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Chapter 6 - Pop Culture

Chapter 6 - Pop Culture

Weaver

I showed up at the diner ahead of my brothers the next day. I was hoping to make a better impression today. I even brought my books as a pretext to talk with Selene. Maybe we could talk about the causes of the Great Depression in 1929 although the girl might not find it an interesting topic. I needed to think like a human teenager.

I looked at my other books.

Algebra II

The Great Gatsby

The Scarlet Letter

Would she be interested in numbers or literature? These were all American literature. Amy Tan perhaps?

I ran my hands through my hair and massaged my temples. I was not prepared to interact with a mortal beyond the dream realm. I didn't know how to converse with a mortal girl. The faeries had often done all the talking and the nymphs had not been interested in talking at all. They were pretty forward, too. Just like the mermaids, banshees and even the Valkyries. How easily they'd put out for a night terror for them or for someone they'd despised.

I had thought that was satisfactory. Now, I saw it was boring. Selene, this peculiar, unpredictable girl who'd shaken my illusions in wakefulness, was definitely not boring. But I couldn't go ahead and tell her what I saw, could I?

I was second-guessing myself and I hated it. I often didn't care what my actions led to.

My family was right. I was proud and reckless. Yet at the moment, I was fidgeting and sweating. Was this how it felt to have a panic attack?

I took a deep breath. I was a god. Well, maybe a former god working on earning my wings back, but a formidable, supernatural being nonetheless. I used to instill fear in men through nightmares. Surely, the Boogeyman could not be anxious about meeting a tiny mortal.

Tiny. I had to eliminate that word from my vocabulary.

I stacked the books and moved them to one side of the table. Then I stood up to get orange juice. That mildly bitter, mildly rich drink called espresso did something unpleasant to my nerves. I would stick to tea and orange juice. And water. Water was good as long as I wasn't choking on it.

I returned to my table and leaned back on the couch. I wore my shades and glanced at the door. I waited.

And waited.

And got another glass.

And waited.

And when I reached my second hour, I realized that Selene wasn't going to show up. I tried not to feel like a fool.

I gathered my books and stood up to go. I almost collided into the door when my brothers showed up at the same second I was about to step out. Both Markus and Francis were surprised to see me-I never went to the café unless they forced me to go with them-but I hurried to leave, coming up with a lame excuse about needing to review the Great Depression.

I knew Markus would be puzzled why I needed to review that dismal period when I, myself, had warned the president of the economic decline through a clever, informative night terror. I had infused enough fear in the president, inspiring him to declare, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself."

The people had thought the statesman was just talking about how the depression had reached the depths. They had no idea what brilliant horrors I had formed and bombarded the political leader with, driving him to extraordinary optimism and activism.

It was one of those occasions that our mother had been extremely upset with my interference. I had been grounded for a century. I then blamed the subsequent disaster, the mine explosion causing the death of 63 workers, on my suspension. Nyx had not appreciated the censure and extended my punishment by another century.

And now I was squirming, not knowing how to deal with a human girl. I had a feeling my mother was laughing at my predicament. I did not know how to deal with all these nauseating earthly emotions.

I mainly had a strong compulsion to return to the café the following day-something I'd never considered wasting my precious time on when I was still a powerful god.

**

I showed up the following day. This time I brought an album of a pop artist even though I personally favored alternative rock, heavy metal, new wave and Tchaikovsky. I had overheard a bunch of girls talking about a country chick who'd write songs about boys who broke her heart. I thought it was pathetic, but if I could use the songs as an icebreaker, I would.

Selene didn't show up again. Markus raised an eyebrow when he saw what I was holding. I gave him the disc and said, "Here. You can give it to a girlfriend."

The following day, I took out my phone and decided to subscribe for the first time to a social network. I chose the most popular one. I encoded my basic details and immediately went to the search field and keyed in Selene's name. I ended up with over a hundred results and I went through each-not that I was a stalker. I stopped checking when my vision started to get blurry and I accepted that it was possible Selene didn't have an account. She seemed incredibly shy in person.

Before I deleted my account, I searched for Markus'. Of course, my brother had over a thousand friends-most of them girls-and the same number of followers. Markus used the one with him leaning on his Mustang as a profile picture. It was grating. Not that I was envious.

No, I was not a frustrated, envious stalker.

And with that, I deleted my account.

I grabbed a few interesting things the following day. I left the house with a pack of cigarettes and a flask of cognac. Teenagers were eager to explore new things. I'd rather be the one to introduce these vices to Selene than some jock.

I had just locked my door and taken two steps when I turned around, opened the door, deposited the contraband on a table and grabbed a graphic novel instead.

The Sandman.

Hilarious. The character looked more like Hades than Morpheus. No wonder Markus hated the book so much.

As expected, Selene remained absent.

I brought a basketball the following day. Perhaps Selene was into sports.

I was already inside the diner when I started laughing loudly, startling the patrons. The girl was so short. I doubted she could throw the ball high enough for it to hit the rim of the basket or even the backboard.

"Fancy a game, brother?" Markus asked when they saw me. Both my brothers were there ahead of me. I knew they'd been watching me this week and found it intriguing that they didn't need to make an effort to get me out of the house lately.

"Sure," I answered. We headed to the nearest basketball court.

We played for half an hour. Markus won. But I managed to give him a few bruises and a bloody nose. No blood, no foul. I unleashed all the frustration I'd bottled up the entire week into the game. I succeeded removing the cocky grin from the dream god's face and that was most rewarding for me.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Markus shouted at my retreating back.

"Language, brother," I growled without turning. "You're becoming as crass as your floozies." Then I took off on my bike, leaving the basketball with my brothers.

"Well, he's missing someone terribly," Francis remarked while spinning the ball on his index finger.

Markus wiped the blood from his nose and replied, "You think?"