Conrad: “She won’t know what her” I murmur grimly.

Conrad: Something is missing in that sentence.

Justin:

“…’s different until the morning, at least!” the count cackled as he rolled the canvas up and slid it into his prosthetic leg. I rocked back and forth on my heels at the doorway, glancing nervously down toward the golden glow of the banquet hall and its laughing voices and clinking. The room was dark and we were well-hidden in the shadows but still froze when we heard footsteps as a waiter trotted past with a platter and we waited a moment and breathed again. The count clipped the leg closed and buckled it to his knee. I whispered for him to hurry as he unrolled the reproduction and set it into the heavy wooden frame and lifted it ungracefully to the wall. It dropped into place with a sturdy thump and we both froze again but no footsteps came.

I slid out of the parlor first and toward the bathrooms at the mouth of the hall, glancing back to see the count softly close the door and stride after me. As he passed he whispered “patio, fifteen minutes, then we’re off”. I entered the bathroom and the attendant nodded at me and gestured to an empty stall. I sat fully dressed on the commode, legs trembling, and gulped great breaths of air through my hands. Christ, what a job.

At the sink I splashed water on my face and straightened my collar and handed the attendant a bill. He thanked me crisply and opened the door. What a job.

I entered the hall just as the waiters popped a fresh round of champagne and I jumped while all the women squealed in delight and the men roared in appreciation. The count was laughing near the fountain with a few debutantes and I looked but didn’t see her. Just as well, it was hard enough keeping it up before the job but if we had one of our moments now, after, there was too great a risk she’d see the difference in my eyes and know already or somehow tease the truth into them and then all of it would be for nothing.

I took a glass from a waiter but it trembled when I lifted it to my mouth so I just held it and waved back to the red-faced old general who summoned me to his seat inside a bouquet of skirts. He wanted me to join him and agree with his joke but I pretended not to understand and walked away toward the patio doors. The count was still entertaining and I wished he’d be less entirely fearless and excuse himself.

I made it nearly to the door before she laid a white-gloved hand on my shoulder. “Are we really so boring as all that?” she asked. I stopped and closed my eyes for only a moment and then turned to face her, smiling. “Well,” I said, “the Burmese do throw a better party. But they’ve the nasty habit of trying to eat you after.” She laughed and took my arm and we walked out to the patio together. I glanced back over my shoulder at the count, looking my way and smiling rigidly.

Out in the blue moonlight away from the glow of the hall, she moved closer and I could feel her arm tremble against mine. We walked to the stone banister and looked out over the garden. “I’m glad you came,” she said quietly. My eyes crinkled and I laid a hand on hers. She glanced up at me, then out across the manicured bushes.

A door creaked open behind us and we looked back at the count coming out with a glass in one hand and the arm of a socialite in the other. “Hullo, you two!” he yelled happily across the patio, dragging his companion toward us. She squeezed my hand and let it go and we turned to face the count. “So glad you could make it,” she said falsely. He smiled a little drunkenly while his companion tried unsuccessfully to seat herself on a bench, his stiff arm holding her aloft.

He pointed at me and asked “Mind if I have a word with him in quiet? It’s about–” and here he winked for the benefit of us all “–matters of state.” She smiled hospitably and said “Of course, I should see to my guests anyway” and extracted the girl from his arm and led her inside. I watched after her as the count drained his glass but she didn’t look back and he, immediately sober, hissed at me under his breath, “The hell were you thinking?”

“I couldn’t stop it. She snuck up on me.”

“I’ll bet she did. You’re practically spitting feathers.”

We stood in silence for a moment. He looked coldly out over the blue grass. “Do you think she suspected anything? Tell me straight. If she had a clue, this whole thing is off.”

“She didn’t.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“And it won’t be a problem? You’ll never see her again, you know.”

I heard the laughter from inside and down in the garden the soft gurgling of the pond, and I saw the golden glimmer of a koi as its back broke the glassy surface.

“It won’t be a problem. I’ve already forgotten…”

Justin: I closed that boquet of messages that greeted me from the last few days.

Conrad: bouquet you ff-f-f-f-unctional illitereate!

J: It’s the alternate, uh, colloquial, uh, vernacular…

C: your mom’s the alternate colloquial vernacular

J: A hush fell over the assembly and all the apes turned to stare. What were these noises he was making with his mouth? And why was he standing upright, on two legs, as if reaching for a banana that wasn’t there? Kinja bared her teeth nervously. Overhead the canopy shifted and through its branches she saw clouds forming.

C: The oblivious missionary pushed his cork helmet back on his sweating bald pate. His portly wife, her tan pseudo-military shirt sticking to her plump figure, whispered hoarsely “Edward, don’t.”

J: One of the apes crawled up behind the woman and reached out a tentative finger, pressing it into her prodigous bottom before making a hasty retreat in a flurry of shrieks and somersaults.

C: Another shuffled up to their side, tugging at her camera strap, first curious, then demanding, growing angry at her clenched, frightened determination.

J:

“Edward,” she quavered, “Edward, the monkey… Edward, it has my camera, Edward!” Edward chewed his lip and examined the group through narrowed eyes. A smile whispered at the corner of his mouth. No dominant male, he thought.

“Let the monkey have it, Rose. Let the monkey have the camera.”

The ape hissed and swatted a warning at Rose as the strap caught on her canteen. “Oh Edward, it’s stuck…”

Edward whirled around and struck her theatrically. “LET THE MONKEY HAVE IT, ROSE!” he roared, a cunning eye on the assembly.

No dominant male… yet.

Conrad: Yes, it’s what good authors do– use mistakes to–

Justin: As you are speaking, you tumble down several flights of stairs set at the front corner of the classroom. The students erupt in cheers and begin hurling desks and chairs down the stairwell after you, save the ones they splinter into kindling for a bonfire. One student, a large Samoan boy who doesn’t speak, claps erasers together slowly and firmly to create a war-like haze. From an unseen corner come the screams of a dying animal and the growling of scholarshipped soccer players. An older return student eyes the door frantically. Two Phi Beta Kappas notice and move to flank him. At the chalkboard, a monocled teenager is writing his theory on feminist deconstructionism and lecturing to himself.

C: “Woodsworth and Longfellow, be with me now” I murmur to myself, dodging and feinting the flying splinters.

J: You come crawling up the stairwell, toupée askance and hands wringing. You peek over the crest at the barbarian madness. You cover your face and scurry into the fog, then in a wavering voice try with futility to start a chant of “oh captain my captain!”

C: “The principal!” I cry, trying to worm my way into the midst of the mob, “The principal has done this to us! Laissez-faire, carpe diem, et tu brutus! To the OFFICE!”

J: The class roars as one and empties into the hallway brandishing makeshift spears and one inexplicable machine gun.

C: I attempt to climb out of a window, but the “helpful” oversized quarterback pulls me back and sets me on his shoulders. I am their forced mascot, writhing and arching my back to get down.

J:

As they mob through the hallway, your upturned face scrapes the ceiling, muffling your cries. Someone forces a torch into your hand. You stare at it in horror and feel something else being forced into the other hand. You glance down and see a crudely-fashioned detonator. A chorus of “push it! push it! push it!” has already begun.

From the principal’s office, I hear the distant roars. I look questioningly at my secretary, who has already begun to blanche. I stand and walk to the glass reception area just in time to see a molotov cocktail hurtle toward the door. I drop to my knees and reach for the walkie talkie buckled to my belt. “IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN, AGNES!” I yell at the secretary as I fumble with the channel selector. “AGNES!” I yell again, turning to see her glassy gaze and the empty syringe hanging from her arm.