with apart, know what I mean?”
Stu didn’t think he had rhymed those words during his set at Birdy’s, but suddenly he wasn’t sure.
“Check it out,” said Truscott. He grabbed a pick off the table and started playing a dense pattern of syncopated power chords over a looped drumbeat. When he was finished, he threw his guitar down on the couch. “I want to make music that makes people go crazy,” he declared, pulling on his hair as though it was itching him. “Change the way they think. Cut in on their boring inner monologues and force them to confront their pathetic, privileged lives.”
Stu was dubious. But Truscott had singled him out, had seen something in him, something that Stu was starting to realize he had been waiting for someone to see. Never mind that with Truscott he wasn’t quite sure what it was.
Later, his ears ringing and his enthusiasm kindled in spite of himself, Stu returned to his room. When he got there, he found the door slightly ajar and heard Sarah’s voice coming from behind it.
“I really like you as a friend,” she was saying. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea.”
Stu backed away from the door and went to watch television in the lounge. When he came back to the room an hour later, Jericho was alone, reading Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.
“How was your night?” Stu asked.
“Fine,” said Jericho. “Boring.”
* * *
—
On Monday, Jericho wasn’t there at the start of class.
“Where’s Loverboy?” said Truscott.
“Oh hush, you,” said Sarah. “I’m worried about him.”
Stu yawned. Jericho had spent all of Sunday night with the light on, reading and barking, as Stu dozed in and out of a fitful sleep. When he awoke, Jericho was gone.
“Did you keep the poor boy up past his bedtime?” said Truscott. “Naughty girl.”
“I was wasted,” said Sarah. “That kiss shouldn’t have happened.” Her cheeks flamed as though she’d been slapped. “I feel awful.”
She looked down at her notebook as Jericho came in and took his seat. Stu noticed his friend was wearing the same clothes as the day before but was missing his socks.
Rachel picked up from where she had left off last class. “Did everyone manage to read Parmenides’s On Nature?”
There were two distinct thuds as Jericho’s shoes fell to the ground one at a time. Half of the class turned to stare as he tucked up first one bare foot and then the other into his cramped plastic chair.
At the lectern, Rachel raised her voice above the murmuring Jericho had set off. “Parmenides is in some ways the most difficult Presocratic philosopher because there is so little consensus about his work. And all we have left of him are fragments.” She moved to an overhead projector in the centre of the room, where she began to arrange transparencies. “But metaphysics effectively starts with Parmenides, as well as all subsequent investigation into the differences between appearance and reality.”
Stu flinched as Jericho snorted. Ahead of him, Sarah sank down lower in her seat.
“Parmenides maintained that all appearance of change is an illusion,” said Rachel, flicking off the lights and projecting a translation of one of the fragments onto the screen. “We may think that things are changing, that the world is in motion around us, but Parmenides believed that knowledge gained from the senses is unreliable.” She twisted a knob to bring the text into focus. “He only trusted logic. And—”
“He was right.” Jericho didn’t bother raising his hand. “The world is a lie. Just like all the lousy people in it.” He was bristling with tension, his tone combative.
“That’s interesting,” said Rachel. “I wonder—”
Jericho cut her off again. “So why do we even bother?” He began smacking the surface of his desk. “War.” Smack. “Famine.” Smack. “Heartbreak.” Smack. “Everything bad in the world has always been here and it’s never going away. Change isn’t possible.”
Stu realized he was holding his breath, as were most of his classmates.
Rachel stepped away from the lectern. “That’s a good point, Jericho.” She was composed but watchful. “Can you elaborate?”
“Isn’t it clear?” Jericho’s eyes flashed with disdain. “If nothing can change, what’s the point of anything?”
Rachel’s eyes zigzagged over the rows of tense faces, assessing the collective patience of the rest of the class. “I think a lot of people would agree with you. Some philosophers as well.”
Jericho snorted again. “Forget it,” he said. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”
“I think it matters, Jericho,” said Rachel, before segueing back into her planned lecture. “I’m glad you do, too.”
As class ended,