Paying the Piper

One: The Conundrum

When you're marked the weird kid at school, there's a certain security in that. He could do nearly anything he wanted without worrying what others thought of him—because they already thought he was weird. It was like wearing an invisibility cloak tuned specifically to hide him from comment. In school, outside of it, his peers ignored any oddities with the determination usually reserved for the smell of a fart: they might wrinkle their nose and shoot him odd looks, but they would not comment.

So if he wanted to show up at school in a black cloak and black nail polish, he could, without ruining his reputation. If he wanted to speak Tolkien's Elfin to people all day long, he didn't have to worry he'd suddenly not be voted school council president (that wouldn't have happened anyway). If he wanted to see how many whiteboard markers he could steal from each classroom before someone noticed, he could and did, and the detention that put him in he attended with pride.

Quentin Sage had a conundrum now. He liked that word: conundrum. It rolled off the tongue like a purr, and Quentin loved cats. They had the kind of aloofness humans couldn't even fake, and one glance from a cat could be enough to rip through you and make you feel like the most foolish human in history. We ruled the Egyptians, the cats' eyes say, and they were a hundred times smarter than you.

But his current conundrum could not be solved by the disdain of felines. The only solution to his current conundrum involved the internet, his black cloak, flour, matches, and an apple. But just in case it didn't work, he had a hammer as well.

As he looked up the necessary wisdom to be found on Google, he shook his head at how readily available how-to guides of even the more heinous crimes could be accessed.

But don't mistake him: Quentin Sage was not the type to break the law. Nor did he do anything as a plea for attention. His dad had already made it clear that the best way to deal with a Quentin was to pretend he didn't exist. So he had no higher expectation that anyone else would. And with no expectations came no disappointments.

He called up one of the few people whose opinion he respected and cared about. "Rhia? I'm ready. You can pick me up at any time."

She agreed to come right away.

He slipped into his cloak, loving the feel of the long folds closing around his body. Another form of invisibility, while simultaneously drawing added attention. Quentin loved dichotomies like that.

As he padded down the hallway, he debated poking his head into his brother's room and telling him he was headed out. Then he shrugged. In the off chance that he got arrested for his upcoming actions, it would be better if his brother could honestly claim ignorance. So instead of pausing, he continued down the hallway until he reached the wide staircase.

His dad wasn't home, so he didn't have to waste time wondering about sharing any information with him. But his dad was rarely home.

"I have got to get my license," he vowed softly, but he knew it was a losing battle. With his cerebral palsy affecting his muscle coordination, he would likely need an adapted vehicle to drive most safely. It was enough to make him not want to bother, especially since his dad wasn't volunteering to help figure out the process of it all.

The only bus in Gendormi that was available for almost any of Quentin's adventures was the Rhiannon Express. It paid to have a best friend.

He only had to wait outside for about seven minutes before she drove up in her battered SUV. He climbed into the passenger side and slammed the door firmly. As he tried to straighten out his cloak to make sitting more comfortable, Rhia was already reversing back down the driveway. He buckled in quickly before she could whip them around a corner.