Party Tricks (#BattleTheBeast Entry)

Party Tricks

The physical kids threw some raging parties. That's what Tara's new friend Julia told her. Tara needed a rager like she needed the Abilify she hid in her new bedside table; she'd recently been sorted into the Psychic House, which reeked of patchouli incense, and the polish was wearing off Brakebills fast. Tara needed to feel like herself again. Or like the better self she'd become when she learned she'd been accepted into a school of magic.

Tara didn't fit in at Brakebills: she was an extrovert, unlike most of the students, who seemed more akin to her Plath-obsessed undergrad English peers. Take Julia's best friend Quentin. Tara thought of Quentin like she thought of a bee buzzing around her lunch: he had merit in his own way, but she wished his way and hers wouldn't intersect. Still, even with Quentin, the physical kids' party couldn't be worse than the Psychic House's sweaty yoga vibe.

Tara hovered inside the Physical Cottage door. Beyond the roar of inane chit-chat floated unguarded thoughts: drunken impulses spiraling. Near the fireplace Julia and Quentin clinked champagne flutes. Neither was thinking about the other. Quentin's thoughts were on a shy blonde who had shown up to everyone's surprise. Julia's thoughts were on her boyfriend in the non-magic world.

"Hey, Jean Grey," Quentin said as Tara approached.

"Hey, Harry Potter." Tara grabbed Julia's glass and downed it.

Julia laughed. "How's it feel to be the first one sorted?"

Tara looked around for the bottle; it was in the hands of a sharp-dressed second-year sitting around a circular table.

"Looks like they're playing spin-the-bottle," Tara said.

"Is this middle school?" Julia said.

Tara shrugged. Julia was cute as hell, but Tara wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to down as much free booze as she could manage. There were other cute girls at the table.

The game was seventy-seven minutes in heaven. Some bastard years before had warded the bottle from cheating. The stale magic gave it the pungent odor of curdled milk. Tara held her nose and spun. It landed on the second-year.

"Of course it did," he said as he sauntered ahead of her, champagne bottle in tow, into a charmed room.

The thick metal door creaked shut. Inside looked like the Beatles' yellow submarine.

"May I?" Tara grabbed the bottle. She swigged. He raised his eyebrow. "Seventy-seven minutes, huh?" She slipped off her shoes and dug her toes into the shag. Her toe nudged a used condom. She slipped her shoes back on. "But out there it'll seem like a second?"

"Less than," he said. "This room's some intense time magic."

"Isn't seventy-seven minutes an obscene amount of time?"

"No one wanted to admit that they'd need less than that," he said. "We're not going to make out."

"Please, like you're the only gay one here. Kissing you's the last thing on my mind."

Elliot frowned. "That kind of makes me want to kiss you."

Tara laughed. She didn't laugh much with Julia. "When did you know?" She spread out her jacket and sat cross-legged.

"Too young to know it wasn't wrong." He sat. "When did you know you were psychic?"

"Same."

They talked for a long while: about how difficult it had been to be different from other kids in more than one way; how they hadn't had anyone to look to and so had clung to poor role models; how they still struggled to find the courage to wear their best selves on the outside.