The Metropolis Series #3: Quinn and Cassandra

JULIO COULDN’T STAY LONG at The MacGuffin that morning, and neither was he free for the rest of the weekend. He explained that everyone at the Spanish House was undergoing combat training in case of another attack from Cassandra. The Spanish House was a mansion in the middle of the forest where all of the Author’s former characters lived. Those who stayed there were tasked to protect the Metropolis from any imminent danger, so they constantly prepared for battle.

Training days at that time were more intense than ever. Most wanted vengeance for Mackenzie, their second in command, while the rest were afraid they would be Cassandra’s next target. Of course, Julio led the sessions as the one in command. He was looking to appoint Mackenzie’s successor, and because he couldn’t choose just anyone, he was “making the training grounds hell,” as he’d mentioned, to find the best person for the role.

Shortly after breakfast with Julio, Bree called saying that she and Philip planned to visit Curtis at the hospital again later that afternoon. When I went out to meet them, however, it was just Bree waiting for me by the main entrance of the campus.

“Philip couldn’t make it,” she explained. “Said something came up on short notice.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

“Something about meeting a friend? I dunno, seemed pretty vague to me.”

And we walked on.

Curtis was still the same as ever. He had been listening to music when we arrived, his indie rock playlist faintly humming through his earphones. He was doing better compared to when we last saw him; there was more vigor in his hand gestures when he spoke, but he still looked pale, and the dark circles around his eyes deepened.

“Rachael still isn’t with you guys?” he then asked, taking out a bud from his ear. He looked like a kid who’d lost his mom in the shopping mall. He glanced at every corner of the room, hoping that Rachael would appear.

Bree shook her head. “Still not a word, either.”

“Actually,” Curtis said. “I was able to talk to her last night.”

“Really?” I mouthed. “Wh—what did she say?”

I dreaded Curtis’ response. I knew that aside from me and Julio, Rachael was the only other person who has seen what had happened at the party. Since Curtis already knew about a murder taking place in his house, I was sure he would ask Rachael for details about it. She was known to be the last one in the house, after all.

“I asked her how she was doing, of course,” Curtis began. “I know that she has seen terrible things at the party. She admitted having nightmares about it, but she wouldn’t tell me anything else. She didn’t want to talk about it just yet, and I get it.”

I imagined a scenario in which Rachael and I were close friends, sharing sentiments on what it was like to get nightmares. I wondered what kind of horrors awaited her in her dreams. Were they as vivid as mine? Did she have trouble sleeping as I did?

“She said she’ll reach me again when she’s comfortable to talk,”Curtis added. “I… I miss her. I wish she’d come back soon.”

Now that I thought of it, that statement should have sparked jealousy, but for some reason, it barely did. I was more amazed by how Rachael managed to not get corrupted despite everything she saw at the party.

Was she that strong? How did she cope? If there was an answer to that question, I wanted to know.

When I returned to my dorm from the hospital, reality sucked me right back in. I had returned to the gray walls of St. John’s Academy, the place where the source of all my problems lay. If only everyone would shut up about the party, but I knew that was unlikely.

For a while, I thought about using my rewind powers to go back in time and convince Curtis to cancel the party. I tried a few times, but I could only go back a few seconds. Other times, I hesitated. I was afraid that things would only get worse.

If my situation wasn’t weird enough already, I also had time manipulation powers that I couldn’t control. I discovered them when the student body once turned into a horde of monsters. (It’s a long story.) By accidentally triggering it, I had protected Curtis, Bree, Philip, and Rachael from being trampled by their schoolmates. At first, my powers were an escape from any nasty situation the Metropolis would throw at me, but relying on them only proved to be futile.

Cassandra or some kind of monster would eventually reach me no matter what I did.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t all I had going on. At the end of the day, I was still a high school student. On the desk in my room was the document the principal had given me. It described the two school clubs I could join. I needed to participate in one of them or I wouldn’t be allowed to graduate.

The decision was a no-brainer. I chose the art club. Sure, I didn’t have any experience in painting, but if I joined the drama club, which was the other choice, I would have to go on top of a stage and embarrass myself with my lackluster acting skills. If I sucked at painting, though, not a lot of people would see it. The horrid sight would only live within two-hour time frames and would die once club meetings were over.

The only downside, however, was that the art club had the more expensive right of passage. I needed to buy a few art materials before my first meeting, which included a sketchpad, an acrylic paint set, and some brushes. I called my mom the weekend before and asked her for some additional allowance. Thankfully, she understood, but she wanted someone to accompany me to the art supply store.

Strangely, the only person I felt comfortable with was Bree. It was either her or Philip, actually. I didn’t think I considered myself friends with Philip yet. With Bree, I didn’t even know what kind of relationship we had, but she did give me a custom-made Deus Ex Machina shirt, so we were at least more than acquaintances. She had been pretty helpful at the art supply store, actually—except for the fact that she kept recommending expensive brands.

“But they’re better investments, Vasquez” she’d urge.

“I’m just starting,” I’d then argue.

So we settled for mid-range brands and called it a day.

Eventually, the inevitable arrived. It was Tuesday, and the last bell of the day sounded off in the halls. Thirty minutes from that point, I would be walking into my very first day of the art club. I had brought an extra tote bag for my brand-new materials, all still bearing their packaging and price tags. I unwrapped all of them, which was pretty satisfying. It was like opening presents—that I paid for.

The art club held its meetings in a small room on the second floor. Instead of desks, easels lined the room facing a projector screen. A few people had already shown up, clipping their sketchpads to their respective easels and laying out their paints on the little tables next to them. I decided to imitate their actions. I didn’t know any of those art kids, and it wasn’t my goal to impress them. However, I wanted to at least look like I knew what I was doing.

Then, the door opened, and a woman entered the room.

“Settle down, everyone,” she said. “Ready your materials.”

She was obviously the art club’s moderator. She was a nice-looking lady in her mid-twenties. She kind of reminded me of Ms. Louise, which probably meant that I shouldn’t piss her off.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted. “Today, we will be continuing our still-life sessions. But before we begin, I am happy to announce that two new members will be joining us.”

Two? So it wasn’t just me. I guess it was comforting to know that I wouldn’t be the only newbie. Perhaps I could make a new friend.

“Will our new members come up and introduce themselves?”

I craned my neck, looking for the other new member. Nobody else budged, and everyone else was staring.

“That’s right, up here, please.”

I didn’t know if it was just me, but the sweetness in the moderator’s voice seemed to be running out. Not wanting to get on her bad side on the first day, I walked toward the front of the room.

“I guess the other one’s late,” the moderator remarked. She then turned to face me. “All right, please introduce yourself.”

“Hi everyone,” I said, my voice louder than I thought it would be.

“I’m Quinn Vasquez from Class 3.”

“Tell us something about yourself.”

“I like anime and video games.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Do you paint?”

“No… not really. This would be my first time.”

“That’s okay. We welcome beginners to this club. So what are your expectations? Why did you decide to join?”

To graduate, I thought, but I doubt that the art kids would receive that answer well. Before I could respond, however, someone entered the auditorium.

“Sorry I’m late,” he declared. “Something came up in class.”

“Good afternoon,” said the moderator. “You’re our other new recruit, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” the new student answered.

“Welcome, and please don’t be late next time. Choose an easel. I’ll call you up here to introduce yourself in a while.”

The new student positioned himself in the third row. Then our eyes met, and he waved at me.

And I waved back.

I couldn’t believe it. Philip Acosta had joined the art club.

“Okay, new recruit,” the moderator called. “Please step up and introduce yourself.”

Philip walked to the front of the room and faced the art kids.

There, he introduced himself as the guitar boy of Class 5, which wasn’t necessary because almost everyone knew who he was. He was the lead guitarist of Deus Ex Machina, which was St. John’s very own rock band that proved to be popular among students. Many showed up for their gigs, even if they were announced at the last minute.

I should know. I was their manager once.

Once Philip was finished, the moderator instructed him to pick a permanent spot in the room. She then directed the class to a bottle and fruit bowl that were set up in front of everyone. The objects were placed on a chair draped with white cloth while a tall lamp accentuated their figures.

“We will be continuing our session on still life today,” she said. “So bring out your sketches from last week and paint them. Don’t forget to apply tones and values.

“As for the new recruits,” she said, looking in my direction, “I want to get to know you as artists, so feel free to paint whatever you want. You will present your works to everyone at the end of this meeting.”

I nodded, staring at the daunting white page of my sketchbook. In two hours, it would be the painting I would use to introduce myself to the art kids. Excluding the various art activities in grade school, it was my first time working on a painting—a real painting created proudly with mid-range art supplies.

As I thought about what to draw, Philip took the spot next to me.

“Hey, Vasquez,” he greeted.

Since we didn’t speak often, I wasn’t sure if he called me Quinn or Vasquez. Maybe he switched between both and I didn’t know.

“Hey,” I said.

“So, what brings guitar boy to the art club?” I asked, drawing circles on my sketchpad. I guess that was a good start.

“With the band on hiatus,” Philip began, “there’s nothing much for me to do.”

I thought about the day I discovered his part-time job at an ice cream parlor, and he got mad at me for it. Was that still a thing? If it were, how much time could he possibly have?

“Believe it or not, I was the art kid in elementary school.”

I raised a brow as I fumbled with my brush. “Really?”

“Yeah. Come high school, though, I realized music was my true calling. Besides, I was tired of my classmates constantly asking if I could draw them for free…”

Then, we were silent. I drew even more circles, hoping they would lead to something coherent. Philip then craned his neck toward my sketchbook, looking curiously at what I had just drawn.

“Hey,” he said. “That sorta looks like a cat.”

I stepped back and squinted my eyes. I couldn’t see it.

“How so?” I asked him.

“Well, this could be its head.” He hovered his pencil over the uppermost circle, then moved it down to the middle of the canvas. “And this could be the body. I dunno. Just a suggestion. Let’s see what you can come up with.”

He resumed working on his sketch, and I looked over to see what he was planning to draw. On his phone was a photo of one of those picturesque girls scattered all over the Internet.

“So, why are you here, Quinn?” Philip asked. “I never thought you’d be into painting.”

“I’m not,” I said flatly. “I’m only here because Deus Ex Machina can’t operate without Curtis and Rachael. The principal said I had to choose between joining this club and the drama club. This was the more manageable option. Besides, you heard Bree. I wouldn’t be able to graduate if I didn’t join a school organization.”

At that, Philip just nodded. I didn’t blame him for not knowing how to respond. I, for one, didn’t want to keep talking. I was starting to sound like a whiny child.

Besides, my hand had been working while I spoke, so I kept the momentum going. I was drawing, and I was enjoying it. I decided to consider Philip’s suggestion and drew pointy ears on top of my circles. I then gave my drawing a long tail, and it didn’t look all that obscure anymore. I added some round, cartoonish eyes, a heart-shaped nose, and a small, sad mouth. I was then faced with a poorly-drawn cat. It—no, he. The cat was a boy. He looked up at me as if he were waiting for me to give him some food.

“Hey,” Philip said, looking over to my sketchbook again. “Not bad, Quinn. You’re going to paint it now?”

“I suppose,” I replied.

Philip guided me through the first few strokes. He reminded me that the paints I bought were acrylics, which dried pretty quickly. So if I wanted my paints to last, I shouldn’t squeeze a lot of paint onto my palette. Additionally, acrylics could be brush-killers if I weren’t too careful. If I forgot to stop and wash my brush, it would dry up like concrete and the brush would be useless. Philip also gave me a crash course on good color combinations.

“Back in elementary school, I used a lot of blues and oranges,” he explained. “Blues are calming, while oranges are intense and vibrant. They compliment each other quite nicely.”

Because of his little anecdote, I got a little carried away and squeezed a lot of blue paint onto my palette. I instantly face-palmed.

I would have used all that blue paint for the background. But no, I used it on the cat. I shrugged and decided to roll with it.

As I worked, I realized there was something about laying down paint that was so therapeutic. I loved watching the brush glide across the paper, leaving trails of overlapping color on its surface. I lost track of time, and little did I realize that an hour had already passed.

I presented my blue cat at the end of the first art session. The moderator frowned.

“Why is your cat blue, Ms. Vasquez?” she asked.

I winged my answer. “I think off-color paintings are pretty interesting. They’re weird, and I like it.”

Nobody asked about the cat’s orange eyes, which was the most normal part of my painting. It was a shame. I wanted to quote Philip and talk about how the two colors could be so different yet complement each other quite well.

But I never got the chance to do so.

The art club met again two days later, and there wasn’t much to say about it. The moderator had just asked Philip and me to join in on the club’s activity. She placed a vase in front of the room and arranged the flowers. She then asked us to observe the shapes that made them up, which we would then have to draw on our sketchbooks. Of course, I made the amateur mistake of focusing on one flower’s details. The moderator noticed and stopped me.

“Construct the basic shapes first, Ms. Vasquez,” she said. She then took my sketchbook and turned to a blank page. She then drew a rough rectangle for the vase and lots of circles for the flowers.

She wanted us to focus on shapes and proportions that day, and in her lecture, she threw in a lot of other art terms I was too shy to ask about. I would have asked Philip, but for some reason, he wasn’t present that day.

I finished my sketch for the flower vase. The moderator was right. It was easier to draw shapes first. After that, we packed up for the day.

Once the art club session was over, I bumped into Bree in the halls. I asked her where Philip was, and she told me that he had missed a few of his classes in the past few days. His absence was unusual to her, and when I asked her if she knew what his reasons were, all she could give me was a shrug.

The rest of the week brought in a few surprises. For starters, Curtis arrived from the hospital the next day. I found him in the cafeteria as I was about to grab some breakfast before class. He looked like his usual self; no wounds could be found on his immaculate face. Seeing him just sitting there made the whole party feel like a distant dream.

Wow, hospitals could do wonders for people—if they could afford it.

Eventually, Curtis was able to recognize me from afar. He waved at me and gave me his ever-so-contagious smile, reminding me of what had gotten me crushing on him in the first place. I waved back and approached him, and upon closer inspection, I noticed what he was having for breakfast.

Adobo. I laughed.

“Look who’s back,” I said, taking the seat across from him.

“Yeah,” Curtis replied with his mouth full. He then swallowed.

“Got discharged last Wednesday, but my folks suggested that I rest a whole day before going back to school. Like I hadn’t rested enough at the hospital. They’re still pretty stressed out about the situation.”

I feigned interest. “There still hasn’t been word on who broke into your house?”

“None. It’s so bizarre. Who could those people even be?”

It usually started there, with a question I felt obliged to answer.

Respond to one, and he’ll ask another, and it wouldn’t stop until the effects of corruption would stomp on his curiosity.

“Don’t worry about it too much,” I said, and I didn’t mean it lightly. “You’re out of the hospital now. Just focus on school today.”

“You’re right,” Curtis said. (Thank goodness he listened to me.)

“Jeez, I got a lot of work to catch up on, huh?”

“Ah yes. Especially with Christmas vacation around the corner. The teachers are loading us up big time.”

“Oh, how’s that paper we’re supposed to work on together?”

“Haven’t started.”

“Why?”

“Dude, I wasn’t giving you a free ride.”

“I was at the hospital.”

“It isn’t due for another two weeks. Besides, I knew that no poolside patio was going to take the best of you.”

I lied. I didn’t know that. I remembered being so scared whenever I visited him at the hospital. All I could do was plead silently in my head for him to wake up.

Curtis smiled. “My hardheadedness keeps me alive.”

“It can kill you, too,” I said—again, not taking it lightly. “Anyway, better get something before class.”

I began to get up to buy some breakfast, but Curtis emerged from the table, stopping me.

“Wait, it’s on me,” he said.

I raised a brow. “What?”

“I just came back from the hospital.” He went around the table and began his trip to the front counter. “I wanna celebrate.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry about a thing, Quinn.”

He gave me a smug look as he walked. It was too late to stop him, and I didn’t bother anymore.

Besides, he did owe me lunch in a previous timeline, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.