Page 3

As Professor Moore dismissed the class, Sam squinted at the notes he’d taken on the different types of Greek columns throughout the ages, already irritated with himself for writing so small. He’d only jotted down the odd word here and there for the last half of the lecture, and Professor Moore was one of those ‘fun’ professors who uploaded slides filled with overly saturated colours and fonts that slashed across the board and through Sam’s head in erratic patterns. It didn’t help that the lecture hall had no windows or natural light but instead fluorescent white bulbs that cast everything in an overly bright, harsh glow.

Books thudded shut, zippers zipped, jackets rustled, and bag straps crinkled against waterproof coats as the large class of fifty students began filing out. Sam packed away his things slowly. He always sat dead centre in the large hall. That way, he was never in anyone’s way at the end when he was still taking notes and everyone else was rushing out; he preferred not to be acknowledged at all while at college, and he was sure his classmates picked up on that because rarely did anyone initiate conversation with him. He dragged his feet as he approached the podium and stopped to wait behind a student who was asking Professor Moore about something related to the lecture.

In the front row, where dedicated students and those with poor eyesight mingled, was a familiar face. Fionn was short and stocky, dressed inappropriately for March temperatures in a perfect white polo that painfully reflected the fluorescent lights, tan khakis and canvas boat shoes. His old-money blond hair matched his outfit. Fionn’s eyes lit up as he spotted Sam.

Sam usually ignored Fionn. There was always some remark or other waiting to slip loose, and while Sam never blinked an eye at anything he said in their hometown, his usual ability to shrug Fionn off lessened when at college. Regardless of location, the juvenile attention-seeking had gotten old years ago.

“Some people need extra handouts.” His mocking voice reached Sam’s ear, and Sam knew that was intentional. Sam was almost certain Fionn never talked about him behind his back and only spoke of him where he could hear. Sam ignored him, but a new face amongst Fionn’s crew caught his eye. The newbie was bigger than Fionn, whose arms were buffed from working the lines on his yacht every other day, and both his eyes and hair were pitch black. Sam recognised him. He used to pass him jogging down the road every summer. He didn’t know his name, but he knew he was the son of Caroline Wreath, a woman who’d lived two houses down from Sam his entire life, though she never left the house and so never really became part of the community. Sam was pretty sure that house had been converted into an Airbnb last summer.

The girl ahead of him moved on, and Sam stepped up, aware of but ignoring Fionn’s attention and his former neighbour’s pointed stare. Even with his back turned, he felt that stare like a cold spot on his back.

“Sir,” Sam greeted. “I wanted to ask about the midterm.”

Moore waved him to step up to the podium. “Turn in is online. I don’t need a physical copy.” He packed his laptop into his bag as he spoke. “Cite all your sources. Use whatever method you prefer, so long as you stay consistent within the essay. Did you read through the packet? Any questions that weren’t answered there?”

Sam’s stomach curdled in shame, and he even felt his neck turn red. “I wondered if I could get an extension?” His tongue dried, and a thickening ball in his throat made saying the last part difficult. I have dyslexia. It takes me three times as long as everyone else to get through the readings. Four times as long to even read my own notes, never mind your colourful slides that give me a headache .

In primary school, it was a well-known fact among his teachers that he had dyslexia, and Sam had hated it. Hated that whenever they got a test back and he’d done poorly that they’d all smile and tell him it was okay, they hadn’t expected much anyway. Or when it came time for homework or assignments, Sam was given different questions. Different assessments. Different, lesser, expectations every step of the way. Even his Leaving Cert had been different from everyone else, and right up until the last day before exams began, nobody expected anything from Sam results-wise.

Sam never thought himself less capable than any of his classmates. He just needed a little extra time to read and write questions and answers. Instead of time, teachers gave him lowered expectations.

And now, in college, though Sam had an official ‘ dyslexic’ note on his file, there were so many students that if he wanted to get any extra time, he had to be proactive and seek it out himself. He wanted the time and space to meet the same standard as everyone else, not another round of expectations so low that Sam could never feel any achievement at all to meet them.

Professor Moore stopped packing and lifted his gaze to Sam. He was the youngest lecturer Sam had, a man in his thirties. Deep laugh lines marked his face, and crow’s feet creased the corners of his eyes; they hinted at his good humour, though it was notably absent as he considered Sam’s question.

“My extension policy is also included in the packet. Unless there are extenuating circumstances, the due date is the same for everyone. I can point you in the right direction for readings, but time management is your own responsibility,” Moore said, clear, concise and cold. Clearly he was used to students coming and begging extensions off him, and from his tone, he wasn’t very impressed by the practice.

Behind Sam, there was either a cough or a snicker; he couldn’t tell which.

Sam despised how hot his face got. How his insides roiled as he shamed himself in front of Fionn. And he hated how he felt like he was shaming himself for something he couldn’t help. Sam reminded himself of what he wanted with a controlled exhale: time. Time, not lowered expectations. Fionn’s presence turned his controlled exhale into a rough huff.

“I have dyslexia, sir,” Sam forced out. “And your slides are difficult to read with the curly fonts you use and the bright contrasts.”

Moore stiffened, drawing upright.

Sam didn’t mean for his voice to come out so confrontational. He wrangled the stressful feeling within and locked down that flash of bright irritation that had briefly shone through from within. “I just mean” – Sam’s voice came out calmer – “it takes me more time to get through the revision, so even if I could get just an extra day or two, I would really appreciate it.”

“Oh.” Moore glanced at the board behind him, where a headache-inducing, curly red font was set against a neon-green background detailing the midterm assessment. He blinked. “Yes. If you can write your email for me here, I’ll send on the extension form.” He handed Sam a pen and paper. He turned again to the board with a thoughtful expression.

Sam transcribed his email, telling himself to feel grateful instead of the skin-crawling irritation that vexed every nerve in his body.

“Jesus.” Fionn’s low voice reached his ears. “How long does it take to write ‘Sam’?”

The pen jerked, butchering the ‘m’. Sam scribbled the rest with a rough hand. “Thank you, sir.” He handed the paper to Professor Moore. “I appreciate it.” Despite his best efforts, it came out short.

Sam left, not even looking in Fionn’s direction. The large lecture hall opened directly to the outside, and Sam followed a winding brick path through the large campus that sprawled across almost half the city with old buildings of brick and mortar intermixed with monoliths of glass and steel. Old and new intertwined to create a university that was confusing to the senses. It was only when Sam was halfway across campus, making a beeline toward his car, that he took his buzzing phone out of his pocket and glared at the screen, frustrated to have to take the time to read after being laughed at earlier.

An unbutchered ‘M’ jumped off the screen at him.

Sam hit the call button, not having the patience to try reading the essays that Mary sent.

“Don’t you dare cancel,” Mary said the second he got the phone to his ear. “I saw your car in the lot. I know you’re here. Eric drove all the way out to see you.”

“Eric?” Sam repeated.

Mary groaned, all dramatic. “We made plans only yesterday.”

Sam stepped off the footpath into the shade of a cypress tree as he racked his memories. What was she talking about? Had Sam agreed to meet up with them? “Where are we meeting again?”

“Seriously?”

“Midterm titles are all out now.” Sam scrubbed his face, stress lifting his shoulders toward his ears. “You don’t need to give me a hard time about forgetting lunch once.”

“And can I give you a hard time for ditching me at lunch the past month? I swear, unless I wait outside your classroom, you forget I even exist.” Mary’s voice was sharp, crabby. Sam’s stress sharpened his guilt. Added fuel to his general annoyance.

“I’m sorry.”

He heard her long exhale. “You never forget when you make plans with Connor.”

“I don’t make plans with Connor,” Sam denied. “They just come get me when they’re doing something and bring me along.”

“Sure.”

“Mary, I’m sorry. Where are you? Lunch is on me.”

“We’re in the cafe next to the bookshop. And lunch is already on Eric.”

Sam hung up and hurried across campus to find a pouting Mary and an Eric who was fiddling with his drink, spinning it in endless circles on the table. A plain grey bomber hid Eric’s tattoos. His jeans were a pale-wash blue, the ends tucked into boots with a heel that drummed hard on the ground.

“Hey,” Sam greeted. “Thanks for waiting for—”

Eric jumped to his feet.

“Me…” Sam trailed off, caught off guard by Eric’s sudden movement.

Mary glanced up from her phone and looked between the two of them. She waited a second. “Would you both sit down? Don’t be so awkward.”

Sam pulled out the empty chair at the table and sat. Eric stayed standing. “What would you like to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

“Sam likes the cappuccinos here. Double shot with one pump of hazelnut,” Mary said, her gaze returning to her phone. “Grab a menu for him too.”

Eric walked to the counter, and Sam watched him till he got in line, then brought his attention back to Mary. He didn’t need her to say anything; he felt her anger vibrating in the air.

“Mary…” Sam pressed his lips together. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to forget.”

“Stop that right now,” Mary cut across him. Her eyes flashed violence as they snapped from the phone screen to his face. “ I don’t want to be something in your life that stresses you out, alright? I’m upset I was forgotten about again, and I’ll be over it in two minutes. I’m only here to chaperone anyway since I figured you’d ditch Eric if I didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t just ditch him,” Sam denied. Just forget that he made plans with him.

Mary gave him a look, and Sam swallowed hard.

“I didn’t mean to forget, alright? I’m busy, and it slipped my mind. It isn’t fair to attack me about that.”

“I’m not attacking you, Sam. That’s just your conscience. I love and forgive you.”

“I’m really feeling the love and forgiveness in your sarcasm.”

Eric returned to the two of them glaring at each other. He placed Sam’s coffee and the menu in front of him and sat back down. “How are classes going?” Eric broke the silence.

Did he have to ask about that? An irrational bout of irritation flushed Sam’s skin. Mary’s glare softened, and her toe touched against the side of his shoe. Sam caught himself, realising he’d cast an angry look right at Eric, who’d tensed in his seat, looking at Sam like he was something to be feared.

Sam needed to get it together.

“Classes are fine. I’m just busy. Midterms are all out now, so I’m working my way through them.” Which, just like last semester, stressed him to high heaven. Sam lifted the coffee, taking a sip of the frothed milk and caffeine. Just as he managed to relax his shoulders, a familiar voice cut through the air behind him.

“The fishermen’s table is this one, is it?” Fionn passed close enough to Sam that the brown leather bag hanging from his shoulder brushed against the back of his head.

As if he’d said something funny, Fionn’s posse laughed. The only one not to crack up was the new guy. His eyes, an emotionless, flat black, looked assessingly from Sam to Fionn. He tilted his head, birdlike. Predatory.

Mary’s glare was lethal.

Sam caught her wrist. “Don’t,” he warned her.

That made Fionn cackle, and the group crowded into a booth on the other side of the cafe.

Mary glared after them, and Sam kept a hold of her wrist. She always hated his passivity, and Sam had heard from her enough times that he’d get picked on less if he would just stick up for himself. Sam never considered himself a doormat or an easy target, not even now. He just didn’t see the point of engaging.

Punching back, playing up a fight? That didn’t appeal to him in the slightest. He wasn’t hot-headed like Mary. Sam would rather let it lie and not waste his time on a pointless fight. Because that’s exactly what a showdown with Fionn would be: a complete waste of Sam’s time.

“He’s not worth the energy, Mary,” Sam insisted.

A mocking voice parroted his words. Sam didn’t so much as glance in their direction, whilst Mary wouldn’t look away. He knew without looking that Fionn was grinning at Mary, delighted with the attention.

“What’s his problem?” Eric asked.

Sam tore his gaze from Mary to see that she wasn’t the only one staring at the table. Eric’s green eyes were fixed on them too, and he looked far from happy. The shape of his twisted mouth shook a memory loose in Sam’s head. Once, when he was ten and his dad had been driving him to school, a bird had flown across the road, struck the windscreen and died on impact. Oisín had groaned out a curse that was so packed with hurt it didn’t even sound like a bad word to Sam’s ears, but instead a mourning prayer. Oisín made Sam wait in the car as he picked up the dead bird from the road and moved it into the bushes. His mouth was all twisted up.

Eric’s mouth twisted into the same shape.

“He’s an idiot,” Sam told him. “And not worth the time or energy.” He fixed his gaze on Mary as he said it. “So leave it be. Please.”

Mary tore her gaze from Fionn’s table. “He’s a stupid dick face whose entire personality is based on his daddy’s bank account,” she told Eric. “You know the type. We get them every summer at home.”

“I know the type,” Eric agreed. He looked at the table for a long time before turning back to Sam. “Do you know what you’d like to eat? Pick whatever you like. It’s on me. I also got you this, uh, a few bits and pieces.” Eric reached under the table and offered a bag to Sam.

Sam glanced inside, and his breath caught. A treasure trove of painting materials filled the brown paper bag to the brim. Three different sets of acrylic tubes, two sketchbooks, two packs of pencils. “Oh, wow.” Sam turned over one of the acrylic sets and saw full tubes of burnt ombre, red, orange and yellow. Even a specific gold that he’d only need to add to in order to get the shade right. A flood of warmth erased the irritation that had been inside him since that morning. “This is great, thank you.”

Eric’s mouth softened, a smile lifting the corners.

Mary peered into the bag, and she snorted. “Look at that. You found the key to Sam’s heart. I told him he should have done an art course, not a general education course, and he always brushes me off, saying he’s not all that interested in it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam brushed her off. “It’s just a hobby.” But a feeling of genuine warmth rosied his opinion of Eric. Sam didn’t fancy himself as someone whose good opinion could be bought, but nobody had ever tested that belief with golden paint before.

“Have you seen the boat yet? Sam painted it.”

Eric’s smile faded. “I haven’t seen it.”

Sam noticed but didn’t question the uncomfortable expression that passed over Eric’s face and moved his attention to the menu, pulling it toward himself. P-A-N-I-T?

Paint?

I-C-E-E-E-C?

What was that supposed to be?

Was everyone using curly fonts just to get on Sam’s nerves? If not for Eric and his paints, he’d have gotten irritated all over again.

“What are you getting?” Sam asked them, brushing the issue aside.

“The chicken panini,” Mary said.

Oh. Panini. Not paint .

“I’ll get that too,” Sam said.

Eric jumped up to order before Sam could offer, and Sam eyed his back as he rejoined the line. His hands were jittery, palms flattening his jeans over and over and over. It drew the sleeve of his jacket up and exposed a thin vine encircling his wrist. Mary’s head jerked to the side, alerting Sam to incoming danger just as two hands encompassed his shoulders. Sam stiffened. Calloused hands accustomed to pulling rope and handling equipment rested on Sam. These hands jittered too, a delicate tremble Sam felt through the fabric of his fleece.

“What was it you called me?” Fionn asked. “An idiot? But isn’t that you?”

Mary was on her feet. Her arm blurred as she threw her coffee in Fionn’s face. A hot splatter hit Sam’s cheek. Fionn reeled back with a cry of outrage. “That’s hot! You little psycho—”

Sam twisted in time to see it: Fionn, his lips parted in disbelief as he peeled his wet collar from his neck. His face lifted, blue eyes bright with anger. Mary’s arm blurred again. Fionn’s entire head jerked to the side as Mary’s slap caught him on the cheek with a loud, wet smack . Sam winced.

Fionn retreated a step. “Ow! The hell, you bitch—”

Mary advanced and, with an audience made of the entire cafe, delivered another slap to the other cheek. “Leave my brother alone, you fucking bully,” Mary snarled viciously. Sam stifled a groan. He was only her brother in moments like this; any other time, he was an annoying cousin.

“Mary.” Sam got up. She advanced another step, and this time one of Fionn’s friends caught her arm before she could land another slap. Sam shoved between them, arm flat on the guy’s chest.

“Let go,” Sam warned. He racked his brain, trying to figure out how to de-escalate without making things worse. Having Mary apologise? She’d rather die. Fionn apologising? Just as unlikely, though he was probably more reasonable than she was.

“Let me go,” Mary growled.

Sam twisted, seeing she’d been grabbed on the other side. Sam’s eyes flashed down, seeing her tiny wrist in a hand that dwarfed it. Seeing her getting yanked.

Sam turned away from the guy he’d pushed off her. “Stop it.” He reached.

Mary erupted into violence; the guy holding her wrist cursed at her, threatened her. She spit words back. Insulting everything she could about him and more. Sam’s arm was wrenched back. He tried to free himself, but the guy he’d turned his back on didn’t let go.

Sam stumbled, hearing an oof at his ear. “Get the fuck off me!” the guy hissed.

“You pulled me onto you!” Sam snapped.

“Would you all stop—”

A ringing cut off Fionn’s shrill voice. Sam’s head jerked to the side, muscles in his neck lighting up like they’d been doused in Mary’s weaponised hot coffee. His heel caught on something, tripping him. Sam hit the ground, confused to find himself abruptly horizontal. To find the wooden beams of the cafe filling his vision, the grey underside of his table. Voices rose around him in a wave of white noise, and he lifted a hand to his cheek. Protectively cupping his aching face as he reorientated himself.

Dazed, he saw that his old neighbour and Eric were locked on to each other. Fionn and his friend were pulling their friend away. And for some reason, Nick – Connor’s broadly built, amber-eyed older stepbrother – was pulling Eric away. Eric’s pale skin was flushed red, his teeth bared as if he were ready to bite into his opponent. There was no trace of the timid man Sam had sat down with minutes ago. Mary and the guy she’d been screaming insults at had stopped their verbal fight to watch.

Shakily, Sam climbed to his feet. He blindly reached for his chair and sunk into it. He bit the inside of his cheek, his hip throbbing. He blinked. Blinked. Willed himself to get up and try to help, but even though he should, Sam really didn’t want to get into the middle of the melee.

The two were finally pulled apart, Fionn hauling his friend out of the cafe and muttering curses under his breath. Mary and the other guy seemed to remember they’d been in the middle of fighting and jumped apart, cursed at each other, and then the guy ran out after his friends.

Eric briskly shook off Nick and rushed to Sam. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice high and worried. The bloodhound had vanished; returned was the nervous young man.

“Fine,” Sam said. Mary and Nick hovered behind Eric’s shoulders as he crouched down and peered up at Sam’s face.

“That was a cheap shot,” Nick said.

Whatever kind of shot it was, Sam hadn’t seen it coming. “We should go. They’re not going to serve us anyway.”

“No, you’re fine,” Nick said. He twisted toward the counter and nodded to the worker. She raised an eyebrow in response. “It’s my roommate’s girlfriend working. She’s cool.” His foot crunched as he took a step, and Nick looked down at the broken cup beneath his shoe. Coffee stained the white floor tile.

Sam lifted his gaze to Mary. “You can help clean up,” he said flatly.

With a look of guilt, Mary went to the counter and asked the workers where their cleaning equipment was.

Eric’s hand hovered just beneath Sam’s jaw. He hesitated a moment before gently catching Sam’s wrist and pulling it away from his face. The action made Sam flinch, as if mere exposure to people’s eyes could hurt. “He punch me or what? I didn’t even see,” Sam admitted.

“He sure did.” Nick leaned against one of the chairs. “He had psycho eyes. Didn’t look the slightest bit worked up when he did it.” Nick twisted, looking at the door they’d exited through. “He’s familiar… I’m pretty sure I knew him when I was younger.”

“He used to be around during the summers,” Sam said. “Lived a few doors down from me.”

Eric released Sam’s wrist and straightened up. “I’m going to ask if they have any ice packs.”

Eric was gone and back in seconds and offered a cloth to Sam. He took it, and whatever was wrapped inside chilled his fingers. Sam sighed in relief as he pressed it to his face, the cold working to numb the ache.

Nick nodded at Sam. “All good? Want me to stick around for moral support?”

Sam snorted. “Morals are all fine. Thanks, Nick.”

“You’ve got my number if you need me.” Nick went to the counter.

Sam was sure everyone in the cafe was staring at him, and he worried that someone had called security and trouble was on the way.

Eric continued to watch Sam with worry in his eyes as Mary returned and quickly cleaned her mess. Her expression was solidly set in guilt when she retook her seat. She fidgeted, pursing her lips together before squaring her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

Guilt flashed to anger. “But I’m not sorry for standing up for you,” she snapped.

Sam looked sideways at her. “He doesn’t bother me, Mary.” Why couldn’t she get that? Why, after years of dealing with this, did she not get that engaging was not what Sam wanted?

“They pick on you, harass you, bully you—”

“Mary, they’re idiots. Fionn is an idiot. Nothing he says can hurt me,” Sam interrupted. It wasn’t exactly true, but Sam willed it to be. He wouldn’t give weight to someone’s words when he didn’t respect them.

“You need to stand up for yourself.”

“Not like this, Mary. Now I’ll have to worry that I’m going to get sucker punched every time I see them,” Sam said. “Not to mention the fact that Fionn is loaded and could turn around and press charges on you.”

“Oh, for what ?”

“Assault.”

“It was a slap. Hardly assault.”

“Assault, Mary. He could turn around and charge you, and there’s a cafe full of people here to be witnesses for him.”There were only a few other people, but that wasn’t the point.

Mary stood up abruptly, chair legs screeching against the ground. “You know what? I think you could use some air to calm down.”

Sam watched her storm away, scowling. He wasn’t the one who’d lost his cool. He didn’t need to calm down.