Now filled with dream-laden purpose, Maryanne marched out of her room down to the kitchen where Neveah sat. Apparently, she hadn’t moved from the kitchen since the morning. “Neveah, have you seen my phone?”Neveah looked off to the side at the corner of the wall. “Why?” “I need to call your brother,” Maryanne said. “Where’s my phone?Neveah’s eyes went as wide as teacups. She did not look at her mother. “I don’t know? It’s probably where you last left it.” Beneath the annoyance in her voice was a layer of fear. Maryanne glared. “Did he call?” she asked. Neveah shrugged her shoulders, but still avoided her mother’s gaze. “A shoulder shrug is not an answer, missy. Did your brother call, yes or no?”“What am I, your secretary? No! Devon did not call. OK? Happy now?” Neveah brushed away a lock of hair from her ears as she stood up from the table and marched off to her room, her voice trailing away. “My god, can you for two seconds talk about something else other than Devon!”“Don’t
Devon picked up the phone as it vibrated, looking at it. “More of Neveah’s bullshit, I’m sure.”But what if it wasn’t?Maybe it really was Momma reaching out to apologize—or at least talk. But what would he say?Buzz-buzz. Buzz-buzzGripping his lips, he picked up the phone. “Hello?”ClickWhoever was on the other line hung up. “Goddamnit. Neveah probably has Momma’s phone again… the snake.” He tossed his phone on the bed and refused to look at it, at least until dinner. There were more important things to do—first of which being a long shower. Devon stripped down and tested turned the faucet tap. A spray of steaming hot water blasted out with such force that Devon almost leapt back. Dozens of thin streams hissed from the shower-head, each with enough pressure to clean the dirt out from between tile grouting. Devon swept his hand underneath the stream—wonderful, cool pressure dug gently into his skin. “That is—ooh!” Devon grinned. It was by far the nicest shower he had ever used.
Silently, with the reflexes of a desert tiger, the man pulled out a cell phone. “Your father calls again, My Prince.”Ali pushed the phone down, his eyes darting around. The executive lounger concierge peered over from his desk. “Is this man a guest of yours?” The concierge asked.“Yes! OK, yes, thank you!” Ali said, waving. He gave the suited man a pat on the arm.“Friend! OK, thank you!”Satisfied, if confused, the concierge turned away and shuffled papers around on his desk. Ali gave the man’s arm a squeeze. He slipped back into his native language and his voice took on a distinct, sharper tone. “What did I tell you about using my formal title here? Again, you have forgotten, Zadik!”The man bowed. “I’m sorry! But please, my Prince— Ali glared. “When we are abroad, we follow the customs of our host. We of House Zhabaiye are not savages, yes?”A constipated look passed over Zadik’s face. “My deepest apologies… bro.”“See, that was not so bad!” Ali beamed. “With some practice, I t
Far away from New Hudson, across an ocean and a desert in the Royal City of Zhabai, Sayid bin-Osman al-Jirafi sat upon a couch in his office smoking a shisha pipe. Trails of cold smoke poured from his nose as he flipped through his working tablet, poring over reams of data—taxes and fees and the dozen streams of income flowing towards his private monetary sea. He drew in a puff of smoke and poured out a ring the size of a famous New Hudson bagel. The thick ring sailed like a round little ship over to the plate-glass windows overlooking the Royal City below. He imagined that his donut could be strong enough to sail down from his tower and float atop one of Zhabai’s many golden spire, settling like like a well-thrown ring of solid cloud.Sadly, this was just a thought of fancy, and the ring broke apart on the window in trails of smoke. Sayid stroked his beard. The bagel-sized ring remained him of New Hudson, where Cousin Ali was out living his moronic fantasies of becoming a magician
Perhaps this was a bad idea after all, Ali thought. The conference had already begun, and he had spent the majority of the day sitting in the Executive Lounge snacking on cheeses. He could have stayed in Zhabai City and ate all the cheese and crackers he wanted for free! Truth be told, the thought of him actually going down to the conference made his stomach do flips. It was one thing to talk about these shows and movies online, where he was safe and anonymous (relatively speaking.) But to be around these people in person was another matter. “It’ll be OK,” Ali said to himself. “You’ve been practicing.”Rehearsing average conversation in a mirror does not count as practicing, my friend. Ali pulled out a few of his hairs out of stress. It was true— there was no sense in lying to himself. He had practiced. Ali had spent a shameful amount of hours watching people talk about movies and video games online, after which he practiced saying the words as though he had come up with them himsel
Putting his first stop into the hands of fate, Ali’s finger stopped: FANTASY AUTHOR PANEL—4:30pm, Grand BallroomFine. That would be his first stop. Ali went to the mirror and checked his costume—in fact, it was not a costume, but one of his formal outfits for festivals and holidays. The jewels on his vest glittered brightly beneath the mirror lamp. He gave his vest a little tug and straightened his cap—small desert cat fitted with a falcon’s feather and emblazoned with gold filigree.I look like a PrinceHe checked his watch, also the watch of a prince, a platinum timepiece crusted with diamonds and a cluster of sapphires and topaz. The face of the timepiece was a collection of colored magnetic sand which emerged from the face like stones bubbling from a still pool. The sand grains slowly flipped to read 4:13.He could still make it if he hurried. But what about Zadik? He should tell him where he was going, at least…“No. It will be fine,” Ali s
Ali was not the only one heading to the author’s panel. Devon, after a shower and a short nap, also decided that the author panel would be his first stop. For the first time that day, he was feeling himself—cheerful even. All in all, it had been a pretty good day, now that he’d had some sleep to put everything into context. Sure, he almost got into multiple fights with strangers. And yes, he was going to be homeless at the end of the convention. But he’d also made some new friends—the mysterious Carla Bright from the bus, and Janie from long ago. Well, maybe not best friends, but it was more people in his life than he’d had in the morning. As far as Devon was concerned, it was a start. So with his heart lifted and his body refreshed, Devon had gotten himself an early seat at the Fantasy Author’s panel. What better way to start off with a nice, easy-going panel talk? No stress, not a lot of work, just a bunch of nerds siting around and talking about their favorite kinds of swor
“Culture. Is. Not. A Costume.” Tamyra clapped her hands to the beat of her words in front of the man’s face. He flinched at every clap. “Let me say it louder for those in the back: CULTURE. IS NOT. A FUCKING. COSTUME.” The crowd nodded, thoughtfully. It was a shame, but it couldn’t be helped. The young man should have known better, and this was the result. A few of them had their phones out, recording as the young man stammered at the bring of tears. Really? They were going to just let this kid get pilloried?Devon bit down on his lip. Sure, his costume was gaudy, but that didn’t mean that he should get surrounded and berated like this. To make matter worse, not a single person in the crowd, or even the event organizers, were willing to do anything. Out in the corner of his eye, Devon saw one of the organizers—the same rail-thin young man from earlier—clutching his tablet for dear life, his eyes cast to the ground in secondhand shame.“Now it’s your turn, appropriator. Say it wit