He blinked once, slowly, shifting back on his feet and lifting his chin. While doing so, he tucked away his confusion and that sliver of his former self, leaving a half-lidded glare of hostility. “Oh. Really?”
“Yes.” I nodded emphatically, experiencing the long dormant sensation of being discombobulated.
“What did you leave in my room?” The question sounded bored with an edge of the aforementioned hostility.
“A letter. Or, rather, a note. It’s not long enough to be a letter.”
“You left me a memo?”
So discombobulated was I, I didn’t think before responding, “Uh, no. Memos usually have dates and subject lines, I didn’t include either of those. But I can.” I tossed my thumb over my shoulder again, indicating to his door. “If you want to wait here, I can go get. . .”
As I spoke, one of Abram’s eyebrows slowly lifted, and I belatedly caught on.
Sarcasm. That was sarcasm.
Poe used sarcasm to tease me, and I used sarcasm to tease him. Our sarcasm-interactions were well-meaning and helped keep my sense of humor (and self) healthy. Without Poe, Allyn, Lisa, and to a certain extent, Gabby to tease me and keep me grounded, I shuddered to think how shuttered I might be.
Poe’s sarcasm was friendly. But Abram’s statement was the other kind of sarcasm, the unfriendly kind.
My unfriendly-sarcasm detection abilities were usually within one standard deviation of normal, a skill I honed for obvious reasons. Not many, but a sparse few of my colleagues enjoyed making the youngest person in the room feel inadequate and naïve.
Unfriendly sarcasm didn’t usually faze me now. I used to visit my brain planetarium or mutter nonsensical phrases as a means of distraction. I still muttered those anytime phrases, but more as a joke with my friends than as a coping mechanism.
Twenty-one-year-old Mona believed the best policy was to ignore unfriendly sarcasm. Being the butt of someone’s joke was only funny if I reacted. If I kept my head down, if I stayed focused, if I outperformed and outthought them, if my research was ultimately more relevant and necessary and important than theirs, no one laughed.
I cleared my throat, struggling with an uncomfortable rush of embarrassed heat, and gave Abram a thin smile.
“No. Not a memo. Just a note. It’s—uh—on your dresser.”
Every word out of my mouth arrived quieter than the last and my gaze settled on his chin covered in a baby wizard beard. I knew he still had the potential to grow one. I wondered if I would ever see it.
“You went into my room without my permission and put a note on my dresser,” he summarized, sounding unfriendly and distracted.
I’d thought I’d be safe in my spacesuit of acceptance, but apparently, I wasn’t. He was here. Real. Standing in front of me. Smelling like Abram. Looking like Abram, but not. He was Abram, but not. I asked myself a question that hadn’t occurred to me before just now, What do you hope to gain from this?
The answer was an immediate and resounding, Nothing.