The Metropolis Series #2: Quinn Beyond Bounds
35. Up-Do

DEUS EX MACHINA AND I ate our dinners silently after rehearsals. It was quiet in the halls after six in the evening, and they surrounded me with an eeriness I couldn’t ignore. Even if the rice bowls Bree ordered were delicious, it was hard to concentrate on my meal; I kept staring out the window of the band room, waiting for danger to creep through the halls. Eventually, the tension was broken when Curtis held up two chicken legs and said:

“Hey. Look, guys, drumsticks!”

Everyone groaned.

Shortly after, they packed their instruments in swift motions. (Except Curtis, of course. An entire drum set wouldn’t fit in the bus ride to The Red Herring.) Rachael was the first out the door, her guitar case slung on her shoulder. It was around this time that I had already forgotten that Julio had been outside the band room the whole time, standing guard in case of some sort of catastrophe. I would be reminded of it again shortly—

For Rachael had bumped into Julio in the halls.

“Sorry,” said Rachael, brushing against his shoulder.

I thought that was the end of it; I thought that she would just walk away and proceed down the hall, but for one fateful moment, she looked into his eyes, and I was convinced that the world would explode.

Julio looked flustered at first, but as the moments of their encounter fleeted, he turned his expression into a scowl and trudged on.

And Rachael just stood there, confused if not taken aback by this stranger’s rude behavior. But the trance was broken by Philip bursting through the band room’s door. “C’mon, Rache,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“Right,” Rachael replied.

She glanced down the hall again, looking over her shoulder. But Julio was gone. She didn’t see him turn into a dove and fly out an open window.

I knew that it could potentially be dangerous for Julio and Rachael to meet again, but my curiosity on the matter couldn’t help but stir. What would happen if Rachael remembered who he was? Was it possible for them to get back together again?

Come to think of it, Bree and Philip had interactions with Julio despite him being one of the Author’s rejected characters, and nothing bad had happened to them. (Well, Philip did turn into a zombie shortly after, but I’m pretty sure that those two incidents weren’t connected.)

Deus Ex Machina left their bass and guitars in a compartment by St. John’s main entrance, shoving them into shelves next to the security guard on duty. They were briefly heading back to their dorms to get dressed for the gig. They didn’t agree on a concrete theme, just “something rugged” with the little time they had left. I looked down at the pants I had picked out, seeing that they were frayed at the ends. I suppose that was good enough—I wasn’t getting up on stage, anyway.

I made myself comfortable on the little bench next to the guard post, preparing to wait for Deus Ex Machina to return. However, as everyone made haste toward the dorms, Bree tapped on my shoulder and obscured my view with a small gift bag.

“Here,” she said.

I suppose she pulled it out of a compartment when she put away her bass guitar. But what could she have gotten me a gift for?

Bewildered, I clutched the small package in my hands. “Oh, what is it?”

“Just a little gift for celebrating your first gig as our manager.”

“Really? But I didn’t do much yet.”

“Oh, you’ve done loads today, Vasquez. With all those flyers you handed out, I’m sure our gig will gain some traction.”

I knew that I did that to redirect the student body away from Cassandra, but I still felt flustered over someone appreciating my efforts. It was a good feeling; I was all warm and fuzzy inside.

“Oh,” I muttered. “Well, thanks then…”

Why was I so awkward?

“Don’t mention it,” Bree said. She glanced at her watch. “I’d better get going. Put it on; hope it fits.”

“Hope it what?”

But Bree was already running down the school grounds, disappearing into the crowd that gathered there.

I stared at the gift bag in my hands. I thought that I might as well open it as I waited for the other band members. Out of the bag, I pulled out a black shirt with the words Deus Ex Machina scribbled elaborately around a skull, flowers blooming at its edges. At the back, the word manager streaked across where my shoulder blades would be. Strangely, the shirt looked like it would be my size—and it was custom made, too. When did Bree replace the time to have this made? But I guess the better question would be: How did she get my measurements?

With all questions aside, I decided to slip into the girl’s bathroom to try the shirt on, just for kicks. It fit me perfectly. I stepped out of the cubicle to see how I looked in it, and I was happy with what I saw.

The thing was, I didn’t feel so much like a Metropolitan, prancing around the city without a clue on who I really was. Neither did I feel like I was part of the Spanish House with Julio; in more ways than one, they made me feel like I wasn’t welcome. Little did I realize that I was less estranged with Deus Ex Machina, even if I didn’t know much about music, even if Rachael and I didn’t get along. I still felt like I belonged somewhere, and for a short amount of time, that gave me a reason to feel good about myself.

There was another thing that I should be proud of, though, and it was something I found myself doing: I was staring at myself in the mirror. As you guys may already know, I hated looking at my own reflection. When you had an evil look-alike threatening to tear down the very place you lived in, it was very easy to hate your appearance.

If you remember, I described myself by enumerating Cassandra’s outward features: same hairstyle, same dark thick-framed glasses. I did that because, for a long time, I didn’t see myself—I saw her.

And I was sick of it.

I tried to take off my glasses. That didn’t work. Sure, I wasn’t a big fan of how I looked, but I didn’t want to be blind.

My attention then went to my hair, a cascade of thick brown locks that fell past my shoulder blades. I had always liked my hair that way: long and loose but slightly tamed with a half ponytail. Now that Cassandra was copying me, I didn’t like the way my hair looked anymore.

I undid my half ponytail and gathered clumps of my hair in my fists, swirling them up so none of them touched my nape. I did not want to see my hair; I did not want it trickling down my back. I didn’t have a hat like the one Julio had given me at The MacGuffin, and since time was reset, he technically hadn’t given me that hat in the first place. I sighed. I thought that it’d be nice to have it right there and then, but I decided to tie my hair into a messy bun instead. Sure, I still had Cassandra’s body type and facial features, but I couldn’t do much about that.

The bun worked for me; it gave a sort of distinction. I was now Deus Ex Machina’s manager, not Cassandra Diaz’s look alike.