Chapter 9 – Back to School (2)

by inkadmin

By Thursday, she was down to a 5:30-minute mile for her personal best, which was an insane statistic for a short, adolescent Caucasian female. Her figure had also picked up definition, which made her both happy and proud, because, finally, her Eppie was no longer obviously underweight, and where her ribs had been visible, obliques were now visible.

At the school gym, which was thankfully empty for the week, she put another theory to the test.

How much could a [Strength] of 20 bench press?

The answer was “at least her own bodyweight,” which was about 120 pounds, give or take a few massive meals. She could easily lift herself, perform pull-ups, and exercise a level of agility that was surprising for the uninitiated. Some of her moves were so effortless that she was seriously considering re-taking rock climbing as a hobby to further perfect her physical abilities.

The concrete outcome of her theory put Eppie at ease.

With a [System] like hers, her body was currency.

[Athleticism] was key to basic survival, like fighting off potential assailants or fleeing from danger. [Comeliness] and [Charisma] were key to her social capital, used to disarm foes, entice allies, and feign innocence.

After three meals in three places to remain inconspicuous, she finally made it to her reading session in the quad, where she saw the girl.

The dancer who had fled.

This time, she did not approach like a bull elephant.

Instead, she moved quietly around the quad, watching the gazelle girl nervously scan her surroundings, clearly waiting for someone. Like a leopard, she leveraged her newfound agility to stalk her prey, moving closer and closer while keeping to the girl’s blind spot.

Twenty meters.

Ten meters.

Five.

“HELLO!” She appeared only a few feet away, throwing herself into the girl’s field of vision.

The girl gasped, then choked on her own saliva.

Between her uncontrollable fits, Eppie saw a light-skinned African-American teenager who looked older than she had expected. While the girl came to terms with her next breath, she noted her second-hand tights, the all-black, off-shoulder tee, and her worn Reeboks. On the floor beside them was a crumbled rucksack that looked like military surplus. This was a Gen-Ed student, one of the many who had received their positions through talent.

“Sorry…” Eppie rubbed the girl’s back until she was sensible. When her victim looked up, however, her oval, molten-caramel eyes were almost popping out of her skull. “So er… Surprised to see me?”

The girl’s mouth moved, but no words escaped.

To prevent her skittish gazelle from escaping, Eppie took up the rucksack. There was a nametag attached.

Simone Goode. The tag read. Junior. Musical Theatre.

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Eppie made sure not to smile too invitingly. “Is it so impossible that I should return?”

“You… you fell,” Simone mumbled, then covered her mouth.

“Well, they stitched me back together with glue, unlike Humpty Dumpty.” Eppie did a little twirl. “See? No scars either. I guess it wasn’t that bad.”

“It was four storeys…”

“Five, actually, now that I am here. Look, you can see the mezzo from here, it’s a two-storey ceiling.” She pointed toward the main school building. “But I am here now, so it doesn’t matter. Did anyone get into trouble? I almost died, you know.”

“T-trouble?” The gazelle girl stumbled over every word as her complexion continued to pale. “I… I need to go.”

She tugged on her bag.

The bag might as well be attached to a pole.

“Simone.” Eppie smiled as disarmingly as possible. “We’re friends, right?”

“Yes? Yes!” The girl was pulling harder now, but obviously terrified of destroying what little possessions she had. “Eppie, can you let go of my bag?”

“Of course, in a minute.” She stepped forward while Simone backpedalled. “My memory’s super fuzzy at the moment, Simone. I need a friend to rekindle some of it, lest I remember the wrong thing and end up speaking to the wrong people. Could you give me an account? Of what happened that night when I… lost my footing?”

In blind terror, the girl jerked her bag back, tearing it from Eppie’s fingers. A seam ripped, but Simone was now beyond caring. Like fleeing an unwrapped leper, her “friend” tripped over herself to get away from the passively smiling Eppie, hobbling across the concrete.

The commotion was enough to direct a dozen stares her way, some curious, some unfriendly, but mostly curiosity. A few people even had their phones out.

The girl’s tag, her [Memorisation] recalled, read 151 West 101, Broadway, Manchester, a whole damned hour and a half away by public transit.

In her old life, she had never ventured into the south of LA. Her haunt ranged from the Pacific Palisades to Santa Monica, then across the boulevard to the art scenes, then over the mountains into Studio City and North Hollywood.

Broadway Manchester had a reputation, the type that Fox and Friends would remark to its rural viewers as having “deep poverty” and “not for beginners,” as a result of “community roots.” Her present world was better in many ways, but from what she had seen thus far, inequity remained a staple of the American Dream.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

But maybe… just maybe, there was [Causality] to be tapped. Perhaps, through the easing of life’s more predictable miseries, she could glean the truth from her former “friend”.

For now, for her production of the Eppie Fontaine whodunnit, she would have to wait for the rest of the ensemble cast to be announced.