Elephant in the Room

"I thought you were gone."

I feel like a ghost walking the halls of Umbrella. My department had moved buildings in the 8 months I was gone, so at first I considered pretending I had been on a training rotation and then moved back with the group when they changed buildings, but eventually, as usual, just telling the truth was easier.

"I was on medical leave."

Nobody ever really knows how to respond to that.

My body is covered in bruises. Nobody ever knows exactly how to respond to that either. At first I made an effort to wear long sleeves and hide them, but then I got questions about if I was being abused when they peaked from the hems of my jeans or the edges of my sleeves. That was fun to joke about for a while, but now I just wear them openly everywhere but Torii, where they never knew I went on leave at all.

Nobody at Umbrella dares to ask me any questions about my physical appearance. I had a few days where I tried to see what I could get away with, and eventually borrowed and wore a pair of bondage leg restraints under my jeans for a day just to prove to myself that my coworkers were genuinely just afraid to ask.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. I feel like I run like a child, that I somehow never caught up with the grace of other adults in movements other than fighting. The striking noises of my bare feet on the pavement cause my coworkers to turn, "Are you sure you should be running outside with bare feet? You could make yourself sick again."

This is the crux of the issue: nobody wants to believe another person deserves this to happen to them, and at the same time, admitting that an otherwise healthy active 24-year-old was knocked on her ass for the better part of a year completely by chance is frightening because it reminds my coworkers, many of whom are closer to being 40 than 20, that it could happen to anybody, and that we don't have control over these things.

They color-code beef as unhealthy in the cafeteria, but I pile it on my plate with spinach. I can see my coworker looking at my plate. I feel like they watch me a lot.

"I'm suppose to eat iron."

"They prescribe you iron too?"

"Yeah, but I am also suppose to eat it."

"Ah."

"It's part of the deal about winning the genetic lottery."

"That's why you were out?"

"Yeah."

He seems comforted. I suppose now in his mind this can not be my fault, and yet also not scary or some grim reminder of human fragility.

"[That] Sucks."

"Yeah."

He and another coworker invite me to play pool that night, which they've never done before.

It's a few days before the topic comes up again.

"I won the genetic lottery too."

"Oh?"

He points to his glasses, "They say the odds of my eyes being like this is 1 in 10,000."

I nod.

Slowly we begin drawing the personal boundaries: how much I'm comfortable talking about and how much other people are comfortable hearing. As a rule people seem to either be completely uncomfortable with admitting I was gone or want to hear everything.

Slowly but surely the need to talk about this is less, because it isn't such a big deal anymore, and eventually it seems to not matter at all. I think people can get use to almost anything with time.

At the very least, it's a relief to not have to hide being sick anymore.

Breakfast in Bed

Everybody's got their pet peeves.

Jace's was crumbs in the bed. It didn't matter what it was, if I ate any food at all while sitting on the bed I'd catch hell for it. He had some sort of incredible crumb-finding radar which would cause him to always detect when such a transgression had taken place, and he was remarkably effective in voicing how much this annoyed him.

The relationship came and went, and like most relationships which end for reasons other than the fact the two people don't love each other anymore, the breakup was rocky. It was fraught with teary phone calls, wishing that caring deeply about another person was enough to make a relationship work.

I did still care about him, so I did take the phone calls.

"Hey,"

"Hey,"

There was a long pause, because neither of us had any idea what we were suppose to say.

"I just miss you," he said.

"It's OK."

Another pause. He's getting desperate to make some sort of conversation.

"What are you doing?"

"Sitting in bed, eating a sandwich."

He hung up.

I guess that sums it up.

Green

I felt grossly underdressed.

There were five people sitting at the desk in the front. I was unsure if I was their equal, but there was a sixth seat at the end which I knew would be eventually for me. Dimly in the background I can hear the announcer, "And our final panelist is Pika Chu, who will be joining shortly."

Ah good, so I wasn't suppose to go up there.

"Pika," the shout-whispering voice behind me sounds irritated, "Go sit down."

Crap.

I'm the youngest person at the desks by easily 15 years, and the moderator seemed to have somehow not noticed.

"So what's your comment on the state of the market compared to 10 years ago?"

"Sorry, I'm not old enough to have an appropriately informed opinion on that."

On the upside, they did leave us some pretty nice food to eat at the end.

"You did a pretty good job," Sparks smiled, "held your own with the big-shots."

"Thanks."

"I'd wear shoes next time though."

My panicked face caused him to try to backpedal and reassure me.

"No it's ok, your feet were so filthy I don't know if anybody not in the first two rows noticed..."

Attending

The door won't open. Romany shakes it and then fumbles with his wallet, but can't find his ID. I turn and look behind me.

Oh yeah, I think, I'm going to get busted.

The door next to it is open, and the two of us casually stride in. I'm forced to follow behind him because I have no idea where we're going. The campus is a huge sprawling maze that almost nobody walks across because of it's size, and the buildings are no simple matter either.

We're sitting in the back of an auditorium now, but the professor hasn't noticed us. He didn't notice the kid climbing the wall to get a better seat either, which is comforting.

By the end of the class I'm asking questions.

By mid-way through the next class I'm arguing with the professor.

I'm still wearing my sweatshirt from the wrong school the whole time. When I'd left the house this morning, I had had no idea where I was going.

"You don't go here," she said over the five-minute break. It was almost a question.

"Is that important?"

The scowl broke into a huge grin, and Romany introduced us. It was one of those instant friendships, "Say you're in my major, we audit classes all the time..."

"You're very interesting," a boy back in class said, "What do you study?"

I found myself unsure of what Essy's major actually did. "Computer Science."

"And what is your specialty?"

"I don't have one,"

There was a few seconds pause when I realized that all grad students have specialties, but that this kid was foreign and had no idea how the American school system worked.

"Ah," I finished, "Undergrad only, I work in robotics."

He seemed impressed.

***

"Did I tell you I'm going to Bimodal?"

"What? You must be incredibly proud... when did you apply?"

"No, I didn't get admitted, and I'm not a student, I'm just attending."

"Pika..."

***

Keys, wifi access, email address, course schedules, majors, advisors: the logistics of this are impressive. Since it is January, I'm suppose to already know my way about the campus.

***

I stood near the professor during the break while another girl came up and easily get permission to audit the course. Positive it was the best way to remain not found out, I walked up right after her.

"Um, I wanted to audit too."

The professor beamed, "Wonderful, well you heard my answer to her. I'm very pleased. When I was an undergrad I audited all sorts of classes, best part of my education."

I smiled.

"What's your name?"

I hesitate for a moment, considering giving him the name of a real student.

"Pika"

"Well, Pika, it's a pleasure to have you in class and its good to see you're taking your education into your own hands."

Sibling Lessons in Game Theory

The last slice of cake, the last slice of pie, the ice cream served in one bowl: at first, the ability to allocate my portions from theirs was part of their divine rights of parents, and I more or less accepted this. At five, my parents began permitting me to choose which dish was mine. The slices of cake were always disappointingly similarly sized, so this didn't change a lot, but I enjoyed the power.

I distinctly remember my dad sitting me down on the floor with a slice of cake and two plates. "Today's your turn to divide the cake, and I choose." I set a very small portion on one plate, and left 70% of the cake on another for myself. He began reaching, very slowly, for the larger plate, eyes locked on it, wordlessly explaining in no uncertain terms what was about to happen. I scowled, "Let me try again."

When Isaac was three and old enough to express his interest in cake, it was my duty as the six-year-old to divide the cake and let him select. Isaac was not the same sort of opponent as my parents. At first he could be tricked by putting the smaller portion near him, and after a few rounds of that he could be tricked by my pretending to hide the smaller portion from him and acting like it was somehow better. Just as they later did when the addition of Firefly lead to kickback and collusion dynamics, the divider was severely punished for such dishonest play. Rules emerged: plates had to be equally presented, divisions were final once the first person took a plate, choosers could only select a plate for themselves, and all games were discrete instances: debts incurred in one game couldn't be repaid in another.

It was a long while before Issac was ready to play as the divider, but one day my parents informed me he was. A long bar of brownies was placed on a plate, and my brother pulled off a small square from the end and put it on the second one. I grinned and reached for the larger one as my brothers face scrunched up in a scowl.

"That's not fair."

"It's the rules."

Isaac sighed, annoyed, "You're suppose to want the little one!"