Chapter 10: In which Malcolm inspects cabins (Part 2/2)

Drew didn't look the least bit sorry. She just got back to diligently wiping off a blue splatter on the wall with her pink rubber-gloved hands.

"I swear to the gods," she said, "when these camps don't mindlessly forgive traitors who get our family and friends killed, they keep electing leaders who have no experience or otherwise no idea what in Hades they're doing."

Malcolm's head was clear enough now to know he didn't deserve to be grouped with everyone on both their lists. His offense got him immediately itching to dock points off the cabin's score. But damn, he already felt too lazy.

With a deep breath, he ignored his own complaints and forced himself to wade through the lethal combo of paint, perfume, and hairspray to start filling out the cabin checklist.

Paint splatters on every surface of the cabin. Scraps of paper and tissues littering the floor.

"You know, I'll have to log this interaction anyway," he said.

"Which is exactly what you do with the others, huh?" Drew said.

Malcolm kept making his round, not bothering to respond.

Magazines scattered in at least a dozen places. Clothes not folded, in heaps on ~5 chairs, 2 sofas, 1 bed—

It was only one bed. All fifteen others were more or less perfect. Why should fifteen others have to collectively suffer—

"You know," Drew said. She had stopped scrubbing and strode beside him right now—but Malcolm refused to let her intimidate him. "When I got back to camp, I couldn't believe you became head counselor again."

Malcolm ignored that and continued with his listing.

Pens, markers, sketches all over desks.

"I mean, who the fuck wants to do cabin inspections?" Drew goaded.

"Yeah," Malcolm said. "No one wanted to do it."

"Mm, yeah." Despite there being no one else present, Drew stepped even closer to him—her designer overalls were practically brushing his arm at this point—and dropped her voice to a near whisper. "But it has… other benefits, doesn't it?"

They were totally, completely, entirely alone, Malcolm realized again, and part of him was eager—was begging—for answers. In all of two months, no one had ever suggested this before. (Of course, it had to be Drew who was on his wavelength. Gods.) And now the answers he was dying for were dangled right before him. Surely he could be forgiven for bending a knee to curiosity? (Damn. And now he knew exactly that no one could trust him with Pandora's pithos. How disturbing.)

"You could've taken one meeting," said Drew the instant Malcolm put down his cabin checklist clipboard.

"And Marcella's been taking them when she can, since I've been busy. Isn't she lovely?" he replied.

"Marcella," Drew said, coming round to face him, "is, at this point, wearing colored plastic bags. Talking to her's a lost cause if she doesn't bother to show respect. At least you put in effort." She gestured to his outfit of the day and peered intently at his attire.

It was always so uncomfortable. This excruciating experience of having a laser pointed at him from feet to legs to hips to chest. Drew lingered there and then at his arms, then down again, then finally to his face. It was how she evaluated everyone. She always looked too long, picking apart their 'fits until they felt judged. Like when she would put on a disgusted face at Leo's cargos. This evaluation merely brought out the same annoyance. But wait. What?

Having already forgotten his selection for today, Malcolm looked down at his basic black henley and dark jeans. "You call this 'effort'?"

"They're decent enough pieces. Decent brands, too," Drew said. "And they're obviously tailored to fit your body. Those aren't standard sizes." She said it like it was evident. Then she waved a finger at his collarbone. "The shoulders are too wide and the sleeves are too big for a standard shirt that length. It's the right length, but not, like, two sizes too small like all those other gym bros here wear. And you didn't even roll up your pant legs, yet your thighs are a size up from a pant size that length."

Why was she looking at his thighs?

"It's always the same. Except some of your sweats," she concluded with a scrunch of her nose. "They tend to be a little long, so they kinda wear you."

In Malcolm's extensive, stunned silence, Drew cocked her head, giving him a sly smile. "Was no one supposed to know?"

"I really just have to wear stuff that won't embarrass my family" was his excuse. "That's, like, all I have." All he was supposed to have.

Drew looked him up and down again. "I mean, it's still boring as hell, to be honest, but it fits your persona, so it makes sense," she said as she nodded.

Malcolm blinked. "My boring persona." He was so shocked, he could actually put aside his affront to revel in this absurdity.

"Your branding," Drew said with a tone of obviousness, her head bobbing again.

Just like that, Malcolm's world had flipped. Like it had been in his family's Secret Santa mind games when he was lied to by the person he trusted most to be on his side. He wondered if he even knew himself. But he could contemplate that later.

"Okay, anyway. I still gotta…" Malcolm vaguely gestured around him with his pen.

"So, look," Drew cut in. "None of you understand the industry, which is why you're siding—"

"It isn't for Percy," Malcolm said. He was so annoyed, he was already turning away and picking up his clipboard to start noting smaller things he could've excused: hair pins, hair ties, hair curlers, hair rollers, hair gel—

"I get that, okay," Drew said, getting in his way again. "It looks nice for you. But it's just so dumb to expect no clothes to be produced or sold here—"

"We don't expect no clothes—"

"—and to just say that it's adding to the plastic problem. That's not the right picture, nor the right solution. Not supporting us just means you're giving an edge to all those unethical multinational giants with fucking awful labor practices—"

"Don't you also produce clothes in China?" he interrupted.

Drew was silent for a moment as she dared to glare at him. "It's pretty racist to assume that every Chinese supplier operates like that."

Shame came over him.

"Okay, you're right. That's stupid. I'm sorry," he said.

Shame washed away from him.

Drew was still glaring. "I do random checks every year on my way to visit family in Tokyo," she said. "I've sworn on the Styx never to use anything but humane and fair trade practices. I didn't have to, but I did. Because anything else isn't good enough."

It wasn't anger in her eyes, Malcolm realized. It was nothing more than her zeal and drive. And as Drew ranted on about the way she ran her business, he could understand so clearly now why so many people fell for her. But something in Malcolm told him—griped silently—that not everyone did it for the right reasons.

That same something in him was also so disgusted by himself for feeling so drawn to her right now when he didn't even like her. That was just gross on his part—not just because he didn't want to be attracted to her. It was gross, he realized, because it wasn't fair. She wasn't asking for any sort of fixation from someone like him. He didn't like her.

Yet, as Drew was raving about wages and benefits and total compensation, something made Malcolm feel he could trust her. Pravir had warned the New Athens Council that his own sister could charmspeak any of them. But Malcolm knew now that she wouldn't even try to. Never for this at least.

"... and no one else does all of that, but we do. And where does that leave me?" Drew said, her face filled with fury. "Practically punished for trying to do business the ethical way. Surely you get that."

Malcolm cleared his mind… from any… distractions. "Yeah, but we just can't subsidize a clothing company that caters to millionaires when we're not even subsidizing fruits and vegetables," he said. (Yet anyway. It was hardly a lie.)

"We cater to millionaires," Drew began. "No, we survive off millionaires—because they subsidize our products for the average consumer. I'm willing to charge less so people around here can finally look nice. And because, unlike me or you, no one wants to buy ethical clothing!" she said. She was squeezing the sponge in her hand so hard, paint began to drip onto her protective shoe coverings and slide onto the floor. "I'm trying to solve that!"

"That… may be true," Malcolm said. No one had ever briefed him on Drew's business model. He had never looked it up, or bothered to ask, and now he chastised himself for such a lack of curiosity. "But I don't think you want to be the company that people hate on because the money you got—or should've paid—could've been directed to healthy food for the poor. That is, healthy food that's produced in an ethical manner. So, surely, you get that, too."

Drew looked away and let out a loud sigh.

Malcolm figured he could throw her a bone. "I get that you're better than the others," he said. "If you actually need some capital injection and, I don't know, for some reason can't or don't wanna get a loan, maybe it's not from the city of New Athens itself."

Drew merely huffed again, scrubbing furiously at a paint stain on the nearest bedpost.

No?

"You could just reach out to actual investors," he tried again. "Surely you'll figure out how to be in the black."

"I've met with, like, a hundred mortals," said Drew. "And you know what? They did want me, and I could even choose among them. But then they started getting fussy and bitchy, and I had to buy out some of their shares until I had majority again, because I moved our HQ to this city and couldn't justify to them marketing-wise or even finance-wise that our expenses"—she took a breath—"are considerably higher than the costs of our competitors who are ethical, because we hire veterans and youth at risk for our domestic operations. That's all nil and unjustified to them."

"And that's great that you wanted to do that," Malcolm said, wary of how Drew was beginning to scrape chips of wood off the bedpost with merely her sponge.

"It's fucking hard, Malcolm. You know, maybe I could move all these jobs elsewhere."

His eyebrows shot up for a half-second. "First of all," he said, "you're not gonna do that."

Drew leveled him with a malicious stare. "Watch it make the news that the leader of New Athens disappeared dozens of jobs because he thought a businesswoman was bluffing."

Malcolm nearly rolled his eyes. "You're not gonna do that."

In a rare moment, Drew's shoulders slumped a bit. "People believe it anyway," she said. "So let me be the bad guy."

"I don't need that, and neither do you," he scoffed. "Second, we all know that the Olympians alone have, like, a billion or more. At least one of them's always looking for investment opportunities."

Drew's hair flipped as she turned violently towards him. "I'm not asking my mom for money," she fumed. "And even if I wanted to, you know I wouldn't ever hear the end of it about how it was never really my work or my team's."

And he knew exactly. He knew now she was fucking amazing. He knew she was so mesmerizing. He knew he'd say yes to anything she said. It was the simplest thing in the world, and nothing that had ever been could be so obvious and true.

Malcolm felt the haze linger. And he forgave her for it. He'd already known all of that.

But Drew's eyes raced to his in panic. In apology. In fear. "I didn't mean—" she said so quietly, he almost couldn't hear her.

Malcolm shook his head a smidge as the luscious daze cleared his consciousness, returning all his worries and fears and frustrations home. "It really didn't…" he said in a breath.

Drew retreated a step. Stiff as a board, she zoomed her wide eyes anywhere but at him as she took slower and slower breaths—the tactic he'd seen her use before to rein in her powers.

"To your point, our parents can be really helpful, though," Malcolm said, with the most casual emphasis on "our".

Drew just took another deep inhale and sighed it out. "I'm not going to ask her, okay?" she said calmly. "It's different for you and your situation. Obviously, you can't pay for this yourself and aren't even expected to put any of your money in, and you're also a dude." And now her tone was picking up again. "I can't ask my mother when all the credit—"

Malcolm lost 30% of his remaining nonchalance. "Doesn't have to be your mom."

Drew scrutinized him for a moment. Her eyes began glazing in thought before they focused again on him. "She's not gonna wanna…"

"And why not?"

Drew's stare was nearly as hard as it ever got, but her brown eyes began gradually warming. Beneath her glacial features, she was now looking at him in question—until her lips formed a small smile. It kinda looked… sincere.

"I'm glad I voted for you as city planner, city manager, whatever it was. It's ridiculous you have so many roles," she joked. "I can sometimes barely keep up with my two."

Malcolm returned to the inspection sheet. "Not like there was another option to vote for," he said.

"Yeah, well, I was indifferent about it before," Drew said. "Now, I can be glad I did."

She said it like it was some inside joke they had, and it was funny enough to chuckle at—and Malcolm did, while simultaneously trying to piece together what it was Drew might have been after. Surely, she wouldn't just think he would actually hand out any sort of favors.

Wait, was that what this appeared like? Was she trying to take advantage of his relation to Athena? Why, oh why, had he even offered the little help he'd given?

But no. He wasn't offering anything, really, other than an idea. And maybe an implicit referral. Right? He wasn't giving up city funds.

Malcolm tried not to regret his decision as he sidestepped a puddle of paint.

Oh. He let out another chuckle. "Yeah, I'm still flunking the cabin for tidiness. You're still gonna have to deal with Chiron and your siblings about the extra chores."

Drew gave him a lopsided smile. "Yeah, I figured. It was worth it." After a moment, she asked, "You really think she would want to?"

"I really don't see why she wouldn't," Malcolm said simply. And somehow voicing such a simple truth felt so… so… so wrong, he didn't even want to go there.

In silence, Drew let him inspect the rest of the cabin. She cleaned quietly, shooting him glances every now and then, and he tried not to feel bad that he was giving a 1 out of 5 mark right before her eyes. At least it was over with.

But as Malcolm headed for the door, Drew blocked his exit.

"There is something else," she said.

She was so very, very close. Malcolm was fully aware that if anyone were to come in here, they would've gotten the wrong idea. But Drew had made sure there wouldn't be anyone. She'd given them both the most plausible excuse for him to stay this long. And now more than ever, Malcolm actually liked being in her presence. It was intoxicating.

When she took a breath, he could even hear it. "How much do you know about the fashion industry's supply chain? Specifics?" she said.

Malcolm shook his head and cautiously backed up a few inches. He tried not to focus on the paint smear on Drew's cheek. Or the silky shine of her raven hair. Or the delicate strands that had fallen from her bun to frame her face.

For a long time, Drew looked in his eyes, and gradually, indecision turned to resoluteness. "We're actually trying to figure out how to fix another plastic issue. That's what none of you understand. The clothing materials are only one of the problems. For quality reasons, basically all clothes have to be wrapped in plastic during transport. Then we take them out of their plastic bags to display them in stores. The best we can do is expensive, better plastic. So, if there has to be a tax on the materials, which we still need to use so far for quests and training—which make those clothes necessities—"

You hate both quests and training, he thought. (But, okay, she still made the best gear. And, yeah, okay, they were necessities, so perhaps they deserved some tax exemptions. Perhaps.)

"—it could be offset by research funding for shipping innovation," she said coyly, before insisting, "Net prototyping and implementation. If the city puts up a prize challenge to solve that shipping issue… have engineers team up with fashion experts… we'll win it. And someone from Cabin Nine can share the winnings. I could pick the right person."

Under her unrelenting gaze, Malcolm took out his trusty notebook and scribbled down her suggestion. It wasn't perfect, but her main idea was sound. He totally ignored the last bit.

"We'll look into that," he said. "No promises." He honestly preferred the idea of wage subsidies. Except… if every employer in New Athens was already hiring veterans and youth at risk, maybe there was no point.

"You know it makes sense," Drew said, all knowing and... sultry-looking.

Malcolm shoved that aside. That probably hadn't even been her intent. The curse of Aphrodite's kids… They could never turn off their hotness. It really didn't help that Drew's pride in herself was so obvious in her smile. Why was he so weak for that?

Or was this high just something he was conflating with his own satisfaction of having learned something entirely new?

Yes, he thought. Let it be that.

"You know, I really don't care who'd win," Malcolm said.

"But you know who would," Drew said proudly, "and you know it'd be fair."

"But it's not gonna look fair—" Malcolm began. "You could ask anybody to team up with you. I wouldn't give a shit. That wouldn't be why I'd agree to this. You do realize how much more suspicious it could look if you win with—" That was as far as he could go. It already felt so wrong to speak this plainly. But Leo would've been so out of place. So against Drew's… branding.

As Drew pondered over his ramble and tried working out her loose ends, Malcolm pocketed his stuff and sighed. "Nyssa's probably the best materials engineer," he said. "She's great at transport stuff, too."

Drew crossed her arms. "Nyssa Barrera despises me."

But she was a woman. It just looked more fitting to Yokūbo. "Even better," Malcolm said. "What, you don't think you can win her over?"

There was an awkward, lengthy silence. And although Malcolm figured she hadn't needed to be that honest about this whole other problem, he suddenly began to hate this entire idea. Who was to say the city couldn't hit Drew on both counts? Why should taxpayers have to pay for finding a solution to that other issue, if Drew and whoever could just figure it out on their own? Why did they really need to be compensated to do the right thing? Hell, they could've made money off finding these solutions anyway. How wasn't that enough of an incentive?

"By the way," Drew said, taking Malcolm out of his silent raging, "black looks good on you. It brings out your eyes."

It was startling. It was confusing. It was… kinda nice? (She was an expert after all, his mind told him.) And holy fuck, it was mortifying.

Malcolm let out a chuckle. "My grandma told me that. Which is funny, considering she hates glaukôpis."

Drew's brows twitched. "The Gray-Eyed One," she said.

Malcolm had barely told anyone about that. Why in Hades was he telling flippin' Drew?

As he collected himself, Drew smiled for a moment, and only a moment. And then Malcolm's entire world was swallowed by awkwardness again, and he was totally going to get the fuck outta here, except his unease was just going to get more unbearable if he picked now to take off. But, shit, he couldn't leave anyway. Drew was still blocking the door.

"You know," she said, "you don't have to laugh or crack a joke when someone gives you a compliment."

Okay, he really just should've left earlier. Even a window break-out wouldn't have been as painful as this.

"Unless," Drew said, "it's because they made you uncomfortable. In which case, sorry?"

Malcolm had a strong urge to itch at his neck. "You didn't really."

I just don't really care for your opinion on what I wear.

"Then I'm not really sorry," Drew said.

Malcolm gave a customary laugh.

"Oh," she said, "and that wasn't an invitation to come onto me, by the way. Just so we're clear."

His eyebrows rose. "I wasn't going to? And I didn't think it was that?" he said over Drew's immediate addition of "I didn't mean that as an insult"—which made him blubber out the very same sentiment.

It so wasn't fair that Drew appeared totally composed while he felt like such a mess right now. In fact, she was still talking, oh so unfairly casual and poised.

"I'm just not interested in dating or sex with anyone at this stage of my life," she said, "and too many fucking weebs have tried turning much less into a hell of a lot more in the past."

"Oh," Malcolm managed to reply, putting on what he hoped was an expression of vicarious empathetic annoyance, free from pity and any complaints of TMI.

Never wanted to sleep with you or date you, but okay.

"And that's not me being coy," Drew rushed to say. "And it's not a challenge either," she added with a light glare.

"That… sounds annoying," Malcolm said lamely.

His skin was crawling. Gods, get me out of here.

"But in this case…" Drew said. "Well, it's the first time in a while I can say that, this time, it's just bad timing."

Malcolm processed that once. He processed that twice. He processed that thrice. And he still couldn't figure out what in Athena's name would make Drew even think—

"And you're also in my boat, with the work being priority, right?" she said. "Given the gazillion roles and, you know, the persona."

Yeah, that's it.

"My boring persona," Malcolm said.

"It's a persona," Drew said playfully. "I know no one's that bland. I like a good mystery."

Following yet another glance at his clothes, Drew peered into his eyes, as if she were hunting for deeper secrets.

What if there wasn't one?

With a final, conclusive "okay," Malcolm squeezed past Drew and exited the Aphrodite Cabin, wondering what it said about him that once more in the past couple years, he'd attracted a second—maybe a third?—clever asshole.

Second, he corrected himself. He'd never sleep with an asshole.

Drew had given him several things to process during his next run. He truly didn't know if he could ever figure them all out. But what he did know was that he wouldn't ever be sharing this incident with Conrad or Claire. Not even Annabeth.

The dining pavilion was even more packed than usual that night. A new intake of demigods had arrived that afternoon, and as usual, Grover and the other satyrs had handed the newbies off to some cabin counselor other than Malcolm to go through orientation. They knew him well.

To head to the fire of food offerings campers burned for the gods, Malcolm went as far away from the Aphrodite table as he could get. He found the perfect excuse, at the Nemesis table, where he could do a little check up on Adila, who finally looked like she could hold down her meals. Was it wildly uncomfortable, not least because he'd just seen her an hour ago and had never bothered to interact with any of the Nemesis kids outside work and training and teaching? Yes. But they seemed flattered he popped by, even if they were a little surprised, and at least he didn't have to be anywhere near Drew.

Not that Drew would ever hint to anyone about any of what happened, he told himself. Would she?

As Malcolm shuffled in line to burn his dinner, he now refused to make eye-contact with just about anybody. There were prickles of guilt swarming him that he couldn't make sense of. He knew he'd done nothing wrong.

With that mantra and the smell of smoky lamb and peppers he now associated with being at home, Malcolm eased and found his mind directed to all the little peculiarities he'd discovered today. How laughable was it, that between him and Drew, somehow she was the celibate one right now? What even was this life? And how was it that Harmon, or even Alvin and Vera, or whoever else, could find it so nerve-wracking to approach him? Everything seemed hilarious right now.

And then nothing was, because Rachel was lumbering in line behind him, her typical cheery colors replaced by dark eyebags and a deep-set frown.

Malcolm let three campers cut him in line and fell into step with Rachel. "You okay?" he said.

"Oh, I'm great!" Rachel said, with the widest smile and the most crazed eyes. "I binge-watched the Great Olympian Baking Show until five in the morning! I literally can't stop!"

That was something Malcolm knew she and Annabeth and Piper watched only together—with Hazel, too, if she was around. And now he realized that the kids around them were eyeing Rachel as if she were about to prophesize imminent mass death.

"You know, I've been meaning to catch up on that," he said as he and Rachel could finally make their offerings. "Did you see that episode when Poseidon was making loukoumades for the Games Week showstopper?"

The flames licked higher as if Athena was happier about that than the dozen olives he'd just burned.

"Oh man," Rachel snickered, "when Hestia spat it out?! Hestia! I knew the seaweed wouldn't work."

"The technical saved him, didn't it?" Malcolm remembered.

"Oh yeah, Demeter loved his plakous."

They chatted all the way to the Athena table, and only when they'd sat down did Rachel turn off her crazy eyes.

"I haven't slept in days," she whispered, slurring her words together. With a long groan, she rested her fluffy ginger mop on Annabeth's shoulder.

Annabeth patted her head. "Maybe we can help?" she said.

Rachel sat up and took a reluctant bite of her cassoulet. "It's gonna sound dumb," she said, "but I see the alphabet."

"They spell out anything?" Malcolm asked.

He drowned out as best he could the chatter around him about wedding planning updates and ignored as best he could Percy's multiple glances at him.

"I don't think so," Rachel said. "They just keep showing up in order. Alpha, beta, gamma, delta. Lots of delta. And then there's this… almost explosion of omicron. And something about… I think toilet paper? Like…" She shrugged, utterly lost as she stared into space, before she reached for some pine nuts on the table. "Oh, also," she said with a chuckle, "my new therapist just dropped me because she keeps getting freaked out when I tell her stuff. And now she needs to see a therapist."

"Yikes," said Conrad.

"Hey, you've joined the club," Percy said, offering her a high-five.

Rachel laughed at last. It didn't stop her from poking at her dinner. Even after Annabeth cheered her up with churros (Rachel's ultimate favorite dish), Rachel could only smile so much.

Malcolm had nothing to add to the discussion. He felt almost ashamed he couldn't be of help. It always sucked to see Rachel overcome by such sadness and dread. Each time served as a sorry, albeit useful, reminder his job was actually pretty easy. And surely, if Rachel could be brave enough to take on all the dooms of the world, he could stand to commit way more than what he was doing now.

Resolutely, Malcolm penciled in some more time over the next week to deal with Clarisse's confusions on criminal databases and, of course, the whole Yokubō thing. His evenings were pretty free mid-week.

"Heard you met with Drew," said Percy.

"Wow, word travels fast." Malcolm tightened his burrito roll, trying not to feel bad. He'd had every right.

Percy didn't appear upset, though. "I also heard you told her the tax is still on the table."

A flicker of guilt burned inside Malcolm. He really needed to get better at that. "You know I can't talk about these things," he said.

Percy relented. He looked around the table and then to the offerings area, where Claire was now sacrificing some baklava to Athena. "How are the seating plans going?" he said.

Malcolm also couldn't talk about some of those things. "Going," he replied, immediately taking another bite out of his burrito. He and Rhode hadn't even finalized a full table that other day. But there were drafts of, like, eight. That counted for something.

Percy just nodded.

Beside him, Annabeth trained her piercing steel eyes on Malcolm. "Rhode's visiting again, by the way," she said with all the nonchalance she could probably muster. "On Wednesday, right?" She turned to Percy.

"Yeah. She told me Wednesday," Percy said, proceeding to steal fries off Annabeth's plate.

Malcolm just responded with an indifferent "hmm" and took a ginormous bite out of his burrito.

He couldn't wait for Wednesday.