A Shrine to an Unknown God

HARSH SUNLIGHT

DAHLIA WAS WRONG.

On Friday, a day before we'd planned on leaving and two days before she was supposed to be back, I hear someone at the door. Ezra's in the shower; I'm in the middle of practicing with my knives.

(When we first got here, I discovered where the Boivin-Rots kept their sharpest kitchen knives. I started taking them out on the daily, to swing them around and practice my swordsmanship, to keep my muscles in tip-top shape.)

The knives hidden behind my back, I make my way to the door. I'm half-expecting to see Apollo standing out there in the harsh sunlight, waiting for me. Surely my month is over. Surely my time has come.

There's a window off to the side of the door. I peel the curtain back and see Dahlia's telltale blue hair—though it's faded to less of an electric all-consuming blue, and is now this sort of greenish color, with her dark roots growing in. She's standing at the door, typing the code in. Behind her, a couple feet away, her moms stand together, looking at something on one of their phones.

I open the door, slowly, my knives prepped, still half-expecting Apollo to be hiding behind the three of them.

Dahlia's eyes widen. She trips inside, slamming the door behind her and shoving her whole body weight into it as if she wants to keep it shut. "Yo, what's with the knives?"

"I was practicing."

"For what? An internship with the butcher shop?"

"I want to keep my muscles limber."

"'Kay, well, let's maybe put those back where they belong, all right? No need to be wielding knives around me. If you nick me, I'll literally pass out."

I turn to return it to the kitchen, but her voice stops me in my tracks.

"Wait. Actually, no, fuck that right now. We have more important things to worry about. Like what the fuck you're doing in my apartment, playing with my knives. And—is someone in the shower? I hear the water running."

The door handle jiggles. There's a knock.

"Dahlia? Is something wrong?"

"Let us in, honey."

"Which'll be easier?" she motions at the door with her thumb. "Explaining to my moms what you're doing here, with knives, or explaining it to me—now, in five seconds or less—and then me explaining to them why I've decided to lock them out of the house?"

"EzraandIhavebeenlivingoutofthestorageroomofthislawfirmandwewantedtostayinanactualhousewhileyouguysweregone." My explanation comes out both in Greek and strung all together as a single word.

"What?"

Dahlia stumbles forward. Her moms push their ways inside, each of them lugging a suitcase behind them.

"Antigone!" says Dr. Rot, the blonde. "What are you doing here?"

I hide the knives behind my back—too late. They've already seen them.

"Is that a knife?" asks Dr. Boivin, the brunette.

"Please, give us a moment—" Dahlia pauses, pointing off towards the bathroom. "Is that Ezra? Is he here?"

I nod.

She grabs my wrist and yanks me towards her bathroom, throwing open the door. Ezra's listening to "Under The Sea" from The Little Mermaid through Dahlia's speakers and singing along; while his voice abruptly cuts off when we enter, the music keeps going full-force ahead. The air is hot and heavy from the water, the mirror fogged up.