Centaur's Anxiety: Chapter 2 Rewrite (End)

The events between the afternoon and beginning of my trek happened in a blur. The dollar signs in Noriko's eyes. All of us watching the video she took. Agreeing to go separately. Dropping things off at home. Informing mother I would be away for dinner.

The trill of my phone broke my haze. Anna called with directions from her phone's GPS application. She snickers throughout the call and refuses to tell me exactly where the address leads to. This whole thing's a joke to her, a joke to the club, a joke to everyone but me. My 'thank you' to her is strained and I nearly crush my phone hanging up.

A few hesitant minutes later, I'm dragging my hooves through Anna's directions, bringing me into what is called 'a biped living zone.' These suburban areas are designated for two-footed species that didn't require special facilities. This basically means that such neighbourhoods are mostly inhabited by humans with a smattering of elves, cyclops, and the like; any species that resembled humans with slightly different physical traits. Such areas are common sights in any city where monsters and humans coexisted, but all have little variations depending on the local zoning laws. The address I was given lay in the city's outskirts however, blocks of overgrown and unsold lots separate the 'biped living zone' from the nearest houses and stores.

Who would come looking for my corpse here? No one.

That thought walks alongside me, almost pushing me over the edge. Every clip of my hooves made me want to find my friends. Every clop wanted me to tell them we could come back later with a carton of eggs or tomatoes to throw from a safe distance. Yet for all my hysteria, I have come so far, and still both curious and unwilling to lose more face. My embarrassment with the mole and range incidents went to war with any thoughts of retreat I had. When he blew up back at the range, it had not felt like a victory at all.

I sighed as my wavering body moved forward and my mind tumbled like laundry. Absently fondling that terrifying slip of torn paper in my pocket I-don't-know-how-long-later realigned the two... and when I finally focus forward, my hooves freeze mid-step. With one hoof half-bent in the air and jaw dropped, all my fears and worries were trampled for just one moment at the sight of THAT house.

I have to be sure EVERYTHING is correct; gallop to read the street signs, glance at the paper, squint from the sidewalk to look at the house number; rush back and forth triple-checking them all and the whole lot matches up. My disbelief can't possibly be stretched any further. Everyone at school thinks he has zero connections in politics, business, arts, all the rest- so how and why is he at this kind of building? What could be inside those walls? Does he live here or work here?

One of the foreign embassies, I forget which- It was like someone downsized it. Columned entrance way, double doors large enough to fit a centaur or arachne without them needing to lower their head, two stories high, and made almost entirely of brick and white stone. All in all, the house(?) is very official looking and almost ominous were it not for the lack of fences around it and moss overtaking the otherwise neat lawn.

Approaching and hitting the doorbell becomes a physical struggle. My mind desires to move, but my body stays rooted at the sidewalk. For a few minutes there is only the sound of my hooves pawing the ground and the feeling of my fingers fidgeting around one another. Suddenly, Anna's and Ezra's voices reach my ears, I can't let them see me like this! Hit the doorbell- get inside- don't look like an idiot- Brave, brave, brave, totally brave! Oh for- my fingers are still interlocked. I just hit a doorbell lifting both my arms and using my left knuckles.

Nearly flinging my arms away from each other, I will myself to calm down, muttering encouragement under my breath until my left hand finally rests steady on my hip and my right straightens out lying against my side. My pose is the very image of cold confidence, bolstered by the thought of my fellow club members backing me up. As the door opens, I'm thankful for being able to compose myself in time, but almost raise an eyebrow at my second surprise of the night: a kind smile.

I look down at 'Shortstuff' with (hopefully) cold eyes, which were met with that warm almost image breaking expression. Oven mitts under his left armpit and an apron over his clothes further draw my attention, as does his polite greeting and bewilderment at my appearance, half-expecting I wouldn't show.

With rapid waves with his free right arm and a cheery tone of voice, he opens both doors, beckoning me to “Come in! Come in! It's cold out there.”

No going back now, so I enter with reluctance, intent on keeping him in sight at all times. If he noticed my too slow steps, he didn't show it, asking if I wanted water or tea and patiently waiting for a response as he closes and locks the only exit I have seen so far. “Water.”

He moves past me with a small, “Alrighty,” heading to the back of the room, or rather the house. His face doesn't match his walk however. It is unsteady, almost zigzagging footwork. Whatever. I should move forward and ensure he doesn't spike my drink. Onward to- Who's there?! In the corner of my eyes, there is a face. I whip my head to face 'Shortstuff's' accomplice, but see only a wooden mask. Wait, a mask? What's that next to it? And that... And that and that and that-

I feel my head tilt upwards almost involuntarily, my eyes roaming all over at the grandeur before me. Spinning around, my curiosity is alight, wondering if there is more.

Sprawling all over two stories of walls, almost completely obscuring the white paint, are articles including tribal masks adorned with thunderbird feathers, skulls of wild beasts, amazoness spears, masquerade ball masks made of dragon scales, framed yellowed texts, paintings of landscapes and people, staffs, shields of wood and metal, a sea bishop's tablet and hat, horns from every species that could have them, and so much more in all the colours of the rainbow.

This doesn't look like any serial killer's trophy gallery, and any worry related to that thought ends up trampled by my curiosity. I just want to know more about those walls and about how he was truly related to them.

Too many questions, not enough answers, and I don't know if he'll answer them.

'Shortstuff''s voice next to me brought me back from staring at the walls, calling me to take the glass of water I requested and to take a seat at the table. At his first word, my jaw clamps shut (didn't even notice it had dropped [did he?]) with an audible 'TOCK!' in response.

Reluctantly taking my eyes off the museum on the walls, I continue taking in the sights of his home as I walk.

The walls form a two story high empty space, like a hotel lobby or mansion foyer. Only one of them has any doors between the masks, maces, and otherwise, all evenly spaced and leading to who knows where. A spiral staircase near the entrance goes up to a balcony-like second floor with yet more doors. I only spare a second to wonder if they all extend into the same wing or singular rooms, but get sidetracked staring at the foreign objects again.

I refocus, looking down and seeing different coloured hardwood floors dividing the 'rooms' and many different chairs outfitted for various species are scattered around both the dining room table directly ahead of me and on the space in front of the fireplace to my left.

Suddenly there are scents of warmth, spices, and lemon; sights of small hills or pyramids of potatoes, rice, and feta cheese on salad. It all makes me salivate (just a little) as we sit down, reminding me that he's treating me to a meal. 'Shortstuff' neatly drops onto a four-legged high backed chair and I fold my legs onto a reinforced chaise.

After that came an awkward pause. Me doing my utmost to maintain an intimidating look and him fidgeting nervously but maintaining eye contact. I almost thought it was funny that we had suddenly swapped behaviours between me being outside and us sitting down. Nervous standing outside, 'confident' once inside; cheery on greeting, bashful upon sitting.

“Well,” he sighed, cracking the silence and leaning forward slightly, “Let's get started. Like I said before, I want to resolve this calmly. So. Why are you here?”

Straight to the point. My response should be in kind.

“I want answers.” I certainly wasn't leaving without them. “You make me curious.”

“HA!” His sharp one-note laugh makes me jump a bit, “Sure!” He says through a smile, “Back and forth then, an eye for an eye.”

That was some phrasing he chose, it makes me think of white collar murderers again, a thought I push down quickly enough.

Okay, deep breath. Now speak, “You... exploded this afternoon, but invited me to parley over dinner while still yelling. Explain that.”

His face suddenly drops its nervous expression and becomes the stone our school is so familiar with. Breaking all eye contact and leaning back in his chair, he started staring at the wall. I waited.

“... ... No one at school listens to me. I've got no friends, no support from the teachers, you know all this already. So I vented on you. You know this already.”

His nervous words and repetition belie his neutral face, which is slowly shifting back to staring straight into my eyes.

“You're the first person to ever just sit there and listen. I know it sounds ludicrous, but somewhere around the middle of my ranting, I realized that. The thought actually calmed me down inside, but at the same time, I just wanted to keep on going, keep on venting, so I did.”

His lips wobbled, “I- I started feeling grateful to you.”

And then only one word started flashing in my head: stalker.

“I saw an opportunity to get just about everything off my chest and took it, got confused near the end, wanted to apologize, to repay, thought of food improving people's moods, thought of me cooking, and I just went from there."

Kelly's voice enters my head, yelling 'Get out of here, stalker!' at some voyeur we chased off at the club months ago. 'Get out of here, stalker!' over and over.

“Aaaaand that sounded a lot less creepy in my head- whowantsfooditsgettingcold.” His last words come out through clenched teeth and a strained smile. Twitching from his left eye further creeped me out. I sat passively throughout his entire confession, processing his admission plus trying to concoct a plan to get out.

His teeth part as he tries to keep explaining, now hugging himself as if shivering and rotating his right hand with each point, “Look, I'm sorry for the punch, for the threat, for everything. I just wanted to unwind with archerybeforeIbroke.ThenIbro-”

Prrrruuuuuu Prrrruuuuuuu, that blissful noise makes him stop dead. “One moment please,” An automatic reaction thrown at him before answering my phone, grateful to get away from his awkward manner. I barely hear him squeak out, “Pardon me then,” and the creak of his chair.

“Hello?”

“I seeeeee youuuuuu.”

A flicker of surprise crosses my face upon hearing the lizardgirl.

“Excuse me?” President Ezra wants to break the window doesn't she? I look over my shoulder on reflex, quickly spotting her entire head at the bottom of a front window with a far too excited look on her face.

“I'm in position! Have you ingested the poisoned food yet? Should I dive in now?”

President Ezra's voice is shaking a bit, and if I could see better from my seat, I'm sure I could have confirmed her trembling with anticipation at re-enacting a scene out of one of those action films she loves so much. I remain silent, unsure how to answer even as thoughts of being chained in a leaky basement dance in my brain. Panic sets in when I realize with a start that 'Shortstuff' probably saw her too and turn back around.

To my relief, he had not seen her, just coming back around from the kitchen with a steaming tray piled with what looks like steaming green cigars. His oven-mitt covered hands are shaking slightly, his head is hanging low, and he's generally being more nervous than me at that moment.

… He's more nervous than me. … Dammit.

He made preparations to more or less literally feed a horse for someone who could destroy him at any given time, tries to genuinely apologize after I heckled him to his breaking point, and I couldn't even give him the benefit of the doubt.

I sharply suck in a breath, finally giving President Ezra a response.

“President Ezra. I won't need to see you.”

A whiny “But-” comes out of the speaker as I cut her off and snap my phone closed. No need for more interruptions.

“Hey, 'Shortstuff.'”

I call out at as he places the tray down. His head whips up in surprise, both eyebrows raised.

“What's your real name?” I ask, taking several potatoes for starters. He gave the briefest of befuddled stares before breaking out a wide grin, waving a finger and saying teasingly, “I believe you already had your turn.”

An hour and a half passes by surprisingly pleasantly. Much of the time felt more like a fancy social or business meeting more than anything else, questions going back and forth, but without the need for secrecy or false smiles. I learned a lot.

His parents are anthropologists specializing in studying law systems, they travel often. He used to be with them as a child and helped them with their work, making friends with any local children and recording his experiences. This house is meant to be their 'base camp' for when they study this city in a few years time.  They picked the location, furniture, and design for their eventual home as a family years ago, but only he moved here after construction had finished in order to try and finish modern schooling. He adjusted quickly for the most part, being used to shifting between cultures. Best of all, he does not have an elaborate plan to gain vengeance on all of us.

His lack of hesitation in answering makes me think that he's used to socializing but not being alone or keeping secrets. Combine that with having zero friends locally and I couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for him.

When I asked why he stays in our school with all the abuse heaped on him, he responded with some melancholy that he wanted the best chance at entering the local university's cultural studies and diplomacy courses, which meant graduating from his 'personal hellhole.' Bitterness entered his voice when he added that this isn't his first time “studying abuse first-hand in foreign cultures.”

Oddly enough, when it came to his turns to ask me anything, the questions were not terribly personal, mostly pertaining to rumours he had heard about himself or simple questions like 'what's two plus two?' He claimed that he wanted to ease my discomfort and that if we do this again, he'll ask about me. It was kind of silly that he admitted it and even sillier that he continued afterwards, but I made a promise to myself at that moment that I would discredit some of the more ludicrous rumours about him.

At the end of it all, we'd managed to put away most everything on the table (Greek he said it was, all made by him at some point in the week [I had to insist that he not apologize for the lack of freshness]) and passed on dessert. I even got to take home a bag with the rest for later; something for the club to enjoy. Plus we dropped the back and forth near the end, just making small talk about the club and sorting through which parts of my heckling of his archery skills were true or false; otherwise about the items on the wall, each having a different story that he retold with grand enthusiasm, waving his arms and shifting expressions to represent the characters. I soaked up each and every little drama eagerly, both of us surprised at my absolute attention to the 'Tales from the Walls.'

About another half hour passes by before we realize it is nearly ten and I need to start getting home. “Do you require an escort?” He offers, rising at the same time as me.

Suddenly I'm surprised, embarrassed, and disbelieving all at once. Offers like this always stunk of insincerity to me, yet coming from him it almost feels real; from the heart. I still frowned (and felt blood coming up to my face) at the same time he started gibbering and rapidly twiddling his thumbs  from realizing how stupid that question was.

“Well, I guess you don't really need one or anyone in thiscityreally, 'ceptmaybehumanguyhs,butinothercultur-”

“No, no, that's alright,” shaking my head, hoping that my dark skin hid my blush well enough. “There seem to be a lot of dishes to wash anyway. I'll make it on my own.” And then it was my turn to feel stupid; there was no way I could have made myself sound more ungrateful than that moment.

“Uh, yeah, alright then, I'll see you out,” a meek response as he stepped up alongside my turning body to walk me to the front door. In that brief period of footfalls and clip-clopping, I felt guilt at the idea of letting this end on such awkwardness and ingratitude, but had no clue what to make him feel better.

We reach the front door in silence, but he freezes for a moment, hands on the lock and a knob. I'm almost not worried about something malicious happening at the last minute. Almost.

“Er, one more thing. Concerning the school-wide bet.”

Neither of us had even mentioned that up until now, but it's not surprising to hear he knows of it. How would he NOT hear given how long its been running, the size of the pot, plus being the subject of the bet?

“Do you want to win it?”

In a moment of disappointment, I consider the idea that asking about this was his original intention all along, sweet-talking and serving me for one night to try and reduce the stress in his life. “Why are you asking?” I let a cold tone enter my voice.

“I know how it sounds after all this, like buttering you up and whatnot so I can get Jeannie, Kelly, and the rest to probably lay off,” he realizes it too it seems, “but don't you need to dissociate yourself from me somehow? I was yelling pretty loudly this afternoon and you walked here, right?”

I clench my jaw tightly, trying not to let it hit the floor for the third time tonight while processing the fact that he was still thinking of my reputation, about me, after all he had done tonight.

“You made me apologize with a free meal, then I fake a smi-” I just stop listening, surprise gives way to dismay; it hurt to hear him speaking this way. Heedless of his eyes, I close mine, suddenly coming up with a plan in frustration. Snapping open, I grab his hand and drag him over to the yet uncleaned table.

Over his protests and questions, I silently shove the chaise out of the way, nearly toppling it. Anger, guilt, and gratitude churned in me, the result of the entire night. How dare he try to make zero benefit for himself? He may be fine with 'studying abuse first-hand' again, but I am most certainly not! I snatch out my pocketed phone and pull him next to me. Around his neck comes my arm as I position my camera function for a selfie, making sure to get both of us and the uncleaned table that was very clearly set for two in the frame.

He looks confused and almost terrified from my actions, unable to draw any kind of conclusion. That expression would definitely win me the bet, but it isn't what I want.

“Smile,” I turn to do so at him, “You've just made a new friend.”

He hesitates for a moment, staring at me in disbelief I think, before he just starts laughing. I'm not sure what from. All I know is that its infectious and the picture I take has us nearly doubling over with our joy, amusement, and relief plain for any to see. Well maybe not that last one, that's a little something just between the two of us.

We part at the door a moment later after collecting ourselves, but though our mouths are closed, both of us just can't stop smiling.

“May we speak again some time?” He asks casually, leaning against the door frame as I pass between the columns. I turn my happy face at him, “Of course, in the club, and you can tell me more about those walls.”

'Shortstuff' watches me go all the way to the corner. I give him one last wave, which he returns, before finally leaving the property completely.

Less then five minutes later and two blocks away, I recount the evening to a wide-eyed audience that I imagine will never stop teasing me in the future. I imagine the entire school won't stop teasing me, maybe even bullying me after this photo gets out, but I don't regret meeting 'Shortstuff,' not one bit. And I'll make sure those terrible rumours are put to rest for him.

Noriko deletes the video from this afternoon on my request, after assuring her that the money would still be split between the entire club. Ostet gets the takeaway bag, saying she'll bring it to the club tomorrow for everyone to sample. I also ask everyone that he should be welcome on the range, something they agree to quickly, curious about how much of my tale matched up with the man himself. After that we all finally split up, everyone getting a copy of that photo to prevent me from 'chickening out in the morning.' As if I have any intention to, I've got something else in mind.

I gallop out the door in the morning, calculating a route on my phone puts me on the path to directly intercepting 'Shortstuff' on the way to school. It works, much to our pleasure and his surprise. We talk and end up in our own little world as he reenacts 'Tales from the Walls' again to me.

EVERYONE sees us smiling and chatting when we approach the front of the school straight through a mob of confused, amused, shocked, photo-taking students like we're two movie stars at a film premiere. And we don't care.

It's the start of something new.