guess.”
“And in this case, he was leering at you. A man his age ogling a girl like you... It’s unseemly.”
“So you’re saying he deserves whatever he gets?”
“Everyone deserves something.”
Ilya snorted. “Deep,” she observed.
Rosalia nodded. The clock in the corner of her palette was still ticking, inching closer to the top of the hour. Soon, the bell would ring and students would pour into the hallways. Some of them would end up at their lockers only to find Rosalia’s creation staring back at them. Then the laughter would start, growing from a mild chuckle to a thunderous roar. Heads would turn, seek out Russo and Jalay as they walked the halls with undeserved confidence. The pointing. The laughing.
The crumbling of Russo’s tough veneer would be magnificent.
“Thanks for your help,” said Rosalia, without looking up.
“It was fun,” Ilya admitted, her voice pensive. She made a noise like she wanted to say something else, but decided against it. Then, giggling, “He’s staring at me.”
“No.” Rosalia put her hand to her face to hide her smile. “He’s staring at both of us.”
Ilya spoke in a Russian accent, “Dirty old man.”
“Da,” agreed Rosalia.
7 - Deron
“Things going the way they are and the world moving the way it does, it’s any wonder we’re stuck here trying to understand the big picture when in fact, there is no picture at all, just a veneer, a model of the world the way they want us to see it. Except there is no they, only us; only we have the power to change the world and while the life-size models on my walls are aesthetically appealing, they don’t really make my bedroom a better place. It’s just polish for a reality we can never truly escape.”
Deron nodded, pretended to listen. It was the only way to respond when Sebo started babbling in his rapid legato. Only after he had put down the final period was the listener able to extract any meaning from the long string of syllables. He owed his smooth delivery and intimidating verbosity to Dahlstrom Academy, which he attended until the middle of seventh grade when, as he put it, the banality of systematic study became too overwhelming. Most of the time, he spoke like a normal person, but when he wasn’t concentrating, he slipped back into the lofty prose as if it were the rule instead of the exception.
“This brings up several good questions,” continued Sebo, his tone more suitable for a large crowd than an audience of one. “First, how can we ever trust what our eyes are telling us? They’re just biological entities after all, no more equipped to understand the world than a turnip.”
At that, Sebo’s eyes began to cycle through the primary colors. It was something he had learned to do when he was younger, practicing repeatedly until it was second nature. Deron found it entertaining, especially when they grew stale, usually when Sebo got lost in simultaneous speech and thought.
“Of course, there’re some exceptions. Pornographic images, for one, when strewn across all the lockers at once are artificial, but they elicit very real emotional reactions.”
“You saw that, huh?”
Sebo pulled out his palette and reconciled the now famous shop with a simple touch of his finger. He tilted it towards Deron. “Impressive work,” he said, pointing to the crisscrossing of arms between Russo and Jalay. “You can’t even see the shop marks.” His face grew serious, darkened just a little around the eyes, which had turned an impassive brown. “Why do I get the feeling you didn’t do this?”
“You don’t know that.” Deron looked away, pretended to be interested in a pair of girls walking towards the far end of the plaza near the street. They were underdressed for the weather, at least as far as short skirts and wind gusts were concerned. When he looked back, Sebo was still staring him down.
“Well, first, you don’t have the talent, we both know that. Second, even if you could, you
“And in this case, he was leering at you. A man his age ogling a girl like you... It’s unseemly.”
“So you’re saying he deserves whatever he gets?”
“Everyone deserves something.”
Ilya snorted. “Deep,” she observed.
Rosalia nodded. The clock in the corner of her palette was still ticking, inching closer to the top of the hour. Soon, the bell would ring and students would pour into the hallways. Some of them would end up at their lockers only to find Rosalia’s creation staring back at them. Then the laughter would start, growing from a mild chuckle to a thunderous roar. Heads would turn, seek out Russo and Jalay as they walked the halls with undeserved confidence. The pointing. The laughing.
The crumbling of Russo’s tough veneer would be magnificent.
“Thanks for your help,” said Rosalia, without looking up.
“It was fun,” Ilya admitted, her voice pensive. She made a noise like she wanted to say something else, but decided against it. Then, giggling, “He’s staring at me.”
“No.” Rosalia put her hand to her face to hide her smile. “He’s staring at both of us.”
Ilya spoke in a Russian accent, “Dirty old man.”
“Da,” agreed Rosalia.
7 - Deron
“Things going the way they are and the world moving the way it does, it’s any wonder we’re stuck here trying to understand the big picture when in fact, there is no picture at all, just a veneer, a model of the world the way they want us to see it. Except there is no they, only us; only we have the power to change the world and while the life-size models on my walls are aesthetically appealing, they don’t really make my bedroom a better place. It’s just polish for a reality we can never truly escape.”
Deron nodded, pretended to listen. It was the only way to respond when Sebo started babbling in his rapid legato. Only after he had put down the final period was the listener able to extract any meaning from the long string of syllables. He owed his smooth delivery and intimidating verbosity to Dahlstrom Academy, which he attended until the middle of seventh grade when, as he put it, the banality of systematic study became too overwhelming. Most of the time, he spoke like a normal person, but when he wasn’t concentrating, he slipped back into the lofty prose as if it were the rule instead of the exception.
“This brings up several good questions,” continued Sebo, his tone more suitable for a large crowd than an audience of one. “First, how can we ever trust what our eyes are telling us? They’re just biological entities after all, no more equipped to understand the world than a turnip.”
At that, Sebo’s eyes began to cycle through the primary colors. It was something he had learned to do when he was younger, practicing repeatedly until it was second nature. Deron found it entertaining, especially when they grew stale, usually when Sebo got lost in simultaneous speech and thought.
“Of course, there’re some exceptions. Pornographic images, for one, when strewn across all the lockers at once are artificial, but they elicit very real emotional reactions.”
“You saw that, huh?”
Sebo pulled out his palette and reconciled the now famous shop with a simple touch of his finger. He tilted it towards Deron. “Impressive work,” he said, pointing to the crisscrossing of arms between Russo and Jalay. “You can’t even see the shop marks.” His face grew serious, darkened just a little around the eyes, which had turned an impassive brown. “Why do I get the feeling you didn’t do this?”
“You don’t know that.” Deron looked away, pretended to be interested in a pair of girls walking towards the far end of the plaza near the street. They were underdressed for the weather, at least as far as short skirts and wind gusts were concerned. When he looked back, Sebo was still staring him down.
“Well, first, you don’t have the talent, we both know that. Second, even if you could, you
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