter. She knew she’d screwed up.
Freya wasn’t allowed to go into the security office to look at the tapes with them, so she sat staring out the window in Mr. Evers’ office, feeling wretched until they returned.
“The slasher is wearing a hood. We don’t get a clear shot of their face. They came from the parking lot. I’ll have to review the other camera feeds and see if we can ID them from their car.”
“It’s Malcolm, though, right?”
“We can’t tell for sure yet. He’s the most likely culprit. It looks like about the right height, but I’ll need to take a closer look. If he shows up to school today, I will arrest him. Is your bike still on the rack, Freya? I want to take some more pictures.”
Freya nodded. “I was going to fix the tires today at lunch. Is that okay? I brought some tools.”
“That should be fine after I take the pictures. If you buy new tires or anything, bring me a copy of the receipt, please. Oh! Wait, were you planning to walk down to Bailey Bicycle?”
She nodded again.
“Don’t go alone, please. After this is settled, I can give you a ride. The situation is ugly, and I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”
“I won’t go alone,” Freya promised, and Officer Ed headed off to take pictures. When he was gone, Mr. Evers sighed.
“Let’s talk for a second, please,” Mr. Evers suggested, shutting the door to his office. From his tone, she knew right away what he wanted to talk about.
“Is it about Mr. Manzinni’s class? I was just overwhelmed and a little sick. I feel better today.”
“That’s it. I just want you to know if you need time off. It’s not a problem at all. Don’t push yourself too hard.”
“It’s not that. I need to study harder and stop zoning out in class. Mr. Manzinni was nice about it. Please, don’t get him in trouble over the book thing.”
“I honestly wouldn’t dream of it. He’s upset enough at himself.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Freya nodded. She hated the thought of Mr. Manzinni beating himself up over a dumb joke. She wondered if there was anything she could do or say to make him feel better.
“Will you let me know as soon as I can visit Radomir?”
“We’ll have to set that up through his parents, but I’m sure they’ll be happy to have his friends visit. I’ll let them know you’re interested. Thank you, Freya.”
“I wish this would all stop happening,” Freya said. Mr. Evers nodded in agreement. He looked so tired.
* * *
All throughout first period, Freya’s phone hummed with texts. She’d messaged Dan to let him know about Radomir, and he’d tagged her in a group chat that exploded. She couldn’t check her phone during class. Mrs. Gant was a real hardass. Near the end of the period, the whiteboard blinked into announcement mode. Mr. Evers appeared on the screen at his desk behind a microphone, his face shadowed with stress. The class was silent, everyone else having the same experience Freya had the day she got punched. Most of the students had never seen Mr. Evers look so serious.
“Good morning, everyone. Please, pay attention. Last night, one of our students was attacked on his way home from school. That student is currently at Flying Horse Regional Hospital recovering from severe but not life-threatening injuries.”
Again, Mr. Evers’ mouth became that flat line of unhappiness. She heard a collective intake of air, eyes darting around the room, and each set of eyes found its way to her.
“Violence against our students is absolutely unacceptable. No student or faculty member should have to worry about their personal safety inside of Grayson High School or on their way home. I am asking everyone for their assistance in identifying the people responsible for this attack. If you saw or heard anything, please, come speak with me, with Officer Edwards, or any faculty member you feel comfortable talking to.
“I want to remind everyone, if you have a problem with another student or if they have a problem with you, my door is always open. I promise you no matter how tough it seems, we can help. We will keep you all updated on the situation. Thank you all and have a good day.”
The class erupted as soon as the announcement ended. Mrs. Gant had to clap her hands together like they were in grade school to get everyone to settle down. Everyone wanted to know who was hurt. They all kept looking at Freya, and she felt cornered.
“Who was it?” Bill Denison asked Freya, turning around in his seat to face her. He was on the debate team and had dark, animated eyebrows. Freya looked at Mrs. Gant, unsure what to say. Mrs. Gant frowned back, glancing at the whiteboard, then at the class.
“It’ll be all over the school before lunch anyway. Radomir Stich was the student who was attacked,” Mrs. Gant said. “He has a concussion, but he should be okay.”
Everyone was suddenly talking again and, once more, Mrs. Gant clapped her hands for silence.
“Was it because he hit that girl?” Bill asked.
“We don’t know yet. It’s still a crime, regardless of the reason for it.” Her voice was sharp with tension.
“He shouldn’t have done that,” Bill continued, and there were murmurs of agreement from some corners of the class.
“No one should hit anyone,” Mrs. Gant cut him off before he could say something stupid. Freya glared at the back of his head, wishing she could just choke him out. Bill was so smarmy. He hadn’t been there when Radomir hit Jane. He didn’t know what she’d said. He didn’t know anything.
The last five minutes of class were just everyone fidgeting for a chance to get in the hall and check their phones. As Freya walked to her next class, too many conversations stopped dead, too many eyes on her. She looked at her phone to get away from it, and there were almost a hundred texts in the group. The latest was:
There were a dozen … indicators of people typing at once, but no message followed. Everyone struggled for what to say.
Freya looked at the members in the group text, considered what the response would be, and then she decided to send the picture of her slashed tires.
My tires got slashed on Monday. It was probably Malcolm. He’s a total fucking creep.
She weighed each word before she sent it. If she did, it would get passed around the whole school. She wanted to shift the conversation away from Radomir getting what he deserved for hitting Jane and towards Malcolm Lewis being a psycho. She sent the image. Half a dozen “WTF” reactions appeared beneath the picture. Tate was the first to respond:
She would have rather asked Dan, but seniors and juniors had second lunch. She had missed enough classes. She saw the typing indicator and hoped it was Dan anyway.
No problem. Tate replied.
* * *
Freya was hungry again by the end of second period. The lesson had petered out, and everyone checked their phones while Mr. McCallahan took a phone call in the hall.
All Freya could think about were the Moules Frites she’d tasted in Paris at a restaurant called Dakar Bazaar. She’d only tried a little of Randall’s. It wasn’t something she would ever order on her own. But she remembered the taste vividly and thinking of it now made her mouth water. She’d already checked the menus of every restaurant in town. No one had mussels at all, much less Moules Frites.
It was such a specific thing to be hungry for. Freya wondered if she was deficient in some vitamin mussels were rich in. She spent some time searching for it on her phone, getting embroiled in an article about whether food cravings were linked to nutrient deficiencies. It dawned on her that oddly specific food cravings were something pregnant women got. The world seemed to narrow as the thought echoed around her. She thought again of the dot of blood on her palm.
What did the Starball put inside of her?
Freya’s moment of horror was short-lived. It was an incredibly far-fetched chain of thought. The Starball wasn’t even organic. She was in no danger of that unless the orb was some sort of time-traveling artificial insemination capsule from the future. If that was the case, it was definitely off target when it jabbed her palm.
Still, she didn’t understand the mechanism it was using to modulate her emotions, she couldn’t be sure of anything. She wondered what a CT scan would reveal. Second period finally ended. Mr. McCallahan was still talking in the hall, covering his mouth with his hand as she filtered past.
His eyes were glazed with exhaustion from a divorce that had dragged on all semester. He was too preoccupied with his own suffering to focus on hers. He never bothered Freya.
She got the tools from her locker and headed to the bike racks. By the time Tate arrived, her hands were numb from cold and blackened with road dirt and grease. She’d struggled to get the rear wheel off before figuring out how to release the derailleur.
She took a close look at her brake pads to see if she needed to replace them while she had the wheels off, but they still had a bit of life to them. She locked the sad-looking frame back to the rack, and they set off down the hill, each carrying a tire. They walked in silence nearly halfway down the hill. Tate was much shyer outside of the group.
“Have you talked to Claire?” Freya asked, sick of the silence.
“No. When she gets mad, she won’t talk for a few days. She’s kinda insufferable. I would have cut her off long ago if she wasn’t family,” Tate said.
Freya understood that. She still thought chances were fifty-fifty she would never see Lassa again, and it wasn’t entirely an unwelcome thought.
“What a chickenshit,” Tate continued, and she wasn’t sure if he was talking about Claire, but he hefted the tire, running his finger along the deep gashes in the sidewalls. “Have you ever seen the YouTube video of the guy trying to pop a big rig’s tires? They’re at like an ungodly high PSI.”
“Yeah, the one where he’s trying to pop them with a screwdriver or something and winds up getting impaled? Crazy shit.”
“Yeah! That’s the one. Too bad there wasn’t something like that going on. I’ve seen another one where they rig a taser up to a bike seat, and it shocks people who try to steal it.”
Freya tried to engage, wondering if Tate had any substance to himself besides videos he’d seen on the internet. She remembered the conversation with Dan on Sunday night. He was only two years older than Tate, but he’d been through so much.
Behind the counter at Baily Bicycle, a heavily tattooed man with a Fu Manchu mustache stared off into space. There was punk rock blaring when they came into the store. As soon as he noticed customers, he reached over to the receiver and turned it down, waving at them as they approached the counter.
“Is that Limp Wrist?” Tate asked, pointing to the speakers.
“Yeah! I saw them in Philly at Stalag 13 with Los Crudos. Not a lot of people know em’.”
“I have their self-titled on vinyl!” Tate chirped, and Freya had never heard of either band. She didn’t like music where she couldn’t understand the lyrics.
“That’s really cool. I’m Colin. What can I help you with today?” He turned his attention to Freya.
Freya stared at Colin’s tattoos. He had a sleeveless T-shirt, and his arms were covered in vipers. They spiraled up his forearms to sink inky fangs into his biceps, and starbursts of black blood disappeared into the shirt. They continued to his neck. All she could think of was the dream of the Sillas River overflowing with tendrils. She had a mild urge to just turn around and leave, but Tate stood right next to her. She held up the wheel, and the damage spoke for itself.
Colin’s face fell. He took the wheel from her and looked it over, scowling at the ruined tire.
“Wow. I can’t believe someone did this. That’s fucked up!” he hissed, surprising them with his intensity. He seemed as incensed as if Freya had been a member of his family. “Do you know who did it?”
“We have a pretty good idea.”
“I hope he goes to jail for it. What a piece of shit. I bet he ruined your rims, too. You dump him or something?”
“Yeah. He’s crazy,” Freya said, careful to keep her voice even. The bicycle mechanic was working himself up. He seemed eager to be outraged on her behalf, and she didn’t want to play the game with him. He noticed her discomfort and drew back a little, recalibrating his approach.
“He’ll get his. What goes around comes around,” he said, tossing the wheel in the air so it spun, catching it with one hand. “Okay. Let me take these tires off and tell you if you need new rims or not. Let me see the other one, too.”
Tate handed over the other tire. He seemed a little awestruck by Colin. Freya couldn’t understand why. She thought he looked goofy. Ear gauges looked so stupid to her. But he knew what he was doing. He had the tires off in no time, chatting easily about bands with Tate the entire time. Freya was suddenly aware this was how Tate conversed normally. Tate wasn’t boring at all. She was the reason their conversation had been so stilted.
“Did you buy the bike here?” Colin asked as he inspected the rims.
“My dad did. He got three of them two Christmases ago.”
“Oh, cool, cool. What’s the last name? I’ll look it up.
“Jokela.”
A look crossed Colin’s face. Of course, everyone knew. He tapped her name into the computer.
“I’ll replace these for free. I’m sorry this happened to you.”
“Oh! Thank you so much. But if you could, please, bill me the full amount. I’m filing charges, and the police want a copy of the receipts.”
“Oh! Of course. It’s going to be a little expensive, unfortunately. The rims are both gouged up. If you want to take them home and grind them out, great, but it’s probably a lot easier to just replace them. You’re looking at $225 for both complete wheels and the saddle. The good part is I can just pull wheels off a floor model so you don’t have to wait around.”
“That’d be great. We need to get back to class,” Freya said.
“Two hundred bucks just for wheels? My whole bike didn’t cost that much,” Tate complained, looked astonished.
“These are from a nice bicycle,” Colin explained. “The rear wheel is the most expensive part of a bike. She needs a new cassette anyhow. The teeth on this one are pretty worn. The tire was almost bald before Mr. Stalky got to it. You must ride a lot.”
“I do. These are the tires this came with,” Freya said.
“Next time, try to swap your tires before the tread gets this slick. It’s way too easy to go too fast downhill and skid right into an intersection,” He showed them his elbow, which was just one big glossy mass of scar surrounded by tattoos. “Take my word for it.”
“Whoa,” Tate cooed.
She handed over her debit card, and he ran it through, printing two copies of the receipt for her like she asked. Freya watched carefully as he took the wheels off one of the models on the floor. What had taken her almost ten minutes of fooling around took him less than a minute. Soon, he had them pumped up and sent them on their way back up the hill.
“That guy was so chill,” Tate said. “I can’t believe he was going to give you tires for free.”
“It’s because of my dad,” Freya said, a tightness in her chest.
“That’s really cool. I mean, people must have liked him,” Tate said, realizing he’d said something dumb and trying to salvage it.
She had to try very hard to keep her voice even.
“They did.”
They were silent the rest of the way.