The blonde had us greet Hootie as she descended the stairs. She’s moving down as though she’s going to be presented an award and, on the way, she’s going to wave to all plebeians responsible for her cult status. I feel someone staring at me. It’s Mr. Forehead. He’s either trying to remind me of his earlier warning, or making sure for himself that I don’t step out of line. He doesn’t know much about me. Openly stating an insult requires energy I’m not willing to expend. The glares, on the other hand, are a default reaction and I don’t see myself curbing anything that’s natural.

Hootie is at the foot of the stairs and the very moment she lays eyes on the blonde the trouble starts.

Everyone follows her gaze. She’s looking at his right hand. He’s wearing a suit. His knuckles are visible. She’s seen part of the cast and has not mistaken it for a simple bandage. The inquisition begins:

“How did this injury come about?” She glances at the braid.

He scoffs. “You’re wasting your time looking over here.”

The blonde intercedes. “I was in an accident.”

She looks back at him. “Elaborate.”

“It was a car accident,” explains the blonde. He glances at Mr. Forehead. I follow his gaze. Mr. Forehead does a short, stiff shake of his head. I don’t know what their communication was about but Mr. Forehead just advised the blonde against whatever he was thinking of.

The blonde makes another attempt. “The car…a pole…there was a collision,” he pauses, “a collision between the car door a--”

“And your arm?” She scrutinizes him. “You were driving, yet your right arm is injured?”

The blonde is staring at her and his mouth is slightly open. I can see the wheels turning in his head. It’s obvious. He’s trying hard not to mention my involvement. He’s trying hard not to lie. Spidey, on the other hand, has no problem with throwing around a few convenient untruths. They flow like water as he states, “He was speeding in a British import.” Spidey walks past Hootie. “And it was a stick shift. It’s difficult for right-handed people, the first time around.”

Hootie seems satisfied because she reprimands the blonde with a soft coo. “Darling, you can be so daring and foolish at the same time.”

I watch the braid roll his eyes. Mr. Forehead looks like its taking him some effort to keep his mouth shut.

Spidey has already headed to the dining area. I watch him enter it. Apparently, he’s got roaming privileges while the rest of us are tied to the blonde by apron strings.

Once again, I feel someone’s stare. This time it’s Hootie’s.

I look back. She turns to the blonde and says, “You didn’t mention him in any of your communications.” She feigns a pensive expression before noting, “Perhaps, there was little to mention.”

She looks my way. “Do you have a name?”

“Yes,” I respond.

She raises a forked eyebrow and one corner of her lips lifts. She turns back to the blonde. “It appears you’ve moved on to the sarcastic type.”

No one says anything. What interrupts the quiet moment of circuitous scrutiny is a stomach rumble. It came from the braid.

Sardonic and unabashed he says, “I’m ready to eat whenever you guys are.”

We’re seated and we’ve got plenty of space between us. I’m assuming it’s because they’re going to stuff us until we need floor space to carry the extra girth.

The blonde is at the head of the table. Mr. Forehead is to the blonde’s left. The braid is next to Mr. Forehead. I’m next to the braid. Hootie is to the blonde’s right. Spidey is beside Hootie. All the animals are on one side and the head cases are on the other, myself excluded.

The mysterious servants, who’ve I’ve seen only a handful of times, appear and start serving us the first course. I’m eating. The braid is eating. Mr. Forehead is ruminating. Spidey is staring at his food as though he’s having some kind of telepathic interaction with it. The blonde and Hootie are lost in conversation. They’re laughing.

Mr. Forehead, the braid, spidey and I look up at the same time.

We’re all aware of it and it’s only been 5 minutes since the meal started.

As long as she’s here, we’re forced to eat together. The four of us, we’re not social for more time than is necessary and she’s causing our interactions to drag along.

For the first time, I feel unity with only one straggler. Mr. Forehead, spidey, the braid and I want her out, but the blonde is lost in hospitality. From the way he looks, he’s about two seconds from feeding her grapes, personally peeled ones.

I look back at my food. I know better. I remember that letter. I wonder what game he’s playing.

She’s second mate and he’s captain when no one else is around.

The braid leans over until he’s hanging from his seat and nudges me. For a brief second, I wonder if he wants to keep his arm. When I glare at him, he jerks his head in Hootie’s direction. Apparently, she was talking to me.

She must share spidey’s telepathic abilities because, every time I make a mental comment about her, she fixes her attention on me. I wonder if those eyebrows can pick up brain waves.

She’s leering my way as she says, “I already know how Barton, Maxwell, and Chang earn their keep. And you? What do you do?”

She still doesn’t know my name, not that it matters to me.

All eyes are on me. “I make fonts. I take dictation.”

The blonde says nothing and his underlings curb their potshots and opt for silence.

“I’m sure there are other things you do. Things you can’t quite mention at the dinner table,” she says with her eyebrows at half mast.

Spidey, the braid, and Mr. Forehead are looking in my direction.

“It appears to be a sensitive issue. I think it’s time we return to our meal,” says Hootie.

No one follows her suggestion. The only person not looking my way is the blonde.

I pick up my spoon. Perhaps, a little game of follow-the-leader will bring things back on track.

I’m right. Spidey picks up his spoon and we dig in.

Dinner became less of a trial when Hootie realized that I was bored not only bored with her but also with everyone there. I ate my food and stared off into space. I suppose I wasn’t a very interesting target since nothing affected me. She could have told me that she wanted to light my ass on fire and I’m sure I wouldn’t have blinked.

I made it through dinner and now they’re causing me to suffer outside. The garden tables the blonde wanted us to put out earlier have come back to haunt me.

I look at my surroundings.

Spidey is poking at an ice sculpture. Mr. Forehead is in sentinel mode. He’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s watching me. The braid’s missing. He must have escaped. He’d gotten his dinner and there was no reason to linger.

I’m walking around. The blonde and Hootie had gone off somewhere and by some weird happenstance I find them.

I watch them. It doesn’t look like they’re aware of my presence. She’s toying with the tail of the blonde’s tie.

He’s chuckling and has his left hand on her forearm, moving her hand away from his tie. He isn’t trying hard. Her hand is still on his tie and his hand’s still on her arm as he’s talking.

I take in Hootie’s demeanor. I’ve noticed this before. In the blonde’s presence, Hootie goes from being anthropomorphic to convincingly human. I keep a snort to myself. He’s good. He gives her a little extra leash in public and teaches her to mime humans in private.

I turn around to leave…and walk into a pedestal holding a half melted ice sculpture. I save the pedestal but the sculpture slides away from its stand and falls to the grass with a wet thud. They look over my way.

Great.

“Heero,” murmurs the blonde. He pulls Hootie’s hand from his tie and drops it, like a hot potato. He looks as though his parents have just walked in on the two of them while they were doing the nasty.

There’s shouting from just off to the left. It’s the braid and he’s approaching us as he says, “Quatre, you’ve got a phone call.”

“Can it wait?”

“Uhhh…right. It’s long distance…and your father.”

“I’ll take it.” The blonde looks first at Hootie and then at me. “I’m sorry. Excuse me.”

Looks like his father has great intuition. He’s keeping his son pure.

The braid and the blonde walk off. Hootie sees me and begins to approach. I look over my shoulder. Mr. Forehead is no longer within my line of sight and neither is spidey. I’m wondering if I was deserted on purpose and this is some kind of weird initiation.

“You enjoy watching, don’t you, Heero?”

I turn around.

At some point, Hootie had learned my name. I wonder who the dirty snitch was. I’d say it was the blonde but he’s been doing his best not to acknowledge my presence since she arrived. But, with his recent failure, I’m back on her radar.

She’s standing at my side, ostensibly surveying the scenery, but I know she’s glancing at me from the corner of her eye every once in a while.

She breaks the silence after a five minute standstill.

“Do you like pussies, Heero?” She laughs at my expression. “Pussy willows, do you like them?”

“I don’t care about trees.”

“What about flowers? They’re quite inviting. Get them moist and they spread their petals.”

I’m about to leave when she interrupts me.

“Let’s take a walk, Heero.”

She’s talking about the dinner and the sculptures, particularly the one I knocked over…and how “exquisite” it was before its “unfortunate run-in with the grass”. She’s forgetting what it really looked like. When it first arrived, it was something with wings. By the time we got outside, it looked like someone had swiped at it with a torch. It was half melted and somehow ended up phallic, like an ice dildo. Maybe that’s what was “exquisite” about it. Given her unseemly conduct, I should take her remarks in earnest.

“The four of you are quite the little homemakers.”

Four. I wonder if the blonde purposely failed to mention his own involvement in the cleaning spree. I suppose it would be unflattering to allow her to picture his gimped, sweaty self running around with a duster.

“What was your employ before you were taken into Quatre’s care?”

I tell her in as few words as possible.

“It sounds monotonous.” She pauses. “Kind of like my voice.” She glances my way. “You were just thinking that, weren’t you?”

I look back at her.

“I can guess some other things.” There’s a smile in her voice. It’s oily. “‘How long is she going to tail me?’”

She even pitched her voice to match mine. She’s going for broke.

“‘She sounds like a man. Maybe she has male hormones.’”

I stop in my tracks. I was right. Those eyebrows do pick up brain waves.

She’s laughing to herself. I start walking again. She’d never stopped.

“I’ve dealt with your kind before, Heero: bitter, envious, and calculating. There’s something you hope to gain in your time here. What is it?”

I don’t give her a reply. She’s content to have a one-owl conversation.

“Lonely. Are you lonely, Heero? Is that it?”

She lets a minute of silence blow by.

We’re still walking. She’s managing to keep up with me, with ease. It’s a feat since I’d upped my pace.

She stops me. Her hand is on my arm and she’s at my side.

I look back at her. “You’re wasting my time.”

“Am I really?” She eyes me carefully before saying, “You’re squandering your own time, without my presence.”

I don’t know how but she’d released my arm and gotten her fingers near the nape of my neck. She’s toying with the hair there.

I look back at her. She’s spoken about amusement and, strangely, I’m entertained. My mouth is moving. “Were you one of the zoo animals?” I ask. The corners of my lips are itching as I say, “Perhaps, the grazing kind?”

Her face is red. And, for the first time in a very long while, I laugh and I laugh hard.

Part 12