Options were beginning to feel more like a burden than a blessing.
Chapter Twenty-Six
THREE WHOLE DAYS, LOCKED IN A ROOM WITH MR. Robison and David.
Doing homework.
Pretending to do homework.
And trading glares.
The first day, David had done more glaring than Tamani. But then, considering Tamani was the winner, it was only fitting.
Well, kind of the winner.
For one perfect day Tamani had actually wondered if he could perish of happiness. Being with Laurel, really with her, holding her in his arms as she smiled up at him—it was better than he had ever dreamed. Everything else in his life paled in comparison. Becoming the youngest commanding sentry in three generations? A minor success. Training as the leading expert on applied human interaction? Nothing more than a means to an end. But being with Laurel? This was his crowning achievement, and he had surprised himself with how easily he slipped into the role. How perfectly she fit in his arms. The complete joy he felt when she smiled at him. Nothing else mattered.
He would get that back. He’d thought himself determined before, but he’d only been chasing a dream. Now he knew what he was missing and he could do anything if it meant one more day like the one they’d shared at the cabin.
When Tamani realized he was smiling, he cleared his throat and forced himself to look dour again and pretend to focus on David’s explanation of the Pythagorean theorem. What a waste of time.
“Boys, if you’ll excuse me, you seem to be doing fine on that assignment. I need to step out for a moment.”
Tamani suppressed a chuckle. Their “supervision” was a joke. Mr. Robison had left the room fourteen times today—twice as many as yesterday. And whenever he did, David would just shut down. He wouldn’t respond to anything Tamani said. He’d just sit and stare at the whiteboards hung at the front of the room. When Mr. Robison returned, David would launch back into whatever halfhearted tutorial they’d been on before. It was uncanny, really—he’d just start up exactly where he’d left off. Mr. Robison didn’t seem to notice.
What got Tamani was the way David seemed to be brooding almost as much over this punishment as over losing Laurel. As far as Tamani was concerned, punishments were just part of life. You suffered them and went on your way—there was no reason to stop and regret.
Tamani sure didn’t.
He wondered if humans couldn’t escape their anxieties because they were always cooped up. It must be hard to cope when a person couldn’t breathe fresh air and work things out constructively, with some honest physical labor. Before Tamani was ten years old, he had spent several years out in the field with his father, maintaining dams with his sister’s companion, or running errands for his mother at the Academy. Humans, on the other hand, were lined up and put in pens like cattle. Perhaps it worked for them—maybe animals liked being boxed up. But Tamani had his doubts.
Mr. Robison had been gone for five minutes. There was only an hour left before the final bell. Tamani wondered if they’d be seeing him again before tomorrow.
“You’re fighting a losing battle, you know,” Tamani said. “Always were.”
Predictably, David said nothing.
“Faeries and humans, they just can’t be together. You’ve had a good run and, quite frankly, I’m glad you were there for her when I couldn’t be. But it just won’t work. You’re too different. We might look the same, but faeries and humans have very little in common.”
Still no response.
“You can’t have children.”
At that, David turned and looked at Tamani. It was the first real response he’d gotten from David since the start of their “suspension.” He even opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it shut again and turned away.
“You may as well say it. We’re supposed to be working out our differences, right?” Tamani chuckled. “Though maybe these aren’t the differences they had in mind.”
David eyed Tamani, ignoring the jest.
Tamani was suddenly struck by just how young David looked. He forgot, sometimes, that David, Laurel, and their friends were younger, in some ways much younger, than Tamani. He was posing as a school-age human, but in truth he was an officer in the Guard. He knew his place, he knew his role, with a certainty some humans never achieved. The amount of freedom human children had must be paralyzing. No wonder they took so long to become adults.
“I’m just trying to help you understand, that’s all,” Tamani said.
“I don’t need your help.”
Tamani nodded. He wasn’t fond of David, but it was hard to hate him when he was no longer an obstacle to be overcome. In many ways, Tamani could sympathize. And he certainly couldn’t fault David’s taste.
Fifteen minutes passed in total silence. Then half an hour. Tamani was wondering if he could get away with just disappearing for the last half hour when David spoke.
“A lot of people can’t have children—Laurel’s parents, for example.”
Tamani had already forgotten he’d even mentioned children. It seemed odd that, after almost two whole days of silence, David would latch on to this particular point. “Granted, but—”
“So they adopt. Or they just stay together the two of them. You don’t have to have children to be happy.”
“Maybe not,” Tamani allowed. “But she’s also going to live a hundred years longer than you. You really want to make her watch you die? You want to adopt children and make her watch them die, of old age, while she still looks forty?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
THREE WHOLE DAYS, LOCKED IN A ROOM WITH MR. Robison and David.
Doing homework.
Pretending to do homework.
And trading glares.
The first day, David had done more glaring than Tamani. But then, considering Tamani was the winner, it was only fitting.
Well, kind of the winner.
For one perfect day Tamani had actually wondered if he could perish of happiness. Being with Laurel, really with her, holding her in his arms as she smiled up at him—it was better than he had ever dreamed. Everything else in his life paled in comparison. Becoming the youngest commanding sentry in three generations? A minor success. Training as the leading expert on applied human interaction? Nothing more than a means to an end. But being with Laurel? This was his crowning achievement, and he had surprised himself with how easily he slipped into the role. How perfectly she fit in his arms. The complete joy he felt when she smiled at him. Nothing else mattered.
He would get that back. He’d thought himself determined before, but he’d only been chasing a dream. Now he knew what he was missing and he could do anything if it meant one more day like the one they’d shared at the cabin.
When Tamani realized he was smiling, he cleared his throat and forced himself to look dour again and pretend to focus on David’s explanation of the Pythagorean theorem. What a waste of time.
“Boys, if you’ll excuse me, you seem to be doing fine on that assignment. I need to step out for a moment.”
Tamani suppressed a chuckle. Their “supervision” was a joke. Mr. Robison had left the room fourteen times today—twice as many as yesterday. And whenever he did, David would just shut down. He wouldn’t respond to anything Tamani said. He’d just sit and stare at the whiteboards hung at the front of the room. When Mr. Robison returned, David would launch back into whatever halfhearted tutorial they’d been on before. It was uncanny, really—he’d just start up exactly where he’d left off. Mr. Robison didn’t seem to notice.
What got Tamani was the way David seemed to be brooding almost as much over this punishment as over losing Laurel. As far as Tamani was concerned, punishments were just part of life. You suffered them and went on your way—there was no reason to stop and regret.
Tamani sure didn’t.
He wondered if humans couldn’t escape their anxieties because they were always cooped up. It must be hard to cope when a person couldn’t breathe fresh air and work things out constructively, with some honest physical labor. Before Tamani was ten years old, he had spent several years out in the field with his father, maintaining dams with his sister’s companion, or running errands for his mother at the Academy. Humans, on the other hand, were lined up and put in pens like cattle. Perhaps it worked for them—maybe animals liked being boxed up. But Tamani had his doubts.
Mr. Robison had been gone for five minutes. There was only an hour left before the final bell. Tamani wondered if they’d be seeing him again before tomorrow.
“You’re fighting a losing battle, you know,” Tamani said. “Always were.”
Predictably, David said nothing.
“Faeries and humans, they just can’t be together. You’ve had a good run and, quite frankly, I’m glad you were there for her when I couldn’t be. But it just won’t work. You’re too different. We might look the same, but faeries and humans have very little in common.”
Still no response.
“You can’t have children.”
At that, David turned and looked at Tamani. It was the first real response he’d gotten from David since the start of their “suspension.” He even opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it shut again and turned away.
“You may as well say it. We’re supposed to be working out our differences, right?” Tamani chuckled. “Though maybe these aren’t the differences they had in mind.”
David eyed Tamani, ignoring the jest.
Tamani was suddenly struck by just how young David looked. He forgot, sometimes, that David, Laurel, and their friends were younger, in some ways much younger, than Tamani. He was posing as a school-age human, but in truth he was an officer in the Guard. He knew his place, he knew his role, with a certainty some humans never achieved. The amount of freedom human children had must be paralyzing. No wonder they took so long to become adults.
“I’m just trying to help you understand, that’s all,” Tamani said.
“I don’t need your help.”
Tamani nodded. He wasn’t fond of David, but it was hard to hate him when he was no longer an obstacle to be overcome. In many ways, Tamani could sympathize. And he certainly couldn’t fault David’s taste.
Fifteen minutes passed in total silence. Then half an hour. Tamani was wondering if he could get away with just disappearing for the last half hour when David spoke.
“A lot of people can’t have children—Laurel’s parents, for example.”
Tamani had already forgotten he’d even mentioned children. It seemed odd that, after almost two whole days of silence, David would latch on to this particular point. “Granted, but—”
“So they adopt. Or they just stay together the two of them. You don’t have to have children to be happy.”
“Maybe not,” Tamani allowed. “But she’s also going to live a hundred years longer than you. You really want to make her watch you die? You want to adopt children and make her watch them die, of old age, while she still looks forty?”
