Projection (Ch. 1)

I find myself anxiously looking at the clock, like it’s 10 a.m. on a Sunday service. I can almost hear Mage Thompson: “The rhythm of the world beats to just one drum.” His sermons used to stretch endlessly, offering me a chance to escape. If only he knew how right he truly was.

I miss it. I miss my world. I miss fitting in—sometimes I can still see it, almost touch it. But I know… not yet.

I hate waiting. The clock’s hands seem to slow, moving in an almost mocking bachata. Time, as always, refuses to cooperate, dragging me further into the monotony of now.

The bass of the man’s voice at the front of the lecture hall blends with my heartbeat, both drowned out in the dull haze of anticipation.

“…You will partner up now.”

The words cut through the fog.

Perfect. I’m partnering with Amaranth this semester. That saves me from getting myself kicked out of another class just to reach her.

But honestly? She’s valedictorian. Me? I’m tired of sounding stupid here.

She doesn’t belong in this suffocating place, and neither do I.

“What if we just did astral projection?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. It rolls off my lips nervously, weak. I know if she’s going to take me seriously, I’ll have to back it up with something more, so I clear my throat, draw in a breath, and follow with thunderous resolve:

“And mental illness.”

Amaranth tilts her head, skepticism weighing heavy in her voice. “Like lucid dreaming?”

Her eyes are fixed on me, sharp and calculating. I realize too late how stupid I probably sound.

Great. Astral projection is considered religion, and religion is considered criminal now, after Intellectualism took hold. What a great fucking idea! Why couldn’t I have gone with the food coloring experiment Bryan is doing?

I glance over to Bryan and Jesse. Bryan flips me off, smirking as if he knows I’m floundering. Focus.

I’ve been in class with Amaranth for three months now, and this is the first chance I’ve had to speak with her. Well, not really the first chance, but being paired as project partners feels like a sign from the Divine.

If the Divine still exists.

Shaman says self-control is the most important thing. Without it, our worlds disintegrate. I need to learn quickly if we’re going to have any chance of survival.

“Miss Evans… Mister Oleyl!”

The sharpness of my name used as a weapon cuts through my thoughts. The rough, militant voice delivering the blow is even worse.

Seven feet tall and built like a willow, Dr. May crouches low, close enough for me to smell garlic and pepperoni from last night’s sad excuse for dinner.

“Have we chosen a topic of interest for our biology projects?” he asks, his voice dripping with disdain. “Or do I need to assign new partners?”

I freeze, my tongue stuck somewhere between panic and indignation.

Amaranth speaks up before I can stammer out a reply.

“Astral projection,” she says confidently, flashing me a smile, “and schizophrenia. We’re going to assess fMRI scans of patients at Angele Asylum who were admitted for cases of Grand Delusion, Schizophrenic Episodes, and Religious Experiences.”

Her voice is calm, measured. Not a trace of hesitation.

Dr. May straightens to his full height, towering over us like a shadow. “You do realize you mean to do a project on the criminally insane, Miss Evans?”

“Yes,” she says, unflinching. “But we’ll only be studying brain scans. I intern there after school with Ms. Glitz. She’s taught me how to read these scans in-depth. We won’t actually be dealing with the—” She hesitates. “The criminally insane.”

Dr. May turns his lifeless gaze to me, though I know he’s still addressing her. “Miss Evans, please let me know if you have any issues in completing this project.”

His tone makes it clear he expects trouble.

This time, determination settles on her face. “New challenges?” she asks, letting out an uneasy laugh.

Dr. May releases what I think might be a chuckle. “Yes, new challenges indeed.” He strides back to the front of the room.

Amaranth turns her large brown eyes on me, and I can’t look away.

“He’ll warm up once he sees you’re not here to make trouble,” she says softly. Her voice soothes some of the tension. “You know you’re the first new person to show up here in years…” She hesitates, as if weighing whether to continue.

“Are they,” I pause, feeling a knot tighten in my chest, “dead?”

Her expression turns somber. “They’re locked up in Angele Asylum for ‘schizophrenic episodes.’”

“Your parents are criminally insane?”

“Since I was about eight.”

I must look horrified because she quickly adds, “Pop Pop always says their ‘magination’ got the better of them.”

The movement of students rushing to leave signals the end of class, but I have so many more questions.

Before I can speak, Amaranth slides a folded piece of paper across the desk.

An address and a string of numbers.

“Come once the sun goes down,” she says, her smile the purest thing I’ve ever known.

Before I can say goodbye, she’s gone, darting toward a group of students who stand in the hallway, casting quick glances in my direction.

I clutch the paper, my heart pounding.

“Oh, Amaranth Evans,” I whisper to myself, “who the hell are you?”