I sink down in my seat and let my expression slip into the politely
disinterested glaze of the good student in a slow lecture. Behind me,
two of my classmates whisper to each other about a bad party they went
to over the weekend. They're just loud enough to annoy me and just
soft enough that I can't tell them to shut up. My legs become
restless. My stomach reminds me that this morning's rice ball wasn't
nearly big enough. The whisperers behind me, having exhausted all the
conversational possibilities of the bad party, go back to the beginning
and start again in the hopes of sucking something new out of the story.

Small annoyances. The universe is made of small, inescapable
annoyances.

Ferd the murderer is out in the wide, open hallway, talking with a
creature of his fantasies, while I sit in here and listen to Indian
stelae and Budweiser vs. Amstel Lite. I hate illusions. I sit mired
in mundane reality, and transport other people to the places of their
fantasies. It's like making a cake for someone and not being allowed
to taste it. Like having a shiny, wondrous toy which only the guests
can touch.

Whoops, Ferd is off. That's good. What an excuse to escape class!
When I can't get a hook into the teacher's mind, I look at my watch
and sit up suddenly with a soft "Damn!" I gather up my things (and
Ferd's scraps) fast, and hurry out, muttering about a doctor's
appointment.

He's scared? What a shock. Mrs. McEnnis's favorite son hasn't
been cool since he made the mistake of walking out of that restaurant
yesterday afternoon. We must get this boy on Valium; he won't last
another day near me without it.

Oh, dear. Is *that* what he's doing? I smother a giggle. All
right, he may just be washing his hands, but let's give the boy the
benefit of the doubt. Sigh. Blew that one big-time. If I knew he was
feeling like that, I wouldn't have wasted the Damsel in Distress act on
him.

An evil thought crosses my mind: Should I flip sexes and go join
him at the urinal?

No, that would be outright cruel.

Wait, isn't that the idea?

Later. Let's give the boy his privacy for now. I lean against the
wall across from the men's room and read Ferd's crumpled notes while I
wait for him to come out. When he emerges, I erase myelf from his
perceptions and prepare for a chase.

If he starts to go back into the classroom, I sneak up behind him,
slip my arm through his, and do-si-do that boy around so fast he
wonders where south is. When he looks down at me, I say, "Lunch?"

He's not getting his arm back.

Let's turn the knob up to 6.1 for this. Just in case.

If Ferd doesn't go back to class, I follow him (falala, I'm not
here) until he stops somewhere interesting. As I wander behind him
(just going in the same direction as he is, folks, no connection
between us, nothing to see here), my stomach rumbles. I sigh. It
would be perfect if Ferd were to go back to the same restaurant where
he kicked this whole thing off. Maybe even to the same table. If I
waited until after his food arrived to drop into the seat opposite him,
I could snag a few fries while he boggled, and maybe a few more while
he decided what to say before running off. Not that he would get to
run off, but it's important to give the boy the *impression* of
freedom.

Failing that, if he chooses some other restaurant, I enter right
behind him and stand there proprietarily. When the waitress says,
"Two?" I nod cheerfully, smile up at Ferd, and follow my bug-eyed
knight in shining armor to our table. Even if I have to motivate him
with a hand in the small of the back.

Tactfully. Let's not set off his complexes again.

Small annoyances. Ferd's universe is now made of small,
inescapable annoyances.

If Ferd tries to pull something at any point before I reveal myself
to him, his victim drops the illusion she was wearing and morphs back
into me.

You wait outside the bathroom, reading the crumpled notes. Not a single
one of them contains even *one* complete word. Crumpling the notes was
more of a tension-reliever than an editorial function.

The bathroom door opens, and you shove the notes into your pockets.
Ferd apparently went in to splash some water on his face, as you see the
collar of his shirt is wet. He looks right through you, as you have
edited yourself out of his perceptions. He looks left and right --
probably for you -- then heads *away* from the class. You follow him
(Tra la la; I’m not here!) downstairs and out of the building.

When Ferd hits the front door, he pauses for a second, then continues.
As a guess, you’d say that the lightbulb just went on in his head. You
slip through the closing doorway without touching the door, lest a
glance back by your quarry reveal your invisible presence, and follow
him down the front steps. You run past a student, sitting coatless and
shivering on the steps, and a detached portion of your brain tells you
it’s the kid who freaked out during class a little while ago.

Well, you can’t pay him any heed; Ferd’s gone from a quick walk to a
trot. You dash down to the sidewalk and try to match Ferd’s pace. He’s
taller than you (currently) are, so you practically have to run to keep
up with him. But you can run a hell of a lot faster than he can if
pressed, so there’s no danger of losing him.

You haven’t gone five paces past the steps when there’s a warm burst of
air behind you and a scream of supreme agony. You whip around to see
the student -- you don’t even know his name -- has burst into flames and
is quickly being reduced to a pile of ashes.

I should be grateful to Ferd. He's given me my freedom. It
doesn't matter how I act with him; honesty, kindness, sympathy, those
are for real life. Ferd's not real any more. He's not lasting. He'll
be gone in a week. Less, maybe a day, maybe tonight. So I can do with
him whatever I want, so long as he's the only one to know.

That's freedom. Isn't it? No boundaries.

My stomach turns. I've never let myself go without boundaries
before.

So I need to make it fast. I want to kill him with fire. A slow
burn in a closed room, so that it looks like spontaneous combustion.
That's hard to arrange, though, so perhaps I should drive him mad. Or
there are stories of fox-maidens who kept their lovers eating vast
feasts of slugs and cellar-damp, until their lovers nearly died of
thirst and hunger. What kind of illusion would it take to do that?

Or perhaps, says the sensible part of my mind, I should hit him
with a crowbar in a darkened alley.

My human pragmatism and my fox aesthetics fight it out in the back
of my mind while I follow Ferd away from the gathering crowd of
students. I cover my unmundane reaction to the boy's death by making a
beeline for the nearest trash can and acting like I'm fighting down
nausea (no, really, it's just an act, my stomach's only a little
fluttery and my knees are only a little wobbly and these spots dancing
in front of my eyes, they're just the result of too much method
acting), then hurry after Ferd.

I don't let him get away from me even if I have to grab his collar
and tow. (If I have to appear to him, I'm gentle, affectionate, and
about, oh, 6.3.) Any mischief I can work, I do. Traffic is unusually
light today, especially when he wants to cross the street. All the
manhole covers are closed, even the open ones. My only concern is that
no one else be hurt.

Ferd fell in love with me because I'm a fox? He'll get a fox.
There's a reason they kill us on sight in China.

You follow Ferd several blocks without even a chance at really mucking with
him. He barrels across streets with invisible cars bearing down on him, and
manages to avoid them all by sheer luck and speed. New York drivers are
used to people dashing across the streets, and are quick to brake. Damn.

He’s headed towards the park, you realize. How sweet -- the site of his
first offering to you. As he dashes towards the last street to cross
before entering the park you spot the rental truck coming at him... what
truck?

At the last possible moment, the driver slams on his brakes, and his horn.
You fail to delete the sudden sound of the horn from Ferd’s perceptions,
and his head whips around to see the truck just before it skids into him.
He’s broken your hold over him, but possibly too late to save his life.

No such luck. He jumps aside, but the high fender still clips him on the
left shoulder. He spins around and slams into the ground. There’s an odd
skittering noise, and you realize that he’s dropped a bunch of colored
glass balls. He’s literally lost his marbles.

He seems unhurt, or in too much shock to notice his own injuries. He
bounces quickly to his feet, looks around with a desperate expression as he
sees the marbles scattered across the pavement... and sees you.

"Go away!" he shouts, and races into the park.

Damn! I sprint through the stalled traffic and after Ferd,
yelling, "God damn it, you fool, you have to go to the hospital!" As
my foot hits the far curb, I hesitate--what were those marbles?--but
momentum carries me on. Ferd probably doesn't realize that I was the
one who nearly killed him. It would look Very Bad Indeed if I broke
character.

If I can catch up to Ferd, I restrain him as gently as I can, using
only as much force as I need to, and steer him toward campus health
services. (I'll grab his bad shoulder "by accident" if it will help.)
My conversation centers on four basic points: 1) You just got hit by a
truck. 2) You're injured. 3) You need medical help. 4) You're
getting it whether you like it or not.

If he asks why I'm forcing him to get help, I look straight into
his eyes and say, "Because I care."

During this process, I try to get a hook into his mind and a hand
into his pockets.

Damn. What does it take to kill this man?

If I can't catch Ferd, I turn around and jog back to the scene of
the accident for the marbles. It's a cold and soggy mess, slopping
through the slush and running between cars during red lights.

I'm having trouble picking the marbles up. What in hell is wrong?
Oh, my hands are shaking.

That's okay, then. So long as there's a reason.

When I think I have all of the marbles, I trudge across the park,
looking at each marble in turn and stowing it in a separate hiding
place. Every so often, I look around for Ferd. If he's not there, I
don't have much interest in anything else; the adrenalin rush is fading
and leaving a heavy sickness in its place. Food might help a little.
I start for the restaurant where I met Ferd, then remember: No money.

That's OK. That place doesn't serve pork ribs anyway.

Pork ribs? Why am I craving pork ribs? Because I can smell burnt
pork, that's why. Why can I smell burnt--

I reach the trash can just in time for everything to come up.

When I'm done, I wipe my mouth and sit on a bench until my legs
stop shaking. Then I race home and scrub myself under the hottest
shower I can stand until my hair and skin stop smelling like burnt
classmate. My clothes go into a bucket of hot water and Woolite to
soak for the next month and a half. The rest of me, toweled off and
wrapped in flannel, dumps itself onto the futon to sleep for the next
two hours.

I awaken feeling grey. Good enough. Between mouthfuls of reheated
lo mein, I call anyone I can think of who can help me to trace Ferd.
School services, directory assistance, distant acquaintances who hate
skiing.

If I don't come up with any leads, I heap piles of baggy clothes on
myself (no coat--it's in the Woolite, remember?), hide the marbles
about myself, and go out to buy identical replacements. With my rent
money. Damn. Friday can't come too soon.