#full-stack-development-course-with-placement

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Studying abroad for a semester was Alice’s idea. She was the loud-mouthed girl who had taken the empty seat beside you in your freshman Intro to Asian Civilization course. You’ve been super glued at the hip for as long as you can remember; she’s the first number on your speed dial, the only one who can make sense of your nervous ramblings. The building blocks of this friendship stacked up one after the other, from stressing over impending midterms to complaining about shitty boys, and of course, empty tequila bottles.

She was the type of girl who thought going to the movies alone was embarrassing, so it wasn’t a surprise when she claimed she needed someone to go halfway across the world with.

“Think of it as a grad trip!” she exclaims with arms thrown in the air, her eyebrows almost touching her hairline.

The carpet on the floor is itchy against your bare thighs from where you’re sitting on her bedroom floor, legs pretzled. Your finger twirls the loose fray of your denim shorts.

Alice has a huge rectangular cardboard display in front of her, the type students used for science fairs, but without the flaps on the right and left. It’s no longer the plain white that you remember it being when she bought it from the dollar store years ago. Instead, it’s full of cut outs in all different shapes and sizes; you particularly like the tiny airplane stickers dotted at the right corner. Your eyes catch a magazine article clipping—Travel on a budget now!—and a picture of some exotic beach; the highly saturated water meant she pulled it off of google images. This moodboard has been a work in process for as long as can be.

Alice started it as a motivator to get her through the times where she desperately wanted to drop out of university. She’d always said that she would reward herself with a trip at the end of her studies.

“We’re not graduating for another semester, Alice.”

“So what? Let’s call it a pre-grad trip! We owe it to ourselves!” She gathers her pin straight hair an inch below the crown of her head before fastening the shiny black strands with an elastic from around her wrist. “You’ll be off to law school and I’ll be starting a full-time job. We can’t really push it to after graduation now, can we?”

A gust of air leaves your lungs in a sigh. She’s right, there is no denying it. Who knows what flexibility your schedules will allow if you delay this into the future. You recall back to the relentless hours you spent in preparations of your LSAT exams. You had deprived yourself from a social life for months, studying for the most important test in your life did take off some years of your life span. Now that your acceptance letter came in you think you can treat yourself to jetting away for a semester with a great friend. You’ve earned it, you tell yourself.

Alice is looking at you with expecting eyes. The anticipation that gleams in her eyes is childlike, the look is enormously similar to a little kid about to open a christmas present they’ve been yearning for.

As a smile slowly crawls on your lips, her eyes double with realization. You agree. The rate at which she jumps up and throws her lanky arms around your neck suggests someone lit a round of firecrackers under her. Her high pitched squeals leave your left ear ringing.

You roll your eyes and laugh into her bony shoulder. “Alright, alright! Let’s bring the globe.”

***

The reason why Alice and you get along so well is because you agree on the same things. You’ve decided to stray away from common study abroad places such as London, New York, Toronto, for your semester. You want to experience life somewhere completely different. Also the fact that those placements have already been snatched up by other students narrows down your pool of options by quite a bit.

You both settle on the city of Tariz. It is a secluded area with a decent population, not large enough to be a well known staple city, but enough to have a bustling sense of community. Their language is a mix of Turkish and broken English.

The brochure you are given and the exploratory google searches here and there only feed your excitement.

Most of the architecture of the city is ancient. High arches and intricate stones decorate multiple streets. The streets are more like tight valleys, the rusted bricked walls of neighboring houses and stores transport you into another time period completely. There is even a dated sculpture planted in the middle of the town circle, it’s details are so well preserved that it seems life like—you’re dying to feel the smooth stone under your fingertips.

Your laptop displays all the potential flight times and costs. With a tap of your finger, the plane ticket is confirmed.

***

The first words you learn are Kirree and Poffasa.

Kirree is local drink of Tariz. It’s a bitter coffee with a splash of milk and two drops of essence that smells like roses. You prefer to sweeten it with honey, rather than sugar. Poffasa translates to please. The combination of these words are used every time you step into the corner shop located on Cardin Street.

The bell clanks above you and signals the worker behind the counter of your arrival. A welcoming grin pulls at his lips, you’ve come in enough times for him to remember your name. He knows to talk to you with more hand gestures and use short words.

You found this family owned cafe on your second week here. It’s situated beside a book store and a florist. There is an open patio outside which you take advantage of every once in a while when the humidity won’t poof up your hair. When the wind blows your way, it carries a strong scent of light florals—it’s quite poetic. It’s also only a ten minute walk from the university you are taking your courses at and two streets down from the apartment Alice and you rent.

“Kirree?” The man behind the counter—Amjad—inquires with a raised brow.

“Poffasa.” You smile.

He taps your order into the system and you drop some copper coins in the cup of his palm. Amjad moves with ease behind the counter, his fancy coffee machine makes a churning sound as he holds the rim of a cup to its long narrow mouth. He stirs milk and essence in a way you’ve seen him do countless times. Although you miss seeing a Starbucks within every ten steps, you’re grateful that you are able to experience a sip of someone else’s culture.

Amjad passes you the drink, it’s a simple latte cup with a bleach white plate at the bottom. Another smile is exchanged between you two, this is usually where the conversation stops.

“Tib tu,” you say. It’s a casual thanks people say to one another, you had picked it up recently.

Amjad’s eyes brighten up instantly. His smile becomes impossibly wide in a way that tells you he’s proud of your slowly developing ability to communicate. You can’t hold a fluent conversation just yet, but enough to keep a casual one going.

“Tib tu!” He laughs and wipes the counter with the rag previously rested on his shoulder.

You are engrossed into your course review settled at a circular table. Your laptop informs you of the requirements for the essay due next week, you crack open the novel and highlight potential quotes to help support your thesis. It is a simple Wednesday afternoon, business is slow, which is ideal because it doesn’t interrupt your concentration.

Hours pass by and you bob your head every once in a while to the soft radio filling the small shop. Neon yellow ink bleeds over a particular line you find interesting when the bells above the door chime and bring in a gust of humid air. Your upper lip curls in disdain momentarily because of the thick sticky air cuts through the coolness of the AC. You lick the pad of your index finger and flip the page.

The steady thump of boots against the floor gets louder as the person nears the counter to your right. Amjad had ducked in the back a moment ago so the customer waits patiently. This would’ve been fine, but then they begin to whistle a tune under their breath. Your focus on the essay in front of you shatters like delicate china.

You look up to see the artist behind this pesky noise. From your position, you are granted the view of his side profile and your eyes widen gradually. Sharp jaw, wavy hair, high cheekbones. He is cute. Something about him screams so familiar; maybe it’s because he has the same build as your ex or maybe the tattoo on his arm is close to the one Alice has. Your brain tells you you’ve seen him before, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.

Amjad comes out from behind swinging doors and your head drops back to your books.

“Zerki! Tim tu ga?”

“I’m sorry—English only.” It’s a British accent, the words are timid and he blends the first two together.

“Ah!” Amjad nods quickly with a wide, understanding smile. You can tell he is excited because this is a new customer. Although this cafe isn’t a tourist location, the university located near it brings in countless study abroad students. You assume he is another student somewhere from Britain.

Amjad swipes a plastic menu from behind him before placing it in front of the customer. You remember him showing you this on your first day here. The descriptions didn’t help much because it wasn’t in English, but the corresponding pictures did clarify some fog.

He puckers his lips and the deep frown between his brows is enough to say he hasn’t been in this city for more than a couple days. His index finger taps a picture and he looks up expectantly to Amjad. You pick up bits and pieces of the conversation. He is trying to ask a question about an ingredient, but Amjad thinks that’s what he wants to order. There is a lot of hand gestures and frowns and crumpled brows as they try to understand each other. This goes on for about five minutes until Amjad looks around the shop with a sigh. His eyes land on you and he instantly brightens up.

He calls your name and your head shoots up. “English? You English speak?”

You remember giving this information when telling Amjad what you’re studying in uni. Your eyes bounce back from the customer to Amjad before slowly nodding. He wants you to briefly translate something for him. The legs of your chair screech against the tiles as you get up and walk towards them.

When you come to stand beside the customer, you can smell the shampoo he uses. The citrus wafts into the air and when mixed with the smell of fresh brew, it is an odd yet pleasant scent. “What are you trying to ask?”

“I just want him to take the sweetener and milk out of this.” He points to the image on the laminated menu.

You raise a brow. “You sure? The Kirree is going to be really bitter, like worse than black coffee.”

“Yeah, that’s what I like.”

You give him an odd look but turn towards Amjad. “Kirree, na sarr, na dou.”

“Ah!” Amjad nods right away, plucking a cup from a tall stack before grabbing a marker. “Nama?”

You meet the green of his eyes. “He’s asking for your name.”

There is a pregnant pause in the air. It lasts long enough for you to second guess if you said your sentence loud enough. Then you see the beginnings of a smile ghosting his lips, the corners are upturned, but barely. Like he knows something you don’t.

He brings his index finger to rub horizontally below his nose. “It’s um, Harry.”

The scratchy sound of Amjad scribbling letters on the cup fills the silence. He turns his back to prepare the drink at the counter.

“Thank you,” Harry says.

“‘Course, it’s no problem.”

You occupy your previous spot and get lost in developing the arguments for your body paragraphs.

***

It’s childish. A part of you prides yourself on the fact that you are a regular at the cafe. You come here so often that you can find your way even if you were left blindfolded on the street. Amjad and you have gotten to know each other so well that he doesn’t have to ask for your order anymore. Hell, the table that you religiously sit at probably has your name neatly engraved on it. It is your quiet cafe.

Then you see Harry. You don’t think much of it when you see him after a week. Then he comes once again, four days later. Then again, two days after that. The days between his visits get shorter and shorter to the point that he is here everyday. You feel the crown that you’ve titled yourself with slowly slipping off your head.

He doesn’t make much noise because he reads—a lot. His designated place is at the table on the other end of the shop, you catch yourself stealing glimpses of him. Sure, it’s attractive that he’s a cute boy who likes to read, but what really gets you are his expressions when he finds a specific line or passage interesting. You’ve seen his brows draw in when he is upset. You know the two deep dimples that poke his cheeks when he finds something witty. You’ve witnessed his lips part slowly when he reads something poetic.

Right now, his chest vibrates and the corner of his eyes crinkle as he shakes his head. He is wearing a plain black sweater. A string of planets coloured in pink, blue and yellow, start from one shoulder and end at the other. You want to drag your finger over the knit material.

It’s slow. The swirls begin in the pit of your stomach and gradually increase in size. The last time you felt something develop this quickly was when you were in grade school, toes hidden in hot playground sand and eyes fixed on to your crush. You could’ve sworn he had an ever present halo hovering above his head. You still have one thing in common with your eight year old self, you both admire from afar and never build up the courage to go after what you really want. One sided pining and yearning is all you know.

Your attention gravitates towards the window when you become numb to the words on your laptop screen. You allow yourself these little breaks to lessen the stabbing strain your eyes develop. You lean back into the chair, from this angle you have a perfect view of the fountain outside. A butterfly flaps its wings insistently to keep its little body afloat, it circles the pointy tip of the structure. The water sparkles under the setting sun, it looks like a picture cut and pasted out of paradise. You wonder what it would be like to thread your fingers in its ripples rather than gripping a pen to your notepad.

You entertain this daydream for a moment longer. Then something pricks your skin, like a million tiny thumbtacks. The feeling of being observed passes over you; it’s silent and formless. You tear your eyes away from the scenery and your line of sight reflexively falls on soft green eyes. They are already focused on you, imploring and bated. A jet of warmth shoots down your spine.

You bite the inside of your cheek and deliberate looking away, but there is something magnetic about holding his stare. It’s playful, yet holds a pulling weight. He isn’t giving up either, hasn’t made one effort to try to blink away. It’s like you both hold one end of a rope, challenging tugs are given from each side to see who will break first.

A smile spreads across his lips, it’s slow like dripping molasses, and suddenly the butterfly isn’t circling the peak of the fountain. It has made a home in the pit of your stomach, thrashing wildly against your ribcage.

The bells clank above the door as a new customer walks in, and like a delicate twig under a heavy stomp, the moment is broken. It’s a middle aged woman with a toddler balanced on her hip. You blink away quickly and pretend to type a sentence on your keyboard. An Indian summer heat bites at your cheeks.

The sigh you release is deep rooted in your belly. The moment you shared was like clutching a fistful of sand. The grains quickly slipped from your hold and before you know it, you’re left with dry, empty hands.

***

A bead of sweat drips down the nape of your neck and trickles down your spine. Your cheeks are splotched red and baby hairs are matted to your forehead. The humidity levels are sky high today. The short walk from your lecture to the cafe is equivalent to a small marathon. You take a right at the intersection and the figure walking in front of you looks disgustingly familiar.

It’s Harry, and he is also walking towards the cafe.

He wears a simple black cotton t-shirt which shouldn’t make your heart skip like a stone over water, but it does. His shoulders slope in humble curves, but hold strength. The material moves with each step he takes and clings to his shoulder blades. Your mouth goes dry from the way his muscles flex under the fabric.

Your gaze flickers down to his left arm, it’s covered in detailed ink whereas his right arm is more sparse. A particular floral tattoo grabs your attention, the petals of the expansive rose begging to be traced. In his palm he clutches a worn leather journal, a long tie of the same material wraps around it multiple times. You’ve seen him spend hours with hunched shoulders and a pen pressed tightly to the papers, you wonder what secrets it wraps. In the same hand, he holds some sort of novel, you see a dog ear folded near the first few pages. You don’t have the opportunity to analyze a title because he is pulling the heavy glass door of the cafe.

The door doesn’t open fully, it stops awkwardly at a forty-five degree angle when he catches your image reflected in the glass. You don’t miss the slight jump of his brows when he first notices that it’s you.

He shuffles to the side with his fingers still wrapped around the handle of the door. With his movements, the door opens wider. The crisp, conditioned air flutters from inside the cafe and goosebumps pimple the skin on your forearms. It takes you a second to realize he is holding the door open expectantly.

“You first.” He cocks his head towards the shop.

You press your lips together to hide a budding smile.

It’s just a door, you tell yourself. People hold open doors for others all the time. It’s a common courtesy. Nothing extravagant. As you step in the space, you can’t help the warmth that slowly spreads in your chest—like a drop of watercolour staining a white sheet.

You don’t have time to overthink this simple act of kindness, you take in the shop you notice it is brimming with people. Kids and teens sip colourful refreshers and lemonades and almost everyone has an iced drink to combat the heatwave passing over today. As you notice most of the tables are being taken up, your eyes immediately pull towards your designated table. A relieved breath escapes your lips as you see that it is the only vacant spot. Your feet rush to it in a hurry and you drop your bag on the chair to stake claim.

You make eye contact with Amjad and gives you a nod, as if saying he’s already in the middle of preparing your drink. Harry is the second person in line and browses the pastry options while scratching the scruff on his face. You take this time to get situated by pulling out your agenda, laptop, and a textbook.

You’ve opened up your last draft and skim over some lines to jog your memory of what you left behind. You had grown accustomed to the quietness of the cafe, but today, the lack of it makes it harder for you to focus on the words in front of you.

The wave of light citrus in the air causes you to halt your typing. Your eyes catch the plaid printed trousers that taper in at the ankles from the corner of your eye. You lift your line of sight to see a simple blank shirt tucked in at the waist. Higher are the ringed fingers which grip two plates that are topped with Kirree cups. Finally, you look up to see it’s Harry, a journal and novel is tucked under his armpit.

His eyes are a muted green, framed with thick lashes. Reading glasses are perched on his head, they keep the few disobedient curls from sweeping over his forehead. You know he gets annoyed by them when he reads or writes, especially when they poke his left eye.

He releases his bottom lip from behind his teeth. “Amjad sent this over.” The Kirree in his right arm raises towards you.

You quickly reach forward to take hold of the plate, making extra sure you don’t let the steaming liquid trickle over the rim, or even worse, accidentally brush your skin against his. You’re positive the latter would leave a deeper burn. “Great, thank you. You didn’t have to bring it over.”

“S’alright. I was headed here anyway.”

You tilt your head to one side, silently urging him to continue.

He scratches the back of his neck, the curls at the nape of his neck shift. Harry’s neck cranes as he looks around the shop. His jawline sharpens when he looks completely to the left. Today everything is bustling. A kid pulls the hem of his mother’s dress with a deep frown to get her attention. Two little girls with matching pigtails fight over a specific coloured crayon two tables down from you. A group of students fill up the remaining tables; from their flashcards, it seems as though they’re conducting a study group. The whole town has chosen this cafe to seek refuge from the brutal heat.

The time he takes to analyze the buzzing environment, you press the rim of your drink to your lips.

“The only other empty chair is this one.” His eyes flicker to the simple white plastic from across you. The tips of his ears are impossibly red. “Mind if I sit?”

You almost choke on your sip, but you contain the liquid from spluttering out by downing the scalding gulp. “‘Course.” The urgency behind your immediate reply makes your face hot.

He lifts the chair slightly before pulling it from the table. The small courteous act of avoiding the ugly screech against the floor sends your heart flooring.

You think your heart would tire eventually, but the annoying thing continues to jackrabbit even after a solid ten minutes of him being seated across from you. Your palms are sweaty and your brain is firing up with a thousand different thoughts every second. How long had you wanted him to sit across from you? How long had you wanted him to exchange more than a smile with you? You’re getting words from him. He’s actually talking to you. It’s all a bit overwhelming.

Hours later, you’re fed up with the mundane reading. You had set a goal to read 800 pages, but you can make it barely through the 200 mark. It stares back at you from your laptop screen, challenging and daunting. A deep defeated sigh leaves your lips and your shoulders sink.

“What are you reading?” He asks, his eyes trained on the novel in front of him.

“It’s a reading for my modernism course. I rather individually pluck my eyelashes out.” He purses his lips to suppress a smile; A candlelight flame dances in your chest. You squint at the cover shielded behind his fingers, but you can’t quite make out the picture or title. “You?”

“Bukowski.”

Your lips part slowly. “Oh.” His eyes follow your movements when you raise a hand to gently tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “Sorry.”

“No, no it’s okay—it’s hard to see because the cover is well loved.”

“No, I meant I’m sorry that you have shit taste in books.”

His face is blank for a minute, not giving away anything as he mulls your words over in his head. Then the corners of his lips poke up. When you see the dimple is more prominent on his left cheek, you almost let a strangled, breathless Fuck slip out. “You think so?”

You scrunch your nose and nod.

“You should try something by Murakami.” Multiple titles run through your mind and you purse your lips as you mentally browse which one to offer. Something about recommending a book, a song, or another piece of art, can be so vulnerable because people only like things they can see themselves reflected in. You pray to whatever higher powers that exist that Harry won’t think twice about it. “Have you read Norwegian Wood?”

He wets his lips with his tongue. They become a vivid pink, like fresh peonies or a sickening sweet birthday cake frosting. “I’m afraid I have not.”

Your fingers dip into the slit of your bag and before you can register what is happening. Your copy of the novel is slightly curving at the corners and feels more weighted from when you first bought it. This is because countless sticky notes and page markers you’ve stuffed in between the front and back cover. You can’t believe you’re freely handing over your annotated book, it’s full of all your thoughts and views and it seems intimate to give him access to that. You think to take a moment to rip out all your work, but your arm is already extended and he clutches the other end of the book.

***

“He held a door for you,” Alice notes.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“He sat with you. For hours.”

“—Because the place was full.”

“You caught him staring at you! This sounds exactly like a dreamy movie!”

“It’s not, it’s just—” Your palm gestures vaguely in the air. You’re at a loss for words because if you’re being honest with yourself, you don’t know what this is. What you do know, is the childlike glee you get around him and the stolen glances you pocket away and the shy smiles you exchange. “—Harry from the coffee shop.”

Alice stresses your name in a pointed tone. “Please.” She drags a tiny brush over the sparse area of her toe nail, the fushia pink compliments her newly tanned skin. The smell of polish and acetone is poignant in the living room. “We both know you’re clueless as can be about these things.”

Your jaw meets the floor as you prop up your weight on the cushion of the sofa. “Am not!”

“Are so!” Alice twists the cap on the nail polish tightly. She flips the small bottle and shakes it to insure it won’t drip. “You need people to literally spell out if they like you or not!”

“Being clear is a good thing!”

“But… where’s the romance in that?” You should’ve known telling Alice about Harry would get twisted into something. Alice is adamant that he has a thing for you, but you can’t connect the dots. You thought asking for an unbiased perspective on this situation would bring some clarity, but all Alice knows are the countless rom coms on Netflix and the wall full of cheesy lovey dovey novels she collects. “From where I see it, you both are longing from a distance. How long has this been going on for?”

“Like almost two months.”

Her eyes double in size. “Jesus!”

“I know, I know.” A palm comes to rub over your face to hide the red colouring your cheeks.

“Before we leave you need to do something about him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Find a moment, grab him by the shoulders and lay one on him. It’s not like he’ll see you again.”

You roll your eyes.

***

Harry doesn’t sit alone at his table like he previously used to do. After that day you gave him the novel, he has glued himself to the seat across from yours. It’s nice. You both work in amicable silence together with occasional conversation; you switch between your laptop and novel and he scribbles some words in his journal. It’s not a stream of consistent thought, the words are broken and spaced out and formatted differently. You assume he writes poetry.

It’s an unspoken rule that you’ve both made together. Every week you pick something new off the chalked menu items and alternate buying. Today you pick a slice of carrot cake. You remember him saying in passing that he was fond of it and wondered how different it would be from traditional American or European cake.

The plate sits dead center of the table, a fork at each end. You dig the metal to the pointy end of the cake and cup your palm underneath the utensil when you bring it to your mouth. Harry does the same except he doesn’t use his palm. It’s endearing that a crumb is stuck to the left corner of his top lip. You make deliberate eye contact while you both chew slowly. A rating becomes more clear in your mind as time passes and you see the same behind his eyes.

“Love it,” he concludes.

You continue chewing your bite for a little longer, he’s waiting, expecting to keep this conversation going. Harry scans your features as you derive your final thoughts. He doesn’t realize this, but his eyes have a weighted tenacity that you find yourself squirming under. It’s not uncomfortable, more so intense—He makes you feel like you’re an exceptionally important person. You run a tongue over your teeth before letting yourself speak.

“It’s good.”

“Just good?”

“Good,” you confirm.

He has gotten a sense of your rating scale without you defining it for him. He remembers the coconut slice was mind blowing. The strawberry was amazing. The peanut butter, nutella and banana was exceptional. He recalls you closing your eyes briefly because they rolled back in bliss. The indulgent moan you let slip through made his brain short circuit. The high points of his cheek were the same colour as the cherry drizzle that topped the rhubarb cake.

He digs his fork once more to grab another bite. You refrain.

A sweet smile dances on your face as you tuck your chin in the palm of you hand, your elbow anchors your weight on the table. You don’t know when to tell him that with each bite he takes, he adds on a couple more crumbs to his face. A part of you doesn’t want to tell him at all because it’s so adorable.

“What?” He prompts when he sees you observing him.

“You’ve...” You trail off, but then roll your eyes last minute, deciding not to let him in on it. It’s a miniscule thing. “Nevermind.”

“Now you’ve got to tell me.”

“It’s fine.”

The sinking feeling in his stomach knots his intestines together. A plunging fear of his identity being revealed is something he doesn’t know that he’s ready for. You had asked him what his name was for Amjad to write on the cup. You clearly didn’t know anything about him. He wanted to see how long the cloak of invisibility spell would last on him. There’s something about meeting someone without them having preconceived notions set about him. It’s rare and refreshing for him and he wants to prolong this with you. He gnaws at his lip momentarily, do you know?

“Did you google something?”

You splutter a confused laugh. “What?”

“It’s—I” He threads his fingers through his hair. A panic bounces in his eye. He knows the inevitable, you will find out sooner or later. Should he just tell you now? “Did you—”

Before he gets a chance to finish his sentence you crumple a napkin in your hand and lean slightly across the table.

He is taken aback by your sudden closeness, but relaxes his tense shoulders when the floral notes of your perfume floats around him.

You drag the napkin at the corner of his mouth and collect the persistent crumbs. You feel his eyes trained on one side of your face. There is a charged intimacy in the air that both of you don’t acknowledge. This innocent act speaks louder than any words between you two could. You tell yourself that maybe this feeling is one sided, a complete travesty, but then you see his adam’s apple rise and fall has he swallows a nervous gulp. It’s enough to let you know he feels it too. To keep yourself from doing something you might regret, you pour all your focus to the task at hand. This moment lasts for a couple seconds at most, but the fervor behind it could outlive even the oldest stars.

“There,” you say, your back meets your chair once again. “That was all.”

***

“How much have you gotten through?”

“I’m at the halfway mark. A few scenes have stuck out to me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Your eyes immediately flick up meet his. Curiosity and anticipation pull at each end of your lips to form a smile. Your wrist finishes jotting down the last of correction on your essay, the red pen in your grasp moves on autopilot because Harry has once again captured all your attention. He’s done it numerous times before, it’s just something he is good at. “Which ones?”

There is a soft grin on his lips. “When Toru lets go of the firefly on the roof.”

“Why did you like it?”

“It was such a simple act, but probably meant so much more.”

“You’re right, it did.” You nod. Red ink strikes out two sentences, but your ears are still perked up. “What else?”

“Naoko’s birthday.”

“Really?” The pitch of this word is higher than your previous ones, you’re surprised. You once had a conversation with someone who passionately claimed the scene should’ve been ripped out Norwegian Wood. You stop writing completely and give him your utmost undivided attention. You elbows press to the surface of the table as you lean it slightly and drop your volume to an octave lower. “Is it because they fucked?”

“Yeah,” he nods after a moment of contemplation. You shoot him a look, not because of his scene choice, but his lack of explanation, and he backtracks immediately. It would be awfully disheartening if that is all he had to say about that. “No, no, no. It’s not what you’re thinking. It was just so sad and lonely and—” He takes a deep breath and his nostrils flare. “I really felt for Naoko. It’s an oddly relatable thing—being in that state of mind, feeling that, all while giving yourself to someone. I don’t know, it’s just—”

His words hang in the air, but from the crumpled look on his face, you know exactly what he wants to communicate. The impervious silence between you two stays for a moment.

Talking about books with him was something you look forward to. He likes when you push him to read certain books. He admits once with a bashful look that he was intimidated by you. Your list of recommended books—it only went up to five, ink scratches on tissue you handed him one night before parting—made you seem very well read in his eyes. You dismissed it quickly with a wave.

A smile quirks your lips. “That was one of my favourites too.”

The praise balloons a feeling in your chest that would only contribute to one-sided feelings. You told him your list is no match to what is really out there; your goal isn’t to be a pretentious well-read girl, but it’s to find more titles that make you feel a spectrum of emotions.

He takes a minute to absorb your words. With an understanding nod he goes back to writing in his journal. You think you pick up on a musical note or chord, but you can’t be sure.

***

The blanket of humidity suffocating the town finally breaks on a Friday. In the wee hours of the early morning, you hear the clap of thunder rip through the clouds and pour down a bucket of water. It transitions into a romantic drizzle as noon rolls around.

It was one of those odd days where you are at the cafe before Harry. Your plain black umbrella sits in his chair, drops of water fall off the pointy tip and splatter against the floor.

“What’s this?” Harry grips the hooked handle of the umbrella as he lifts it up. The folded flaps of the fabric move like the arms of a ceiling fan before hitting against each other. “You’ve replaced me already?”

He has a pleased look on his face, clearly too proud of his joke.

You drop all traces of expression from your face and force your eyebrows to curl in a deep, confused frown. The slight tilt of your head to the left completes the faux look. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

He rolls his eyes, pinching his lips to on side in an effort to subdue the smile you both know is about to flourish. “Funny.”

You laugh under your breath. He wipes away the remaining droplets of water on the chair before taking his seat. Fingers comb back his hair, you notice it is a darker brown, a wet curl curves at the shell of his hair in a perfect swoop.

Like always, hours go by without you noticing. The sun has long bid its farewell. You’ve shared casual conversation, another slice of cake, and another book recommendation.

Amjad begins to flip the stools upside down on their respective table, the sound makes you look up. The lights are toned into a dim buttery yellow rather than the stark white you’re used to. He’s closing up for the night. It’s just you and Harry in the space, both of you begin to collect your belongings. You tuck your laptop into its sleeve before plucking your highlighter and pen into your bag. The novel you used is carefully bookmarked and pressed into your tote bag.

“Shit,” Harry hisses. Through the glass window you see the sky is an angry black, flashes of white remind you of when you had taken your high school graduation pictures. The rain is no longer a shy drizzle, it’s a wrath coming down so hard as though it seeks age old revenge.

You are thankful that you’ve brought your umbrella, but Harry can’t say the same for he is looking at the scene in front of you while scratching the back of his head. As he turns to you, you can see the same thought floating in his head.

“It’s alright, I’ve got one.” You wave the umbrella in your hand as you hike up the straps of your bag to your shoulder.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “We’re headed the same way anyways.” You know your stop comes before Harry’s, it’s only a short walk from the cafe, you plan to pass the umbrella to him so he can continue his path back home.

As you near the door, you call out a farewell to Amjad. “Ta ra!”

“Ta ra!”

The sound of rain drowns out the clanking of the bells as the door shuts behind you. You quickly press a hidden button and the metal arms of the umbrella spread wide open. You shelter yourself under it and shuffle so Harry has enough room under it.

“You’re good at it, you know?” He says as you both begin the trek. The raindrops make a muted pattering against the material of your umbrella.

You face him and raise a brow. “What?”

“Just—living here, communicating, and all that sort. I would’ve never guessed you weren’t from here until I heard you speak English.”

“Yeah?” You breath in the smell of fresh rain, the wind mists some water on your face and a calmness seeps into your bones.

Harry shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers, his shoulders cave inwards. “Would’ve probably just sat at my table like a fool and wonder why you come here so religiously.”

A smile pulls at your lips. “You would wonder about me?”

“Maybe.”

You laugh at his reluctance to say a proper yes. You know it’s a solid yes. Your eyes focus on the potholes in the sidewalk, rain water creates puddles and you strategically place your steps. “I would too—about you.”

“Now, you’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“Sure,” he hums.

A cool breeze circles the lonely streets, the thin hair on your arms stand up tall. The silence that makes itself prominent is comfortable. You decide this a perfect moment to tell him. You can’t begin to imagine the hurt on his face when he steps foot into the cafe and you’re not there. You’ve been practicing a speech in your bathroom mirror for two weeks now, trying all sorts of combinations to find the right words. Nothing has stuck so you bite the bullet and blurt the first thing that comes to mind.

“I’m going home.” Your heart is in your throat. Your voice is no where near bold and sure as you’d like it to be. It’s a timid whisper and you’re just thankful you haven't stuttered from the bundle of nerves in your gut.

He doesn’t reply immediately, you begin to ponder if the sound of rain submerged your sentence.

“We both are.” He gives you a weird look.

“No—I mean, I’m leaving Tariz. My semester here is ending, for the study abroad thing.”

Though the humidity in the air is long gone, you feel a thick heaviness in it.

“Oh.” The tone of the word suggests that he wasn’t expecting this. Harry scratches the back of his neck looking down at the pavement. “When’s your last day?”

The silence speaks for you.

His eyebrows jump. “Really?”

You roll your lips together before replying. “I’m afraid so.”

“Well, did you like it? The experience.”

You grin. Of course he could ask you this. You haven’t given much thought to this question up until now. You know when you go back home this will be the first thing people ask you, you take the opportunity as a way to practice an answer.

“Loved it,” you say without a shadow of doubt. “It went beyond my expectations.”

Harry gives your hand that fists the umbrella stem a push from below, urging you to raise it slightly higher. When you look up to see him, you realize the material grazes the top of his head. You mumble a quiet sorry before complying, he ignores your apology by prompting another question. “Favourite part?”

“There are loads. But the Kirree, the culture—”you take a brief pause, it builds the anticipation. “Amjad.”

“Amjad?”

“Amjad,” you confirm. It takes so much from you to not laugh at his ridiculous tone. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” The shrug of his shoulders is anything but casual. “I just thought, nevermind.”

You chuckle, shaking your head while trying to keep your smile at bay. “You’re so obvious.”

Wet hair strands glue to your face with the help of the rain. Your fingers peel them from your skin before tucking them behind your ear.

A deep sigh leaves him.

“I am, aren’t I?”

You both stop at the abandoned intersection. A red palm glows from the other side of the road, halting you from taking a step. You both could make a run for it because no cars are zooming the streets at this time, but you don’t. You feel the heat lift off Harry’s shoulder, there is something so intimate about being under the same umbrella on an empty street with him.

A sigh slips through your lips. You’re going to miss him the most. The routine, the secretive smiles, the tension. Alice’s words inject into your skin like a long needle. Do something.

“I liked meeting you too, for the record,” you say after a moment.

“Yeah?” His nose scrunches up as he looks to you. The traffic light above waves from the wind, a colourful glow lights up his profile emphasizing the sharp cut of his cheekbone and jaw. “It was good, seeing you every day at the cafe. Liked it—quite a lot actually.”

The sentence would’ve been fine as is, but the last four words he tacks on the end adds a double meaning. They put a tangible definition to the feeling that you both had been dancing around since day one. A painful silence settles between you two, it’s razor sharp and so prominent. You both know that it’s something you can’t avoid for any longer.

It’s a brush of fingers at first. Innocent enough to be an accident between strangers on the subway or two people walking in opposite directions on the same side walk. Then it happens again. This time his fingers slot between yours. The silver metal of his rings are frigid against your heated skin. You hope the relentless pattering of rain against pavement masks the boistourius thumping of your heart.

You think you’re imagining it all, but then he shifts his body towards you. His towering height looms over you and he leans in slightly. His breath is warm as it puffs on your cheek, a dizzying contrast against the cool drops of water that rest on your skin. Your lips slowly part in awe and his eyes immediately flicker to them.

The sharp tug he gives your hand is enough to pull you in a step closer, chests press against one another. The touch makes you tighten the grip on the handle of your umbrella, your knuckles become a snow white.

“This okay?” He asks softly. It’s a whisper, silvery and light, but flares a torrid heat in the pit of your stomach.

A stated latency is introduced into the wet atmosphere around you, it traps your bodies into a secluded bubble. His thumb brushes a long stroke from the diviot where your thumb and index meet all the way up to the tip of your pointer finger. The slow, tender pace of it almost makes you whimper.

Only when he sees your chin move in a nod does he press the tip of his nose to the skin of your cheek. You almost cry then. It’s a cruel, calculated torture for him to drag his nose from your cheek to your temple. Your fingers slip from his in favour to clutch the fabric of his sweater. You pull the threads closer to you, a silent plea to move his lips near yours. You feel his smile press against your temple. His palm rests on your hip then gradually slides to your lower back. Your lashes flutter momentarily before resting on your flaming cheeks.

His lips brush the smooth, thin skin of your eyelid twice, he plants a gentle kiss at the corner of your eye. He moves down to the apples of your cheek, the cupid bow of his lips lovingly traces the skin there. Your fingers crawl up from his chest and rest where his shoulder and neck meet. As he continues his innocent torment, the pad of your thumb traces the bump of his adam’s apple.

He brings his free hand to tilt your chin up, he aligns his forehead with yours. You both stay there for a moment while taking calming breaths. You notice his skin his warm under your fingertips and the rise and fall of his chest isn’t steady. You never put sugar in your Kirree, it’s always been honey for you. This is because the grains don’t fully dissolve and sit stubbornly at the bottom of your drink. As you crack your eyes slightly open, you see he has something golden on his lips. Shiny, sticky, inviting.

“Please,” you breathe.

His lips are warm, slick, and sweet against yours. You’d seen them quirked up in a smirk, in bashful smiles, in teasing grins. You wonder what they look like pressed so delicately against yours. The pads of his fingers dig into your flesh as he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth. His tongue laps in just the right way—slow, with the tiniest bit of pressure. You cradle his cheek and follow the line of his jaw with your finger.

When you sigh into his mouth, he lets out a tremulous whimper. Harry was like a cup of freshly brewed coffee; scalding hot and tempting. The steam dancing above the rim would blister your mouth, but you took a sip of him anyway. You know when weighed, all the benefits surpass the costs. You’d rather feel him on the roof of your mouth all day than never at all.

His arms snake around your waist and hold you in place. Your lips part for the length of a blink, the glistening of his mouth is mesmerizing under the light of the lamp post hovering above. You can only draw half a breath before he’s leaning in once more. This time his lips are ferocious. The iron grip you have around the nape of his neck pulls tightly at the curls resting there.

Every nerve ending in your body is screaming, ablaze with the same intensity of molten lava. Your mind is swimming with too many emotions, you don’t begin to label what they are, it will be useless in your dazed state. Your palm presses flat against his chest, you feel his heart jackrabbit through his sweater. There is a tingling sensation in your palms that shoots sparks up your arms.

When you both finally pull away, he doesn’t let go of you. He keeps you close to resume his light brushes; his lips against your cheek, chin, temple. It’s when the tip of his nose bristles against the bridge of yours, your shoulders sag with a deep sigh.

“We...” the word wavers when you say it.

“Yeah?”

You gulp. “We missed our walking signal.”

The slow grin that crawls on his face says he is willing to miss a million more.

***

“Aww,” Alice coos towards her laptop screen. A dopey grin splits her face in half. It tells you she’s either looking at the current royal wedding pictures or reading another one of her romance novels. “That’s so cute, she must be so lucky.”

“What are you on about?” You inquire from your position on your bed. Although you had no complains while studying abroad, you firmly believe there is something so delicious about sleep in your own bed.

“I’m reading the Rolling Stone article about Harry Styles’ new album,” she says without turning back. He is her newest celeb obsession, you think it will pass over in a month. Alice has her laptop situated on your work desk that you’ve placed in the corner. From her position, her back hides the screen she is reading. “He said he wrote a song about a girl who he met in Tariz when working on his new album. Isn’t it crazy how small the world is, like we were there just last year.”

“We were,” you agree from behind a parted novel. It’s another Murakami novel. You woke up today and your fingers had a mind of their own when they plucked him off your reading shelf. Something in your bones was begging you to read it. “I’m glad you took me.”

Alice ignores what you say, she’s too busy gushing over the guy on her screen. She is speaking way too fast and going off in a million different tangents all fueled from her excitement. You think you hear her say something about psychedelics and sex. You shoot her a worried look and before you know it, she’s pushing the device onto your lap.

“Here, just look!”

The fans of the laptop start up and blow a gust of heat on your thighs. As you blink to the article pictures in front of you, your heart drops to your stomach.

“Alice,” you say breathlessly as if you’ve just seen a ghost. You blink quickly to help clear the image, maybe you’re seeing things. But the longer you stare at it, you become more and more sure of the face staring back at you.

“What?”

Sharp jaw, wavy hair, high cheekbones.

“Oh my God.” Your mouth is dry. “Oh my God.”

“What! What is it?”

You point an accusatory finger in the direction of the webpage. “It’s him! That’s him!”

Alice’s forehead wrinkles. “I don’t follow.”

“The guy I snogged from the cafe in Tariz!”

Her eyes become the size of Saturn. “No...”

“Yes...”

As the confirmation is uttered in the air, a stillness floods in. You both stare at each other, blinking slowly with blank faces. The suspended silence makes it harder for you to draw a breath. You see the gears turning and locking in place behind her eyes as she grasps onto this new piece of information.

The high pitch squeal that comes from her wind pipes can be easily mistaken for a hyena sound effect. “Fuck!”

“I’m—” Your face is burning and your palms have a sheet of sweat, but your neck and chest is like ice. You fan yourself with your palms. “—I think I’m having hot flashes.”

“I would too if I snogged Harry fucking Styles.”

Blood rushes to your face. “I didn’t know!”

“How did you not know?!”

“Because I live under a rock, you know this. I just thought he was another study abroad student like us!”

“This is so fucking funny.” Alice is howling with laughter. She clutches her stomach and leans forward without any shame. You can’t blame her though, if the tables were turned you doubt you’d react differently than her.

“Fuck, he wasn’t writing poetry.” The inside of your palm slaps your forehead. You feel a sharp throbbing pain pulse at your temples, so you clutch your head and clamp your eyes shut. “Those were probably songs, oh my God, I am so stupid!”

“Babes, babes.” Alice drags the pad of her thumb under her eyes to catch fallen tears. “We’re buying tickets.”

The pillow you throw at Alice lands with a loud smack.

“There is no fucking way I’m going to another study abroad thing with you—ever again.” Your arms limply flail about. “Look what this first one made me do.”

Alice scoffs. “You made out with a rockstar.”

The pointed look you shoot has enough strength to bring down civilizations. “Not the point.”

“Well, I wasn’t insinuating buying a ticket to another place.”

Your lips part with confusion. “Then what?”

“We’re going to catch his show.”

————

Don’t ask me where the city of Tariz is in the world, I made it up. Also all of the language is made up. So is the drink. Lol. Can you tell I didn’t want to do research? My mc is dumb, that scene in NW was ass. Anyway, let me know your thoughts? 

Thank you for amina @harrysdodgyankles for editing the moodboard

           Dear Mam and Tad,

           I’m sorry it’s been so long since my last letter; a lot’s been going on here, and between everything I’ve had to do I’ve hardly had time to sit down and write.

           First, six more of the eggs hatched! That brings the dragon population up to fifty-three, and the little ones are a handful; even with human helpers, their fathers (Red Clouds, Grim, Long Reeds, Falcon, Shiver and Echo Song) are kept busy looking after them. Baby dragons, it turns out, can and will get into everything if you don’t keep an eye on them. They don’t have proper names yet; Star tells me that that’s something that sort of develops by itself, and the babies aren’t old enough to tell anyone yet. She and I aren’t directly involved in the childcare, but we’ve been roped in to gathering food for them and herding the karnax closer to the village.

           Which brings me to the second big event to write about: after much, much, much discussion in the council eyrie, talking round and round in circles and bringing up examples and records from centuries back, the Balaurin have come to an important decision:

           Journey’s End is to be evacuated. No, that’s the wrong word, makes it sound like there’s something to escape. Abandoned.  

           Big step, isn’t it? Especially with new hatchlings. But after the altercation (‘battle’ feels like giving them too much credit) with the Sea People in Stormhaven, it was pretty obvious that the Balaurin’s continued existence wasn’t a secret any more, and they could either rejoin the rest of the world on their own terms or wait for it to come to them whether they were ready or not. A couple of emissaries from the Empire – with a whole train of guides and porters, needless to say – have already made the trek up here. The Balaurin won’t be joining up as a province or client state of the Empire, but the Emperor’s not stupid and wants to stay friendly with a force that can reduce a Sea People armada to ashes in minutes, however small the population is.

          All of the dragonbound pairs and a few of the riderless dragons have been out scouting for a new base, somewhere less isolated. Reclaiming the old capital – Eyrie Spire, that is – was ruled out, as it’s too big and nobody’s keen on living that close to Devourer’s Fall, but there are loads of abandoned Balaurin installations all along the mountains, and after checking over what feels like a hundred different possibilities, it’s been decided to move everyone to a site at the western end of the range, far enough east of the Sea Loch Country not to worry the Imperial authorities in Duncraig but close enough to make trading and travelling much, much easier; Shoreen and the other councillors have already put out some feelers with those emissaries about rebuilding some of the old trade routes from the days of the Balaurin Empire. Getting the new place liveable again after however many years it’s been left to the wind will be a lot of work, but once we’re all settled there I hope Star and I can visit you at home much more often.

           I hope everyone in Stormhaven is doing well too. Say hi to Calburn, Rhona, Ari, Alwen and everyone else for me; with any luck we’ll at least be able to make it down for the Midwinter festivities, even if we can’t stay for long.

           Lots of love,

           Una (and Star!)

           Una put the pen back in its stand and waited for the ink to dry, before folding the letter and sealing it into an envelope. Bright Star in the High Cold Dark glanced up from where she curled in her nest, made a soft krooo-ing sound, and returned her attention to her nap. Star loved her rider dearly, but even with their deep empathic bond did not fully understand the point of such things as ‘writing letters’. Una picked up the letter and left their eyrie.

           Between caring for the new hatchlings and preparing for the move to the new village to the west, Journey’s End was far busier than usual. Dragons waited in harness as humans loaded supplies and other belongings into nets and panniers; carpenters carefully dismantled furniture and packed it away, ready to be reassembled in their new home. Echo Song herded his new daughter back into the nursery eyrie, where Falcon and Red Clouds brooded over the other new hatchlings with the help of the human assistants; father dragons, it seemed, were very big on cooperative child-rearing. Below the great stone half-bowl of the village, a vast herd of the giant goat-like beasts known as karnax waited rather nervously as their herders mixed a sleeping potion in a large cauldron; the plan was to sedate the karnax and carry them in dragon-harnesses rather than herd them through the mountains on the ground, at constant risk from bears, snow leopards and other predators.

           Una nodded to one of the carpenters – everything she and Star had that couldn’t be left behind was already packed – and climbed the steps to the eyrie of Star’s father. Jarak, Shoreen’s husband and another dragonbound, glanced up from painstakingly stacking books into a carrying case.

           “Afternoon, Una,” he said, looking back at the cover of a particularly ancient-looking tome, its karnax-leather cover worn and the edges of its pages flaking. “Need something?”

           “Is Ripper here? I was going to ask if he could do a letter drop for me.” Una waved the envelope by means of explanation. Yawning Chasm Ripped in the Fabric of the Sky was the biggest and oldest of the male dragons, and had the power to open portals of almost any size over hundreds of miles.

           “He’s out hunting, but I’ll have him send it for you when he gets back,” said Jarak, taking the letter. “You want it sent to the Stormhaven drop point, I take it?”

           “Yes, it’s for my parents.”

           “It should be easier for you to visit them from the new village.”

           “I know, I’ve said that in the letter.” Una paused. “There was one thing I didn’t tell them…”

           Jarak raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

           “Welllll…” Una rolled up her sleeves and held out her arms. “Should I be worried about these?”

           “Ah.” Jarak leant forwards to inspect the hard, coin-sized, blue-grey scales that had formed along the outsides of Una’s forearms, from the backs of her wrists almost to her elbows. The colour made an odd contrast to her otherwise brown skin and red hair. “No. No, you shouldn’t be worried about those. You’ve been bonded with Star for… how long, now?”

           “Two and a half years, almost.”

           “It’s quite normal for a dragonbound. The draconic blood-bond has a few… physical side-effects on the human partner that show up after the first couple of years. Nothing too extreme – you won’t be sprouting wings or a tail – but… yes, a few scales is the usual effect, maybe a slight sharpening of the teeth. They shouldn’t extend much further than they have now; maybe as far as your shoulders eventually, but no further than that.”

           Una let out a breath of relief. “Good. I was starting to wonder if it was some weird interaction between the dragon blood and my Falkari blood.”

           “Oh, of course, I’d forgotten you’re a shapeshifter. No, it’s purely a dragon blood thing. You’re quite lucky in their placement, actually – some riders get them in much more uncomfortable spots.” Jarak wrapped the ancient book in a cloth and packed it into the case. “Shoreen was looking for you, by the way – she wants you and Star both to meet her in Fury’s eyrie.”          

           “Now?”

           “As soon as possible.”

           “Huh. I’d better go see what she wants.”

           Star was none too pleased to cut her nap short, but she met Una as requested with a minimum of complaining. Harsh Fury of the Northern Gale rumbled a greeting as the young dragonbound pair reached the eyrie, Una breathless from the long flight of stairs and Star flying easily in through the wide entrance hole.

           “Good, you’re both here,” said Shoreen from her desk.

           Star wanted to know what was so important that it couldn’t wait until after her nap. Una relayed the request, a little more politely.

           “I have… a task in mind for the pair of you,” said Shoreen. Una gestured for her to continue. Shoreen leant on her desk, linking her fingers over her mouth. “I want you to understand, this isn’t an order. It could be dangerous, and you’re free to refuse.”

           Star gave a little get-on-with-it growl. Fury gave her a sharp look and she subsided into a more respectful silence.

           “Most likely, it’ll just be a few weeks of exploring,” said Shoreen. “But there’s a chance that it could develop into something more serious. I know everyone is happy about the new hatchlings, as they should be… but the sad fact of the matter is, even with the long lifespans of dragons and how careful we are with recording who mated with who, fifty-three dragons isn’t much of a breeding pool.”

           “No, it isn’t,” said Una quietly. Star nudged her muzzle under Una’s arm; she wouldn’t be old enough to breed for another decade.

           “I’ve been poring over all our records, going back about as far as we have records, and I’ve found something that… well, I wouldn’t say it’s solid enough to even call a hope, but it could be interesting.” Shoreen pointed at one of the crates stacked beside her desk, waiting for someone to carry them to the new settlement. “About thirteen hundred years ago, there was a schism among the Balaurin.”

           “A schism?”

           “A… division between two factions.”

           “I-I know what a schism is, I meant – just go on.”

           “Indeed.” Shoreen laid her hands flat on the desk. “It was similar, in fact, to the arguments that arose following the fall of our empire, after the Devourer – one faction wishing to remain in the mountains and the other, smaller faction pushing to invade and rule the rest of the continent to the south. Fortunately events didn’t develop into a full-blown civil war; what happened was the smaller faction – some three thousand dragons and their riders – left for the south. And at that point, they disappear from our records; nor do they show up in any from the Kiraani Empire or from the lands east of the Inland Sea. It’s as if they just dropped out of history.”

           “You want us to go and look for them,” said Una. “You can’t find any sign of them with the scrying pool? I thought you could check the whole continent with that.”

           “Well, that’s where things get a little interesting,” said Shoreen, and unrolled a map of Stranatir on her desk. “This is us, here at Journey’s End,” she said, laying a finger on the paper. “This is the new settlement – we’ve got to come up with a proper name for it – to the west. South of the mountains: Stormhaven, Kiraan, Huaxia, et cetera. I have been looking in the scrying pool, studying anywhere a dragon might be hiding. The thing is… when I try to scry here…” She ran the same finger down the east coast of the continent, from the southern end of the Inland Sea almost to the equator. “These mountains-”

           “The Eastern Highlands,” said Una.

           “Yes, those, and the archipelago immediately east of them – they call them the Chain of Fire. When I try to focus the scrying pool on them, all I can see is mist. There is something along the eastern coast, from the mountains to the islands, that completely hides it from Balaurin scrying. And as far as I’m aware, only Balaurin magic could do that.”

           Una gave a low whistle. “Three thousand dragons would be quite a help in the breeding programme.”

           “Indeed.”

           “I’ve never heard of anyone living there,” said Una. “That doesn’t mean there isn’t anyone there, but when I was at school they taught us that there aren’t any trading links through the Eastern Highlands, or with the Chain of Fire.”

           Shoreen shook her head. “No. The Sunrise Islanders do sail south along the coast to trade in Mwituni, but they don’t land in the Chain itself. Rough seas, difficult reefs… and legends of ‘hairy giants’ living there.”

           “Probably gorillas,” said Una.

           “Probably,” said Shoreen. “Now, I can’t be certain that there are Balaurin living in those mountains. Maybe they left Stranatir altogether and took their chances across the Wild Ocean. But…” She let her head drop into her hands. “Surely it has to be worth looking.”

           Star thought it sounded like a grand adventure. Una smiled and scratched the top of her muzzle. “It does sound like it’s worth checking out,” she said. “But… why Star and me? Wouldn’t one of the more experienced pairs be better? Snowy and Runo, or Dark Sky and Varan?”

           Shoreen was silent for a few seconds, biting her lip. “You see,” she said, “going by the records, those original Balaurin exiles… they weren’t very nice people. They were led by a truly vicious dragon with an incredibly destructive power; he could summon earthquakes and make volcanoes erupt, and apparently his rider did nothing to try and rein him in – if anything, he just egged him on. If there are people there, not just gorillas, and that was what their first impression of dragons was like… they probably don’t look at them with fondness. Star is younger and smaller – she’ll be much less intimidating to any nervous locals you might run into.”

           Star took exception to that and arched her back, wriggling until her spines rattled, showing just how intimidating she could be. Fury just snorted, unimpressed; Star was little bigger than her head.

           “Especially compared to Dark Sky,” said Shoreen with a grin. “I know she’s about as sweet-natured as dragons come, but you have to admit she looks pretty nightmarish.”

           Star subsided, admitting that this was indeed the case.

           “I suppose we’d better nick some supplies for a long trip,” said Una. “Out of curiosity, did those records you found include the names of any of the exiled dragons? Well, self-exiled.”

           “Oh, they’ll all be written down somewhere,” said Shoreen, “but the document I was working from just listed the main leaders of their faction. Let’s see, I did have a note somewhere. Here – the primary dragons of the expansionist Balaurin. Storm Clouds Roiling over the Deepest Green Abyss. Shattering Rage that Breaks the White Ice. Shifting Blaze Coursing in the Heavens. Great Flood of Swift Black Waters.”

           “Well, they sound like a friendly bunch,” said Una.

           “They do, don’t they?” said Shoreen, grinning again.

           “Which of those was the volcano dragon?”

           “I didn’t get to him.” Shoreen glanced back at her notes. “He actually had a less ostentatious name. Funny how that happens sometimes.”

           Una nodded. “Some people just don’t like to advertise, I suppose. So, volcano dragon?”

           “Oh, they just called him ‘Voice of the Mountain’.”

~~~

 A Separate Peace by John Knowles Set at a boys' boarding school in New England during the early years of World War II, A Separate Peace is a harrowing and luminous parable of the dark side of adolescence. Gene is a lonely, introverted intellectual. Phineas is a handsome, taunting, daredevil athlete. What happens between the two friends one summer, like the war itself, banishes the innocence of these boys and their world. Suggested by Larry Cooperman, Research & Information Services, and Meg Scharf, Administration

College Success Guide: top 12 secrets to student success by Karine Blackett and Patricia Weiss College Success Guide is designed to walk college students through steps that are proven to make them successful in college and life. The authors have compiled statistics from both campus and online students, along with student feedback throughout the past three years of college instruction. From that data, they have found "12 keys" make students successful. College is very expensive; these 12 secrets will help college students be better prepared for college and protect their investment. Not only will it help achieve better grades, but it will also teach them valuable skills for life and their career. Suggested by Sandy Avila, Research & Information Services

Dumplin' by Julie Murphy Dubbed “Dumplin’” by her former beauty queen mom, Willowdean has always been at home in her own skin. Her thoughts on having the ultimate bikini body? Put a bikini on your body. With her all-American-beauty best friend, Ellen, by her side, things have always worked . . . until Will takes a job at Harpy’s, the local fast-food joint. There she meets Private School Bo, a hot former jock. Will isn’t surprised to find herself attracted to Bo. But she is surprised when he seems to like her back.  Instead of finding new heights of self-assurance in her relationship with Bo, Will starts to doubt herself. So she sets out to take back her confidence by doing the most horrifying thing she can imagine: entering the Miss Teen Blue Bonnet Pageant—along with several other unlikely candidates—to show the world that she deserves to be up there as much as any twiggy girl does.Along the way, she’ll shock the hell out of Clover City—and maybe herself most of all. Suggested by Megan Haught, Teaching & Engagement/Research & Information Services

Everything All at Once: how to unleash your inner nerd, tap into radical curiosity, and solve any problem by Bill Nye Everyone has an inner nerd just waiting to be awakened by the right passion. In Everything All at Once, Bill Nye will help you find yours. With his call to arms, he wants you to examine every detail of the most difficult problems that look unsolvable—that is, until you find the solution. Bill shows you how to develop critical thinking skills and create change, using his “everything all at once” approach that leaves no stone unturned.  Suggested by Cindy Dancel, Research & Information Services

Everything Belongs to Us by Yoojin Grace Wuertz             This debut novel takes place at the elite Seoul National University in 1970s South Korea during the final years of a repressive regime. The novel follows the fates of two women--Jisun, the daughter of a powerful tycoon, who eschews her privilege to become an underground labor activist in Seoul; and Namin, her best friend from childhood, a brilliant, tireless girl who has grown up with nothing, and whose singular goal is to launch herself and her family out of poverty. Drawn to both of these women is Sunam, a seeming social-climber who is at heart a lost boy struggling to find his place in a cutthroat world. And at the edges of their friendship is Junho, whose ambitions have taken him to new heights in the university's most prestigious social club, called "the circle," and yet who guards a dangerous secret that is tied to his status. Wuertz explores the relationships that bind these students to each other, as well as the private anxieties and desires that drive them to succeed. Suggested by Sara Duff, Acquisitions & Collections

Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell Being consummate fans of the Simon Snow series helped Cath and her twin sister, Wren, cope as little girls whose mother left them, but now, as they start college but not as roommates, Cath fears she is unready to live without Wren holding her hand--and without her passion for Snow. Suggested by Sara Duff, Acquisitions & Collections, and Emma Gisclair, Curriculum Materials Center

Free Speech on Campus by Erwin Chemerinsky and Howard Gillman Hardly a week goes by without another controversy over free speech on college campuses. On one side, there are increased demands to censor hateful, disrespectful, and bullying expression and to ensure an inclusive and nondiscriminatory learning environment. On the other side are traditional free speech advocates who charge that recent demands for censorship coddle students and threaten free inquiry. In this clear and carefully reasoned book, a university chancellor and a law school dean—both constitutional scholars who teach a course in free speech to undergraduates—argue that campuses must provide supportive learning environments for an increasingly diverse student body but can never restrict the expression of ideas. This book provides the background necessary to understanding the importance of free speech on campus and offers clear prescriptions for what colleges can and can’t do when dealing with free speech controversies. Suggested by Richard Harrison, Research & Information Services

How to Survive Without Your Parents' Money: making it from college to the real world by Geoff Martz Offers sound advice to both students and graduates, including tips on resumes, cover letters, and interviews; using job placement centers; alternative job options; and more. Suggested by Sandy Avila, Research & Information Services

Originals: How Non-conformists Move the World by Adam Grant How can we originate new ideas, policies, and practices without risking it all? Using surprising studies and stories spanning business, politics, sports, and entertainment, Grant explores how to recognize a good idea, speak up without getting silenced, build a coalition of allies, choose the right time to act, and manage fear and doubt; how parents and teachers can nurture originality in children; and how leaders can fight groupthink to build cultures that welcome dissent. Suggested by Tina Buck, Acquisitions & Collections

Seven Ways We Lie by Riley Redgate In Seven Ways We Lie, a chance encounter tangles the lives of seven high school students, each resisting the allure of one of the seven deadly sins, and each telling their story from their seven distinct points of view. Riley Redgate’s twisty YA debut effortlessly weaves humor, heartbreak, and redemption into a drama that fans of Jenny Han and Stephanie Perkins will adore. Suggested by Megan Haught, Teaching & Engagement/Research & Information Services

Stephen Florida by Gabe Habash Foxcatcher meets The Art of Fielding, Stephen Florida follows a college wrestler in his senior season, when every practice, every match, is a step closer to greatness and a step further from sanity. Profane, manic, and tipping into the uncanny, it's a story of loneliness, obsession, and the drive to leave a mark. Suggested by Sara Duff, Acquisitions & Collections

The Case for Contention: Teaching Controversial Subjects in American Schools by Jonathan Zimmerman and Emily Robertson From the fights about the teaching of evolution to the details of sex education, it may seem like American schools are hotbeds of controversy. But as Jonathan Zimmerman and Emily Robertson show in this insightful book, it is precisely because such topics are so inflammatory outside school walls that they are so commonly avoided within them. And this, they argue, is a tremendous disservice to our students. Armed with a detailed history of the development of American educational policy and norms and a clear philosophical analysis of the value of contention in public discourse, they show that one of the best things American schools should do is face controversial topics dead on, right in their classrooms. Suggested by Richard Harrison, Research & Information Services

 The Gift of Fear: survival signals that protect us from violence by Gavin de Becker Covering all the dangerous situations people typically face -- street crime, domestic abuse, violence in the workplace -- de Becker provides real-life examples and offers specific advice on restraining orders, self-defense, and more. But the key to self-protection, he demonstrates, is learning how to trust -- and act on -- our own intuitions. Suggested by Megan Haught, Teaching & Engagement/Research & Information Services

The Heart Aroused: poetry and the preservation of the soul in corporate America by David Whyte In The Heart Aroused, David Whyte brings his unique perspective as poet and consultant to the workplace, showing readers how fulfilling work can be when they face their fears and follow their dreams. Going beneath the surface concerns about products and profits, organization and order, Whyte addresses the needs of the heart and soul, and the fears and desires that many workers keep hidden. Suggested by Rebecca Hawk, Circulation

 The Idiot by Elif Batuman A portrait of the artist as a young woman. A novel about not just discovering but inventing oneself. The Idiot is a heroic yet self-effacing reckoning with the terror and joy of becoming a person in a world that is as intoxicating as it is disquieting. Batuman's fiction is unguarded against both life's affronts and its beauty--and has at its command the complete range of thinking and feeling which they entail. Suggested by Sara Duff, Acquisitions & Collections

The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch with Jeffrey Zaslow    When Randy Pausch, a computer science professor at Carnegie Mellon, was asked to give such a lecture, he didn't have to imagine it as his last, since he had recently been diagnosed with terminal cancer. But the lecture he gave--"Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams"--wasn't about dying. It was about the importance of overcoming obstacles, of enabling the dreams of others, of seizing every moment (because "time is all you have...and you may find one day that you have less than you think"). It was a summation of everything Randy had come to believe. It was about living. Suggested by Renee Montgomery, Teaching & Engagement

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie is Spark’s masterpiece, a novel that offers one of twentieth-century English literature’s most iconic and complex characters—a woman at once admirable and sinister, benevolent and conniving. Suggested by Meg Scharf, Administration

Verbal Judo: words for street survival by George J. Thompson This book will help police officers and other contact professionals develop verbal strategies that can transform potentially explosive encounters into positive resolutions. It addresses the most difficult problems of the street encounter where quick thinking and spontaneous verbal response often make the difference between life and death. The author explores all kinds of confrontation rhetoric and offers both a theoretical and practical account of how to handle street situations. The principles and techniques described can be used in practically every verbal encounter. Each chapter includes case studies that give readers practice in developing rhetorical strategies for handling street encounters and dealing with the public. Suggested by Rebecca Hawk, Circulation

We Demand: the university and student protests by Roderick A. Ferguson In We Demand, Roderick A. Ferguson demonstrates that less than fifty years since this pivotal shift in the academy, the university is moving away from “the people” in all their diversity. Today the university is refortifying its commitment to the defense of the status quo off campus and the regulation of students, faculty, and staff on campus. The progressive forms of knowledge that the student-led movements demanded and helped to produce are being attacked on every front. Not only is this a reactionary move against the social advances since the ’60s and ’70s—it is part of the larger threat of anti-intellectualism in the United States.  Suggested by Richard Harrison, Research & Information Services