Romulus hadn’t known whether to run or snarl. And what bad luck! Of all the boys in the school, the troll had to ask Fay to prom.
It wasn’t his fault the stupid Student Senate decided this date for the dance. He leaned against the tree. Fay hadn’t understood, really, when he told her he couldn’t go to the prom. She’d smiled. Was sweet about it. Maybe she even believed him when he stammered his excuses. So she made the date with the troll. Romulus squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. The music changed to a faster beat. Shadows bounced against the window. A couple boys slipped out the doors and walked to their truck, avoiding the security cop in the parking lot. Even from a hundred yards away, Romulus smelled the beer. They only stayed in the truck for a few minutes, then headed back to the dance.
Romulus left the lawn and walked the neighborhoods, choosing streets randomly. He hid from cars—it was long past curfew, and he didn’t want to explain to a policeman what he was doing. Sometimes a dog chained in a back yard caught wind of him and howled. He didn’t howl back, didn’t even growl, but he wished one would break free. They could run the blocks together, or they could stand face to face, teeth showing in the moon. “This is mine,” their postures would say. Maybe the dog would leap, go for his throat. Romulus closed his eyes and felt the night air on his cheek, the stoney road beneath his shoes. Or maybe he would leap and the dog’s throat would be in his teeth. He could almost feel the pulse in his mouth.
It seemed for hours that he walked, often with his eyes closed, not paying attention to where he was, trusting his nose to lead him. When a car turned the corner ahead of him, and he dove into a bush, he was surprised to find he was directly across the street from Fay’s house. The car parked. It was the troll’s convertible, top down, looking low, black and ominous in the moonlight. Fay and the troll walked to the porch.
“I had a nice time,” she said, her hands in his between them.
“Me too.” The troll wore a letter jacket over his tux. Even from the bushes across the street, Romulus could see the multiple brass bars glistening in the porch light showing how many times he’d lettered: football, wrestling and track. A thick-necked, thick-wristed, thick-headed wunderkind with perfect balance and the fast twitch muscles of a cheetah. A vague suggestion of Harrison Ford in his chin and smile. A careless black lock of hair that fell across his forehead in an unkempt way that some girls found charming.
Romulus was loath to think Fay could fall for this, but as the two talked, their faces came closer and closer together like an inevitable collision, two lambent planets closing on each other in the night sky, until they were kissing, and Romulus turned away, a bitter tear in each eye.
Later, after Fay went into her house and the troll drove away, Romulus walked back to Gray Mountain Country Club. Other than empty beer cans and broken glass in the parking lot, nothing remained of the prom. He wandered onto the golf course, fell asleep on the third green, and when he woke in the morning, stiff from tiredness and the cold, he saw his own dew-drawn silhouette in the grass.
In the hallways that Monday, Romulus moved listlessly from subject to subject, avoiding Fay until finally he ran into her between Calculus and Mythology, a class they shared.
They talked outside the door. “Did you do your homework?” she asked.
He nodded. They were supposed write a report on a character from Camelot. He’d chosen Uther Pendragon. As always, he found himself staring. Her complexion fascinated him, absolutely exquisite, like polished silk, pale and smooth, dark-blue eyes, a hint of copper in her blonde hair. He thought about a willow wand swaying on a river bank. Looking at her was like listening to water dance over rounded rocks, all foam and bubbles and deep, still pools.
Fay glanced into his eyes, then looked away. “I don’t think teachers should be allowed to make assignments on prom weekend.”
“You didn’t get yours done?” His palms sweated just talking to her.
Fay shook her head.
“You can have mine. I’ve got an A in there already without it.”
Fay smiled. “Really? You’d do that?”
Embarrassed, Romulus put his head down. “It’s no big deal.”
She put her hand on his arm. “That’s the nicest thing I think anyone’s ever offered to do for me, but I better face the music on my own.” She stood on her tiptoes, kissed him on the cheek, then slipped around the doorway into the room.
Students streamed past him, intent on beating the tardy bell, but Romulus didn’t move. Slowly, he brought his hand up to his face and brushed his fingertips where she’d kissed him.
During class, Romulus barely listened. He focused instead on Fay, who sat a row over and two seats in front of him. The troll sat beside her. Halfway through class he passed her a note. She read it quietly, wrote something on it, and passed it back. The troll nodded and put the note in his folder. Mr. Campbell talked at length about the search for the historical King Arthur. In despair, Romulus turned his attention to Campbell. “The real King Arthur, if there was one, may have lived in 5th Century England, a hero because he drove out barbarian invaders. Much of our knowledge of King Arthur came from a historian, Geoffrey of Monmouth, who in the 12th Century set down the reign of British kings. He made most of it up, evidently. But it’s through Geoffrey that we first learn of Merlin.”
Romulus wrote names and dates disconsolately until Campbell said, “The death of Arthur and disappearance of Merlin are the end of wizardry in the world. Belief in mythological creatures fades with every passing century.” He said it within another context, but the words reminded him of something his dad had said about evolution and the magic. Romulus wondered if the biology classes ever touched on this alternate explanation for changes in the species.
Quickly Romulus wrote his thoughts below Campbell’s facts: “What if Merlin’s disappearance caused the downfall of mythological beings?” He thought he’d ask Dad about it later.
Fay concentrated on her own notes. The troll wrote something on a slip of paper, and with a husky whisper, handed it to the boy behind him, a freshman who somehow had been assigned this senior level class—Romulus had stepped between the boy and a pissed off football player earlier in the year, but other than a grateful “thank you,” they didn’t talk—and he gave the paper to Romulus, muttering, “Pass it on.” Behind Romulus sat one of the troll’s wrestling buddies. Romulus often found himself a courier for their stream of letters, mostly directions for the weekend’s parties. The torn paper sat, message up, on the desk—the troll hadn’t bothered to fold it. It read, “I’ll nail her tomorrow night.” He’d scrawled a lopsided happy face below, its eyes two squashed circles. Romulus’ fingers curled up, revolted by the thought of touching it.
Something whacked the back of his head.
“Hand it back, dog breath,” hissed the wrestler.
Romulus grabbed the note, twirled in his seat and banged it on the desk. The wrestler leaned away, a startled look in his eyes. He said, “Hey, I was just joking.”
After a few seconds, Romulus broke his glare and faced forward, and he heard a sigh of relief behind him.
“Boys?” said Campbell.
“Sorry, sir,” said Romulus.
For the rest of the period, the note ran through his brain: “I’ll nail her tomorrow.” The happy face looked more and more evil in his memory. He opened his text to the illustrations, and wasn’t surprised to see a resemblance between the drawing and the book’s woodcut of a troll.