Eleven

And so it started. As things turned out, Bane had come to us from the Literary Magazine of the Nazi Regime—you had to go through an audition of sorts to get in and there was no general staff. Every submission was decided upon by the editor-in-chief, with occasional assistance from literary and art editors.

It took me a while to drill into him that we did, on occasion, have fun with Memorandum. Once he understood this (for a while he seemed to think I was playing a joke on him) he took it up with great vigor, although there was a tense moment at the first meeting when someone called out, upon Bane’s introducing himself, “Who the hell are you? Where’s Deirdre?”

Luckily, though, I had been off to the side, and all it had taken was a finger to my lips for the speaker to fall silent. Maybe Bane did need me in that respect; I may not have spoken more than two words to any of them, but the staff knew that I knew what I was doing. It was really nice to have them indignant on my behalf.

My visits to Bane’s house were frequent and lengthy; to my vast disappointment, neither of our guardians seemed to mind. Mrs. Morrison steadfastly asked me to stay for dinner every time she saw me, and seemed truly sorry each time I declined (which was every time). In a similar way, Aunt Mo seemed infinitely pleased that I spent so much time with Bane, and told me often to invite him for dinner. She was elated that I was making friends at last. What she didn’t know, however, was that my interpersonal relationships were restricted to Bane and his sisters, and that we weren’t friends.

It seemed, however, that I could never get away from him. He had chosen the seat behind me in both Poetry and Calc—seemingly only to annoy me (he was irritatingly fond of poking me with things and tugging my hair—an attempt to make me move, he admitted). After I had been putting up with his antics for nearly a month, a note flew over my shoulder during Calculus.

You do realize that we have exactly one week to put out a magazine, don’t you? it read in Bane’s scrawled hand that looked so appropriate when it was marking errors on poetry. Steel yourself, comrade.

I thought about this for a moment. Either Bane was on some serious mind-altering controlled substances, or he didn’t belong in AP Calc BC. It’s September twentieth, I wrote back. We have ten days. Which still isn’t a lot, but it’s a lot better than a week.

I dropped the note back over my shoulder when I was almost sure that Ms. Evened wasn’t looking. It wasn’t long before I received an answer. We have to get it out three days before the end of the month. That’s the rule we used to have, anyway. Don’t argue.

That’s silly, because it deprives us of three days. Luckily, you have me on your side, and I have personal experience in single-handedly producing an entire magazine in a week. Don’t lose hope just yet. It was easy to talk through notes. I might even go so far as to say it was fun.

You’re fun in notes. What I was saying, basically, is that you’re coming over today.

My sense of humor tingled (yes, I have one. Don’t hurt yourself). Maybe I have plans, I teased.

Oh, yeah? Like what? Need I remind you, brat, that you don’t actually like anyone? My supreme deducing skills had led me to quickly figure out that Bane only called me brat when he wasn’t actually angry with me. When he was really mad (which happened with probably an unhealthy frequency), he just used my name a lot.

I may have a date.

HA! What a jerk.

I’m insulted. Yet, for the good of the magazine, I will come.

I’m flattered. Really, really flattered.

I hate you.

You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.

I hid the note under my books. These moments, the moments when Bane clued me in to the fact that he could see right through me, scared me. It was only a matter of time before he knew too much. Any information he had could be used against me.