As summer drew in, everyone was always determined to show off their athletic prowess to prove their absolute dedication and that they would not be slack during the holidays. Elliot was so looking forward to being slack over the holidays. He was not going to move a muscle, and he was going to read near a radiator, and he would not have to see Serene’s relief that the situation was resolved, and he would not almost get anyone killed. He would not have to try so hard because his father would not notice anything he did, and perhaps he would finally stop feeling cold.
It was odd to think like this. He had never wanted to go back before.
He could not help thinking of Peter’s father, who could never go back.
They had a day of contests, showing off what they had learned. Serene and Luke won basically everything, as they usually did. Elliot clapped and cheered for every win of Serene’s, as he always had and always would. There were always so many people watching who would not applaud an elf, or who did not like to see a woman win. Everybody always clapped long and hard for Luke, so Elliot felt there was absolutely no need to join in. When it was Luke’s turn he made sure to always be buried in his book and not to let anyone catch him when he looked up.
Commander Woodsinger even handed out little prizes to encourage morale, which Commander Rayburn would never have thought of doing. Elliot was amused to see the absolute dismay on Dale Wavechaser’s face when given the third prize of a book.
They had an impromptu celebration that night, lighting bonfires and sitting around on log benches chattering about their summer plans.
Luke and Serene were on the bench opposite, talking quietly with their heads bowed together. Elliot was staring into the bonfire when he was startled by Dale appearing behind him and clearing his throat. Elliot turned his head and looked behind him.
“Hey,” said Dale. “It’s your birthday over the summer, right?”
“Yes?” said Elliot, puzzled, but remembering he had to stay in good with Dale and trying to be polite.
“Rotten to have a birthday over the summer with no one around,” said Dale, waving the book vaguely over Elliot’s shoulder. “Fancy this as an early birthday present? Believe me, I don’t want it.”
Elliot actually felt so confused he was almost disoriented. It was a confused gratitude, so he said the right stuff, but he almost stammered: “Y—yeah, thanks, Dale,” and he actually twisted around, put his arm around Dale’s neck and kissed him on the cheek. As if he were four years old, how embarrassing, but that was how he felt: reduced to being a kid, and with even less idea of how to behave than usual.
Dale looked surprised but pleased. “Glad you like it,” he said, and with a friendly nod to Luke and Serene, he jogged off back to his friends.
“That’s weird: I hardly know him,” Elliot announced, since Luke—who everybody liked—would not understand that Elliot had to make an effort to persuade people to put up with him, and it would be humiliating to explain.
“What a kind action,” said Serene, and jostled Luke in a comradely way. “A sweet temper and good looks: all anyone could look for in a paramor.”
“He could get the wrong idea,” Luke said in a hard voice. Elliot looked up from his book to see Luke glaring.
It was lucky that snarking at Luke was habit by now: Elliot remembered a line from a book he’d read once, that habit was second nature, and nature stronger than the first. It was a comfort, to have a natural expression rather than one he had to pin on.
He raised his eyebrows and smirked. “You don’t have to be jealous. I’m not going to steal your boyfriend. I told you, I barely know him.”
“If you want a book . . .” said Luke.
Elliot hunched his shoulders. “I’ve got one,” he snapped. He smoothed a hand over the leather ridges of the spine, the uneven cover, and then opened it. It was cheap paper, for a book in the Borderlands where books were rarer and more precious. It was also a history book, and from the very first page Elliot could see that the so-called history was biased and inaccurate. He kept reading.
Nobody had ever given him a birthday present before.
Elliot avoided Myra for the few weeks until the end of the year. She might or might not be sympathetic, and he did not know which would be worse. It took enough energy to pretend for Serene and Luke. Elliot avoided most people. Elliot still had to teach his thirteen-year-olds, though. It was during one of his lessons that he broke for the only time.
He stopped in the middle of talking about the fauna of this new world, and said: “I can’t help but wonder . . . why I’m not teaching any of you anything about advanced mathematics.”
All their little faces looked blank. Except for Cyril Leigh, who was a bit of a delicate plant, and who already looked alarmed.
“Or German or French or Japanese or any of the languages that might be useful in the real world. You’re not going to have evidence you completed school. You definitely won’t be able to attend universities. And of course you not only won’t learn anything about coding or computer programs, but you will end up hopelessly behind on and possibly alarmed by technology.”
There was something savage in Elliot’s voice. Even he could hear it. Cyril was swaying.
“Has it ever occurred to you all that the books about magical worlds in our world might be lures? Shiny toys dangled in front of children so we go ooooh, mermaids, oooh, unicorns, oooh, harpies—”
“Nobody goes ‘oooh, harpies,’” said Miriam Price. “Harpies kill you.”
“Unicorns are no picnic either, but that’s not my point,” Elliot snapped. “We’re shown all this stuff we were trained to want, shown the great adventure, and we jump at it like the dazzled fools we are. We’re too young to know any better, to know that we won’t triumph and be heroes, that we won’t be returned to the other world as if no time had passed, that the lies in the stories aren’t about mermaids or unicorns or harpies—the lies are about us. The lies are that we might be good enough, and we might get out. We could fail at everything we try to do here, and we will never be able to go back home. Even if we wanted to.”
A silence had descended on the little group. Nobody seemed inclined to make any further helpful points about harpies.
“Look at you,” Elliot said softly. “How am I supposed to teach you? We’re all in a glittering trap, and too stupid to even realize it.”
Cyril wavered and then burst into tears, the sound shattering the scared hush, and then as if on cue Luke’s voice came from the door.
“What’s a trap? Why is a kid crying?”
“Pull yourself together, Cyril!” Elliot snapped.
Luke strode into the room and went to Cyril’s desk. He put an arm around him, sweet and concerned. Cyril immediately flung his arms around Luke’s neck and wept into his shoulder. All the other students leaned toward Luke, like plants yearning in the direction of the sun.
Elliot was getting a headache. “Okay,” he said. “Class dismissed. I mean it. Get out!”
They did leave, even though they seemed loath to leave Luke with an obvious madman. Luke did not seem especially concerned for his own safety. He leaned back in the chair Cyril had been sitting in and watched Elliot with a frown on his face.
“I thought I’d get you for your training, since we don’t want you getting soft over the summer—”