Harry Steinman - Little Deadly Things

“I guess so,” she nodded. They walked in silent fellowship towards the nearby diner. Ringer strained forward when she saw their destination, hindquarters shaking from the rapid movement of her tail. Jim led Eva inside to a pair of old-fashioned counter stools. At the base of one, there was a folded blanket with a well-worn depression and a layer of tan hair. Ringer curled up in the depression. The counterman gave Jim a fresh bowl of water for Ringer and served Jim and Eva’s sodas, then delivered a small plate of raw burger meat to the dog. Ringer emitted a quiet chuffing sound of approval. The cook was well-trained.

Jim and Eva sat in silence for several minutes. “That writing assignment was weird,” Jim said, at last. Eva did not reply. She thought about her life in Sofia, and the last time she had seen Gergana. Eva had kept the scarab brooch she’d never had a chance to give her sister. No, Eva thought, I’m not going to spend much time in that class. She reached her hand up and tentatively, touched Jim’s shoulder. He turned to her and offered a neutral smile. Her hand fell back to the counter. Jim reached over and squeezed her hand.

“Friends,” he said, with a smile as genuine as Coombs, and squeezed her hand again.

The din was gone, the Table was silent. Space opened up at the Table to admit a new member. Jim stood at its head. He exerted a powerful influence, calming the others. In his presence, Eva felt a respite from the din.

Marta, Eva, and the Hidden Scholar Foundation car converged at the school’s front steps. Marta had a faraway look and Eva asked, “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Sort of,” Marta said.

“What happened?” asked Eva.

“I took the writing assignment seriously. It brought back some memories.”

Eva rolled her eyes. “So, what, you’re better than me?”

“Why would you say that, Eva?” Marta sounded surprised.

Eva mimicked her classmate, her voice taking on the singsong, dreamy quality of Marta’s reply, “I took the writing assignment seriously. Look, what nobody seems to understand is that I don’t need stories. I am science,” she said, a bit of her old accent spilling back into her speech, a clue to her sudden anger. Eva paused, “So, what did you write about so…seriously?”

Marta stared at Eva before she replied. “I wrote about my parents.” She hesitated a few moments and then added quietly, “My mom died a few months ago. She was sick and my dad didn’t take it well. I ended up spending the summer with my grandmother. Maybe I have seen a ghost.”

Her voice was both testy and sorrowful. Eva looked at her and then reached out and touched Marta’s forearm. Today, the gesture was one of solidarity. In time, the gesture would be as much a warning as a cobra’s hiss “Here’s the Foundation driver,” she said.

They got into the car. Marta smiled at the driver, leaned back in her seat, and closed her eyes. It had been a long day. Pain etched a grimace on her face. Eva looked out the window and saw Jim and Ringer.

“Hey, driver,” she said. “Pull over. I want to give our friend a ride.”

“Sorry, miss, I can only take the students from the Foundation.”

“Well, today you can make an exception.”

“Sorry, miss,” the driver repeated.

Eva threw her door open, forcing the car to stop.

“Miss, please close the door.”

Eva ignored the driver and called out to Jim. “Yo, Ecco. You want a ride? The driver says he would be delighted to give you a lift.” She drew out the word, looked at the driver, and arranged her mouth into the approximate shape of a smile. Her eyes were hard. She hopped into the front seat, startling the driver, and said, in a near whisper, “Listen. We owe this kid. Somebody tried to jump us this morning and he stopped them. So, just for today, you’re going to find a little different route home. Tell your boss there was a detour, something. Help me and one day I’ll help you.” Then she opened the front passenger door and leaned out again. “Otherwise I drop to the pavement and say that you took off while I was getting in the car.”

The driver frowned as if trying to decide which held more danger: her threat or her smile. He pulled over.

“Jim,” Eva called. “Get in. We’ll give you a ride.”

Jim and Ringer got in the car. The driver glared at Eva. She held his gaze until he looked away. Jim looked puzzled, then concerned. A flash lit Eva’s eyes. Then they turned opaque, and evicted any attempt to see into her soul. That territory was off-limits.

The riders sat without speaking. Eva was sphinx-like, wrapped in stony silence. The driver kept his eyes fixed ahead. Marta was reengaged in her reverie, eyes closed. Ringer sniffed, hunting for food, and then settled on Jim’s lap. She looked back and forth among the friends, lost in their own worlds.

Jim and Marta and Eva were inseparable during their freshman year at Los Pobladores. The next year Eva and Marta spent less time together, and Jim divided his time equally between his two friends. As a third year began, he spent more of his time with Marta.

Jim Ecco was as skittish as a wren the day that Marta kissed him. When people stood close to him he was anxious, and when Marta moved into his intimate space to embrace him, he was unsettled. His repertoire of responses to members of the two-legged set had been limited to fight, flight, or wary distance, and the movement from impersonal space into a conjoined embrace was a slow journey.

Jim knew that Marta was willing—her pupils widened slightly, she positioned herself to face him squarely, open and inviting. Her head tilted back a fraction, inviting contact. He thought, It’s taken me two years to kiss her, a moment he’d wanted since meeting her.

Truth be told, she kissed him.

They had met after school on a warm day in early spring. A nearby park offered a few acres of green grass and a hedge of jasmine bushes. The jasmine lent an intoxicating scent and privacy. They’d decided to work together on a homework assignment. Marta had brought a blanket and a small lunch. They’d arranged the blanket and Marta set out a variety of fruits and cheeses, a small loaf of sourdough bread and sparkling water. She’d packed small plates, indistinguishable from bone china, but unbreakable, and two glasses. The place settings were compressible nanoplastics, shape-shifting materials that could organize and reorganize at a molecular level. The glasses collapsed into discs the width of a drinking glass but as thin as a coaster. Gentle pressure on the circumference of the plates allowed them to collapse into equally small discs so that the table settings occupied less space in Marta’s bag than a pack of cards.

“You think of everything,” Jim said as he took in the small feast.

“I wanted us to have a nice time. Hunger is distracting, don’t you think?”

Her words were matter-of-fact, but he heard the warm harmonics of affection in her voice. He was alert, senses aroused. She spoke with a quiet, measured cadence, almost hypnotic, and Jim had to lean in to hear her. As he leaned in, Marta closed the distance between them, an inch, and her movement drew him closer still. Marta’s lips parted and she moistened them with the tip of her tongue.

Jim heard blood pound in his ears. His heart sped and every capillary in his body dilated. He felt a flash of warmth like a corona of radiant sunlight. The heat was real but it was all generated from within. Without thinking—finally, without thinking!—Jim closed the tiny gap between them and touched his lips to Marta’s.