Suddenly, somewhere in the middle of a half-dream where Kage and Button were hatching a plot to steal The Raccoon’s red necklace, it hit me—we could just ask Billie to lend her medal. She was sure to win one for Arts & Crafts. No one else in the city could quite turn construction paper into living things the way she did. I sat back, willing her to win, somewhere across the hall.

The teacher lady came back, erased something on the board and filled it in again.

Time remaining: 35 minutes

Shit.

Okay, it was time to bust something out.

Nayantara, Mullick
The House
17 June 2008

I have heard it said, in a Voice that is present

That holds authority in a vice, that wields truth like a knife, (Isn't this what we call wise?)

That young love is not love at all.

Love needs depth, truly that Voice says,

It needs the substance of scars,

And so it demands the sacrifice of years.

But she felt, in all that excess

That is the giveaway bell of youth, That she could not live, not for a moment, Not for another, single, unlivable day,

Without him.

So you see, it felt to her, true or not, That young love was all she would ever have. And when she died,

At the unknown hands of someone who had

Taken the slow trouble to know her,

Walk her routes, a seeing-eye shadow Trailing her home like the eye of a storm, Love had been forced from her, Adult and unreasonable and ending in

A bloody, trampled, desecrated mess.

So it stands to be said,

In a voice that is not wise, not distant, not always right: Let people love where they will.

Let them love when they will,

And with whom they will.

The substance of scars is the way of inescapable strife, And years can belie what ought be the way of life.

There. A vague reference to the murders over inter-caste marriages that had been in the news lately, disguised in enough metaphor to make it look artfully esoteric, starring a tragically raped-and-killed kid. Some rhyming to show ability, some blank verse to make it look progressive. Enough to make it look like I had made an effort.

The number I had saved on a dark, cracked pavement with fingers that were trying not to shake flashed on the colour screen. Holy shit, he was here.

‘Hello?’

‘Come down.’

‘Are you here?’

‘Yup.’

I slid into the seat beside his, thinking only that I was sliding into a seat beside Kage.

We drove around the block and parked in a narrow alley. He popped in a CD and the player slurped it up.

‘Ready?’

‘Very.’

Of implication, insinuation and ill will, ‘til you cannot lie still

‘That was amazing.’

‘It’s their best one yet.’

‘What’s it called?’

‘Carnival of Rust.’

‘Nice. Can we listen to it again?’