Author's Notes:
Oh no! So many chapters has ended with Matt crying — I must try to salvage what little of his dignity that remains… by adding more crying scenes!
I stared at the whiteness of the typewritten page, with gruesome red marks slashed into its depths like bloody gashes and violent wounds.
International Airship Academy, Autumn Examinations: Aerostatics, it said at the top. Next to it was a box, prompting year and name. Below, in my crimped and childish scrawl, were the words Year 1 and Matthew Cruse. Over all of this, to the upper right hand corner, was the glaring red number, a sentence to doom: 37.
Another, similar piece of paper, titled Autumn Examinations: Mathematics, held a score scarcely better: 54.
I'd failed both of my most important subjects.
I suppose it shouldn't really be that much of a surprise — after all, I hadn't finished either exams because I'd ran out of time. To make matters worse, what answers I had put down turned out to be incorrect. It was as if all my studying had accounted for nothing, because when the numbers stared at me in their inscrutable masses, my mind had gone blank.
Dean Pruss had seemed particularly stern this morning, when I'd gone to his office at my assigned time — like every other student — to retrieve my exam results and graded exam papers.
"Mr. Cruse," he said, "I do not wish to lecture you, but you know already that instinctive ability will only take you so far."
"Yes sir," I replied meekly.
"Please see to it that you take pains to improve your knowledge and performance. If —" this was when he fixed me with a particularly chilling stare — "if your scores should remain as they are come the December Mid-year Exams, you will not pass this year. Do I make myself clear?"
There wasn't anything to do besides to say "Yes sir," and leave, a hollow gaping hole of shock slowly growing within my chest. The Academy had a total of four exams per school year — the Autumn Exams in October, the Mid-year Exams in December, the Spring Exams in March, and the Final Exams of May. Due to the training tours all the first years took, however, our Autumn Exams had been pushed back three weeks. It was now near the middle of November, which meant that the Mid-year Exams were but a month away.
A mere month of time to master every nuance of math and aerostat. It seemed as impossible a task as reaching outer space.
Not for the first time, I wondered why a ship's course needed to be plotted with math. It used to seem as simple as drawing a straight line across a map, but of course that was not the case. A great circle route was needed if you wanted to save gallons of fuel and days of time, and that in turn required geometry and calculus.
And then there was the matter of calculating lift — how much lift does each cubic feet of hydrium under so and so pressure provide, and how many pounds does that translate into? Provide your answers in both imperial and metric systems of measure.
That was another annoying nonsense about math in aviation, which is that many countries in Europa used the metric system, while the British Empire (including Australia and Canada and the like) used the imperial system. The Americans used what they liked to call the "standard system", which was basically the imperial system with a few little tweaks. Since aviation was world-over, all of this meant a constant conversion between meters and feet, liters and gallons, kilograms and pounds, kilometers and miles, Farenheit and Celsius, and so on. It was completely maddening.
With a sigh, I closed my Mathematics of Flight textbook, frustrated. I'd been trying to make sense of the material we'd already covered, but it was proving fruitless. I also tried to review my exam, redo the questions I couldn't do, but it didn't help that I got the wrong answer — different, but still wrong — for each new, pathetic attempt. I tried to use some of the tricks Nadira had taught me, back on the Saga, but the merest reminder of her made a film of anger and regret and indignation settle over my mind, and I would scarcely be able to think.
In the end, I decided to go to bed and turn in early. Tomorrow was the start of the weekend, and there were no classes. Professors were available to answer questions, but part of me, the stubborn part, wanted to try them on my own. I didn't want to admit to anyone my failings.
If I failed this year, my prepaid tuition would not be enough to cover the extra year I needed to graduate. Instead of wasting more time, then, I'd more likely de-enroll, go back to Lionsgate City, back to some airship liner, to find a job. Stay there until I was thirty and hope for a promotion in the mean time. It was a dull life, not that I didn't fancy going back in the air, but I'd have wasted a year and a considerable amount of money. And I would never be able to face Captain Walken — whose kindly and over-sympathetic recommendation was what got me here in the first place. I had an uncomfortable feeling that, because of that, Dean Pruss had been expecting more of me. Time passed, and, of course, I had not delivered. I'd let everybody down.
And now I wasn't sure if I ever could.
As I laid in bed, trying to fall asleep, the cold of the outside air seeped in from the not so well-sealed windows. I shivered, and pulled the blankets tighter around me. The cold draft was like a chilling finger, sending its icy touch upon me whenever I was about to fall asleep. I stared at the ceiling, concentrating on my breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. In, out.
It was a long, torturous time before sleep managed to prevail. And as so often happened in the past two week, Kate de Vries made her way into my dreams.
ooo
I woke up to a series of knocks on my door, with a vague sense of loss. Groggily, I peered out the window. What little sliver of sky visible through the quadrangle was brilliantly white — noon time, perhaps. I sneezed, and realized that I'd kicked off all my blankets during the night. I pulled them back up from the floor, wrapping myself in their soft comfort, but warmth did not come easy. I was still shivering a little when the next couple of knocks resounded off the wood of my door.
I yawned, stretched a little, and slid off bed. I was still in my briefs, of course, with my blanket wrapped around my bare shoulders, but I didn't bother putting on more clothes. All of the Academy's students were male, and whoever knocking was bound to be a fellow student — faculty never came into the dormitories themselves, and we didn't have housekeepers.
I made the few shuffling steps that took me to the door, unbolted it, and swung it open.
"Good morning," said a slender boy dressed in a brown overcoat. He was also wearing a hat, and long khaki trousers. I frowned, not knowing who he was, but then he took off his hat, and long black hair spilled out, and I found myself staring into the beautiful tanned face of Nadira.
My mind froze up for a second or two, before I slammed the door in her face. I threw off the blanket, grabbed a shirt and a pair of trousers, yanked them on unceremoniously, and tugged the door open again — rather forcefully, the bang of it echoing in the still air. Normally I'd be blushing to be in such a state of undress in front of a girl, but I was too busy feeling shocked and angry to bother feeling embarrassed.
"Why are you here?" I demanded after a moment. "How did you get in? How did you know my room? Are you out of your mind?"
"You're rather hostile," she remarked after blinking away her surprise.
"Of course I'm bloody hostile! Why are you here?"
"May I come in?"
"No!"
She looked at me, and I thought I saw a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. I scowled.
"What do you want?" I asked again.
"I just wanted to see you, Matt."
"Alright, you've seen me. Now go."
I really haven't the time to worry about her. She was a dark and chaotic force in my life, the cause of all of this mess. I didn't want something to remind me of Kate — not now, not when I should be focusing on school. I didn't want the memories of what could be come rushing back to me. It was hopeless anyway. Dimly, like a captive craving that pinprick of light after spending years in the dungeon, I grasped at the memories of yet another night of dreams and hopes and wistful illusions of the auburn-haired girl who occupied my thoughts and my life so effortlessly, but they were already lost to the glaring midday sun. The harsh reality of the day peeled off the dreamy mirage of the night, and together with Nadira standing there, my chest felt so tight for one moment that I almost couldn't breathe. I had to remind myself that I no longer cared about Kate.
"That's not the proper way to treat a lady," Nadira complained.
"You're a lady now, are you?" I retorted.
"Of course I am. And the least you could do is to invite me into your room so I don't have to stand in the hallway and tire my legs."
"Get lost," I muttered, and closed the door again.
Obviously, that didn't get rid of her, because moments later, the dreadful pounding started.
"Matt! Matt! Let me in. Matt! Okay, I won't pretend to be a lady anymore. Let me in. Matt! I just want to see you! Come on, Matt?"
Her voice was rather loud, and I dreaded thinking my dorm-mates overhearing the commotion. I thought she would stop, but the pounding went on, and on, and on, as did the constant stream of pleas. I counted the seconds, the minutes, and she showed no signs of tiring, her voice as clear and high as ever.
Finally, tired of her persistent nonsense, I groaned.
"Bloody hell," I muttered. I opened the door, and in stepped Nadira like a conquering hero. She looked around for a bit before inviting herself onto my bed. I closed the door behind her and slumped into my chair, feeling suddenly quite drained.
She peered at me with interest, and I felt disturbed by her stare, so I simply closed my eyes. I heard a rustle that meant her reaching over to my desk, and then a dull thud that meant she probably grabbed one of my textbooks.
"We worked through this," she commented, as a page flipped. I made no response, wishing I were tired enough fall back to sleep. I didn't want to deal with her.
"You were a bit cruel to take off like that without saying farewell to anyone," she continued. "Hal was also annoyed that he had to explain to the port officials that you weren't a stowaway. Kami said you looked almost like you were mad, jumping off the ship like that. He said you just ran, and didn't look back."
I was resolute in my silence. I did not want to talk to her — I'd only let her in so she'd shut up and stop pounding on my door and causing a ruckus. What she did after that was none of my business. However, unfazed by my lack of response, she continued to talk.
"Everyone was quite puzzled, you know," she said. "Why did you rush off like that? Like you're running from something? Were you running from something? Well, I guess in the end everything worked out. Have you sold the gold yet? I went to the International Gold Union the other day, and the official price of gold is at a new high. You might want to sell yours soon."
Another page being flipped.
"We really did go over these problems, huh. Are you still having trouble with them? Do you want me to teach you again? By the way, have you talked to Kate at all since you left? She seemed very pale the last time I saw her. Have you talked to her at all, even?"
Then:
"Do you miss her?"
My eyes snapped open in surprise, and I found her gaze already on mine. She didn't even blink as she stared into my eyes. Then she smiled, almost like she's glimpsed a secret.
"You do, don't you?"
I didn't answer.
"Do you want to see her?"
Silence.
"Two weeks is a long time. Maybe she misses you as well?"
No words.
"Do you know?"
Nothing.
"Did she ever love you?"
The muteness stretched on for several seconds, before Nadira sighed.
"Matt, I still love you," she said. "You'll never get her back."
I stood up so abruptly that it left my mind reeling from the unexpected action. I grabbed Nadira by the wrist and dragged her up, despite her surprised protests of pain.
"Get out," I said, feeling the cold stormy steel in my voice. "You said you wanted to see me, you've seen me. You wanted to talk to me, I don't want to talk to you. Get out."
An icy rage filled my veins, and my vision pulsed black with anger. I didn't know why her statement made me so angry, because I've already known, but perhaps it was like an affirmation of everything that had happened, of what I'd lost, of what I avoided to think about for this past two weeks. Of the gravity of it all, of the burden and the extinguished hope of resolution.
Of Kate.
I was breathing fast, and I felt a sick coil in my stomach. I haven't talked or even seen Kate since the night I left the Saga, and had promised myself that I didn't need to. She was perfectly fine without me, and I'd learn to be perfectly fine without her. I didn't need her. I needed to learn that I didn't need her — I had to, or be turned back into the lovesick fool that I was.
And so for two weeks I'd barred her from my thoughts, only allowing her inside my dreams. I forced myself — steeled myself — to erase her presence from my mind. I'd convinced myself that I didn't miss her. I'd said her name to myself every night, until I could do so without any feeling. Matt Cruse did not care about Kate de Vries. He did not. Absolutely not. What he cared about was his aerostat assignments and math problems. What he cared about was the upcoming exam. Not Kate de Vries.
But now, here comes Nadira. Somehow, her presence and her declaration was like some infernal radio broadcasting an unwanted reminder, awakening my own suppressed feelings. Two weeks' worth of apathy was rapidly draining away, sucked by the vortex of the hurricane raging through the fibers of my being.
Suddenly, like some emotional floodgate being lifted, I realized I wanted desperately to be close to Kate. I wanted to see the color of her cheeks, her intelligent, clear grey eyes, hear her wind chime laugh, see her beautiful smile, touch her auburn hair, so fiery and energetic, and hug her and kiss her and just see her. She was as infinite as the vast reaches of the sky; as refreshing as oxygen, as uplifting as hydrium, and as pervasive in my mind as nitrogen. Her memory in me was like the solid alumiron of an airship, and without her, I was without focus, without support, without cause.
I stumbled out of the room, still grabbing onto Nadira. My vision swam because I was so struck by emotion, and I was fast becoming nauseated. I let go of her hand in the hallway and blindly made my way to the bathroom. I found a stall, knelt by a toilet, and was noisily sick.
She followed me. Of course she would. She followed me, and her hands were on my shoulders, on the small of my hunched back, gently patting, soothing. I wanted Kate's touch, but settled for hers as I heaved the contents of my stomach — bitter bile and burning acid — into the toilet bowl, as if my body was punishing me for how deeply I've buried my longing, and was determined to squeeze out every last drop of apathy. Heartache and heartburn jabbed my chest. I'd heard that feelings could have a physical effect on your body, but never has it occurred to me that it'd be so… real.
Given that I hadn't had breakfast, nor dinner the night before, there wasn't anything to vomit. After a while, my body simply gave up, and I was finally spared from its brutal, vindictive menace. I slumped against the toilet stall wall, feeling utterly miserable, the heartache not disappearing but intensifying, spreading beyond my chest now. I tried to pretend the hand on my shoulder was Kate's, but that thought sent such a twisting pang into me that I immediately let it go.
"Come on," said Nadira, gently. She hooked a hand under my arms, and helped me unsteadily to my feet. "You daft boy."
I coughed and wiped my mouth on my sleeves. My blood was running rampant all over my system, and I felt lightheaded yet heavy at the same time. I was faintly aware of Nadira leading me back to my room. We sat down on the bed.
Then she kissed me.
I would be lying if I said I wasn't really expecting it. I knew about her feelings for me, after all, and she'd just confessed why she was here to see me. Of course, she also knew I'd hate it, but Nadira had never been terribly considerate of other people's feelings.
I kissed back angrily. I hoped the taste of bile and acid in my mouth would disgust her, repulse her enough that she'd run away and never come back, but she responded even more eagerly, and a hand reached into my hair, fingers curled into tangles. I tried to imagine it was Kate, but I couldn't. It was a destructive kiss, like an explosion of anger and lust and angst. My body sent conflicting signals — on the one hand, I liked the way her lips felt, the way her breasts pressed against my chest, but on the other hand, I hated it. I hated it all — because she was not Kate, and never will be.
Nadira began to reach a hand under my shirt. Her palm was icy against my stomach. I shivered. She soon had her other hand roaming my chest, and had somehow eased the shirt off me. Her touch felt good, and I wanted to lose myself in them. We kissed more. My hair was a complete mess by this point, and we were panting.
I didn't remember when Nadira took off her overcoat, and then her shirt, too, being dressed as a boy. But underneath, her chemise was loose and thin and airy, and her dusky skin moved below in barely-hidden, supple rounds. From the uncomfortable tightness of my trousers, I knew I was aroused.
Or, rather, my body was aroused.
"You're eager," Nadira said as she pressed herself close to me, wrapping her hands around me, clinging to me like those koala bears native to Baz's home.
I felt empty as she pushed in aggressively, forcing contact in the region between our legs, which seemed to make me harder. She was struggling with my trousers, and her hand brushed the sensitive tip of me, but I didn't even have the energy to blush. It occurred to me to wonder if this was how it had all started, that night, more than two weeks ago, this thing that was all animal passion and no love. It made me terribly tired, and even more sad, but also just angry. It made me angry that Kate had been lost over so… basal an act, so grotesque and lustful and ugly. It made me angry that it was Nadira who made it happen, Nadira who forced it, basically. But above all, it made me angry that even now, my body was responding to hers. It jolted me how easy I was to seduce, and it made me feel powerless and plain disgusted with myself.
Part of me wanted to let this go to where it would naturally go, to let our bodies do what they had been built to do. But the other part of me wouldn't bear it. I could not let it happen — not again, not sober, not… Kate. Nadira's hug was forceful and hungry, tight almost to the point of suffocating, and it was like she was trying to consume me, not make love to me. It was possessive and fevered, so instead of feeling any closeness or comfort or even contentment, all I felt was a gross sort of lust, and apathy. Already I felt her nails dig too hard into the skins of my back and shoulders, trying to leave their mark, trying to recreate the crisscross of scars that they'd left on me two weeks ago.
As if that hadn't been enough.
"We'll have to be quiet," Nadira said in a gushy whisper. "You'll have to be gentle."
Then she half-dragged me down towards her, and we both fell onto the mattress. I was on top of her, and, sober, it felt good. Her body was warm and soft and inviting, but also clutching and gripping and crushing me from around. She kissed me, and this time, the kiss went further, and her tongue reached into my mouth.
I didn't really know what to do at this point, so I bit her. The rusty taste of iron bloomed on the tip of my own tongue, and I heard her surprised cry and felt oddly and cruelly satisfied. She pulled away from me, and removed her hand. I saw a growing red bead seep out her lips, before it slid down her chin. I pushed away, stood up, and found that my breathing was quickly returning to normal.
"I'm sorry," I said coolly. "I guess I wasn't as gentle as I thought."
She stared at me, as if seeing me for the first time. I was glad that the sinful red spot on my chest had faded, and so had the various bite and kiss marks left from two weeks past. I looked back at her, cold.
"Put on your clothes," I told her as I shrugged on the shirt she had so hurriedly discarded. I tossed her her own shirt, and her overcoat. I thought I saw a green flash of hurt in her eyes, and couldn't help but feel the perverse sensation of triumph. But then it was gone, and what remained in its place was a blank weariness, and a sea of boiling heartache that it threatened to drown me on the spot.
I looked at her as she slowly put on her clothes, looked as she began to realize what had just happened, and what had almost happened.
I looked at how un-Kate she was.
"You're right," I said, but my voice had turned into a croak. "I'll never get her back."
And I began to cry.
