The Metropolis Series #3: Quinn and Cassandra
7. The Portrait

I COULDN’T CONCENTRATE that day. All I could do was stare at my notebook and tap my pen on the empty pages, hoping that the afternoon lecture would write itself. I tried to make myself feel better. If Rachael revealed Julio’s identity, the chaos that would follow would be unimaginable. What would come first? Would they find out that he didn’t exist? Would they corrupt? Would both happen at the same time?

It was better Rachael didn’t remember. It was better that she wasn’t able to answer the principal’s questions. Nobody else was able to, anyway, so why would she? It was a simple solution to a complex problem. If only the principal hadn’t put so much pressure on her.

I will say, however, that it was a bad day to space out. Tuesdays proved to be the busiest day of the week for me. There was double-period math, gym class after lunch, and finally, an art club meeting late in the afternoon. I did terribly on the surprise math quiz, and at gym, we had a substitute who was stricter than our regular teacher. I thought that maybe the art club meeting would be kinder to me.

And as a pleasant surprise, it kind of was.

Our lesson was on portraiture. The moderator wanted to see how each student understood the human face, so we could draw whoever we wanted, even someone from imagination. But my unartistic butt couldn’t draw a face from imagination. At first, I thought about doing a self-portrait, but even with my newly cut hair, I was afraid of getting too immersed that I would remind myself of the features I shared with Cassandra. So instead, I decided to take out my phone and look for a photo I could copy. On the web, I found a photo of a girl with short hair. She was my chosen subject.

Philip arrived late for the meeting that day, and by the time he had his materials set up on his workstation, I was already halfway through sketching my portrait.

He turned to my work. “Who’s that?”

“No one,” I replied. “Just some girl I found online.”

We went through the rest of the session saying nothing to each other. There was still tension from seeing Rachael distressed over her interview with the principal. But every now and then, I felt like Philip was sneaking glances at my artwork. Maybe I was doing something wrong. Maybe he had a technique he wanted to share with me as a newbie artist. However, by the end of the session, he simply packed up his things and left.

“See ya, Quinn,” he said.

“Yeah, see ya,” I replied.

I saw that he barely had anything in his sketchbook.

A lot of us didn’t get to finish the activity, so the moderator said that we could take our portraits as homework. I noticed that a lot of the art club students were perfectionists, obsessed with every little detail they’d create. Only one person was able to finish that day, and her portrait looked like it belonged to an art gallery.

I knew that my skills were far from that student’s painting, but I wasn’t discouraged. Once I had finished eating dinner in my dorm room, I found myself staring at my sketchbook. I couldn’t help thinking about that portrait at the art club, how the subject’s eyes stared straight into my soul. It motivated me to try capturing such lifelikeness in my work.

After much contemplation, I flipped my sketchbook open and examined my sketch of the girl. It was mediocre at best, for sure, but it was then I realized what was bothering me about my portrait. My subject’s eyes looked lost, her gaze toward oblivion. I decided to drop my reference and revise my artwork until I connected more to it. I redid the eyes, darkening the lines around them. I then made her look toward the viewer—toward me.

Once I was satisfied, I laid out my paints on the little desk and got to work. I didn’t notice how time quickly passed with every stroke I made on paper. I only looked up when the portrait was finished.

I pulled out my phone and took a photo of my finished piece. I then glanced at the time on my screen.

It was already two thirty in the morning.

Little did I know that it would be the start of a weird, long day. Of course, I barely got any sleep; I didn’t feel tired when I crawled into bed, but when my alarm rang for six in the morning, I wanted to scream and throw my phone away. My eyelids were heavy and my back was sore, but even as I felt all sorts of unpleasant things, I managed to shower, get dressed, and head for the main campus.

It was hot and humid on the school grounds, making my vision hazy. As I was on my way to the cafeteria, a cat stopped in front of me, glaring at me with its bright orange eyes before disappearing into a pile of bushes. I shrugged and walked on.

I ordered a chicken sandwich and a bottle of orange juice for breakfast. As I placed my tray on the table, guess who decided to join me. Believe it or not, it was Rachael.

“Haven’t seen the others today,” she said, taking the seat across mine. “I guess it’s just you and me, Quinn.”

“Uh, hey, Rachael,” I stammered. What else was there to say? “Glad to see you’re—”

“Fine? Oh no, I’m not fine. But I thought a change of ambiance would be nice.”

The immediate response I got in my head was to initiate small talk. It was either that or dealing with dead silence, which wasn’t an option around Rachael.

“So you’re finally going back to school today?” I asked.

Rachael sighed. “I couldn’t get anyone to shut up about that stupid party, but I figured I couldn’t wait for them, either. Even if it’s a pain in the ass when people stare at you.”

At the word pain, she slammed her fists on the table and shot two students from across the room a dirty look. The students turned their heads immediately.

Rachael slumped, tucking away some loose strands of hair away from her face. “I swear, do I have the answers to the Curtis’ mystery written all over my face?”

She then dug her fingers into her hair and opened a notebook she’d been carrying, turning to a page with an ungodly amount of writing. She had crossed out a lot of lines with ink so thick that it was bleeding through the other page. She then took out a pen and began scribbling like mad, only for her to shake her head and omit most of what she had just written.

Meanwhile, I could no longer stand the dead silence, so I decided to initiate small talk again.

“What are you doing?” I asked, taking another bite of my sandwich.

Rachael looked up from her battered notebook page. “Well, now that I’m back, my first order of business is to get Deus Ex Machina back onstage. Seeing the success of our original song, Falling, in our gigs, I thought about writing another one. And as you can see, I haven’t had any luck.”

I should mention that Falling was a song Julio had written for Rachael in another timeline, back when the laws of this world permitted them to be together. Now, it was living its second life as an original Rachael had written for the band. But of course, the song’s existence still mortified Julio, and with that, he advised me to prevent Rachael from ever singing that song again.

Shortly after, however, I became frustrated with him. He had turned me toward the dangerous side of the Metropolis, from Cassandra’s threats to the looming existential dread of living in an unfinished novel. I didn’t want anything to do with him for a while, so I didn’t listen to his warning about Rachael’s song.

I looked at Rachael’s scribbles once more. She had suffered the most emotionally from the party, and after seeing how worn her notebook was, I wondered if writing songs was her way of coping.

“Well, I guess it isn’t that bad,” I said, pertaining to her writing.

“May I see?”

Rachael narrowed her eyes. “Uh, sure, I guess.” She handed me the notebook.

I never thought I’d ever be curious about Rachael’s creative process, but I was more concerned about what was going on in her head. As I browsed through her notebook, however, I chose not to dive deeper. For one thing, she wrote everything hurts somewhere in the corners or along the margins of every page.

On another, however, she wrote that she couldn’t breathe.

That she was drowning.

I closed the notebook.

I thought that Rachael sitting with me for breakfast was the strangest thing that could happen to me all day, and I’d seen all sorts of weird and scary things. I believed that I had more chances of being attacked by Cassandra than sharing a table alone with Rachael, which had already happened twice that week without me even realizing it.

Then again, Cassandra had been silent since the party, and I should be thankful for that, right? But I began to get the nagging feeling that I should be worried about it instead. I decided to brush it aside. For now.

Before showing up to class, our homeroom teacher talked with the principal in the halls. With them was someone else I couldn’t see through the glass windows. I shrugged. We were probably starting with an important announcement. Curtis nudged me and said that they might be discussing a new fundraising event for the approaching Christmas season.

“Just your regular day at St. John’s,” he remarked.

But his hunch was off. Way, way off.

Eventually, our homeroom teacher stepped into the classroom.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I have an important announcement.”

“Christmas fund-raiser…” Curtis whispered.

I rolled my eyes and hushed him.

Through our classroom’s windows, I noticed the principal leave.

Meanwhile, a teenage girl in a St. John’s uniform followed our homeroom teacher into the classroom. I had never seen her before—

No, wait. I had.

“We may be midway into the school year,” continued our teacher, “but Class 3 is seeing a new student.” He turned to the teenage girl.

“Young lady, please introduce yourself to the class.”

I held my breath as the girl stood before us. This had to be a coincidence. Even in the Author’s Metropolis, there were still millions of people, right? Maybe this girl was a look-alike. It couldn’t be her. Cassandra had pushed her into the—

“Hello, everyone,” the girl said. “I’m Harumi Nakagawa. It’s nice to meet you all…”

Questions. So many questions.

Thoughts ran through my head all at once, and I felt like I was losing my grip on reality. I kept looking all around me, searching for signs that Cassandra had pulled me into another nightmare. I shot my gaze toward the window and waited for the clear morning sky to turn into an obscure color. Nothing like that had happened that day, but gray clouds formed in the distance, looming over the school grounds like a warning from the gods.

Our new classmate took her seat at the far end of the classroom.

She looked normal for the most part, and that was what worried me. I was afraid of letting my guard down because there was no way that new girl was Harumi. Perhaps she was bound to grow fangs and talons and lurch at an unsuspecting victim.

Corruption, then obliteration, I reminded myself.

Homeroom was agony. I tried my best to focus on the teacher’s announcements, to get my head out of Class 3’s new student.

However, I quickly found out that I couldn’t process a thing; I was too busy resisting the urge to look behind me. New Harumi was already chatting with another girl, her voice distinct and piercing. As she talked, I gripped the edge of my desk, my palms sweating profusely.

I needed to keep myself grounded. Think rationally, Quinn.

Think rationally.

Eventually, homeroom was over. The next teacher was taking a while to report to class, and it was at that point I realized I couldn’t stand it anymore. I emerged from my seat and burst into the hallway, walking toward the balcony and leaning on the railings. I faced the school grounds and marveled at its emptiness. After calming down a bit, I let out a deep sigh and closed my eyes.

“Think, Quinn, think,” I said to myself. “How can Harumi be back?”

I then realized that there could only be one explanation for anything out of the ordinary.

“Did I rewind time?” I then asked myself, shaking my head. “No, that can’t be. I should know.”

I stroked my chin, looking toward the view of the Metropolis on the horizon. Then, a new realization found its way into my head.

“Did the Author… do this…?”

“It was all you,” a voice replied.

I gasped and turned around. That was Cassandra’s first appearance since the party. She had her arms on the railings, a hand below her chin, and a menacing grin sprawled across her face. As usual, she wore black, contrasting her deathly pale skin.

“Nice hair, by the way,” she taunted.

I clenched my fists, the rage melting away all the uncertainty I had felt toward Harumi’s reappearance. I didn’t know where to start.

I wanted to punch her, scream at her, and yank her hair like they did in the dramas. I didn’t consider how weird I would look suddenly throwing a fit out on the balcony. Thankfully, I didn’t have to endure the embarrassment of doing so.

“Ms. Vasquez, what are you doing out there?” The teacher for the next period called. She had her hand on my classroom’s doorknob and a few files tucked under her arm. “Come on now, back inside.”

Once again, I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. I released my grip on the railings and followed my teacher into the classroom. Before closing the door, I looked back.

And Cassandra Diaz had disappeared.

It alarmed me that Cassandra appeared after Harumi had returned.

It was all you, she’d said. What the hell did that mean?

In another timeline, I imagined being happy—elated, ecstatic—to have Harumi back. She had this pleasant, lively disposition that cheered me up. She was also the first person I was able to talk to about the Metropolis, but I began to get the feeling that this Harumi was different. The old Harumi was gone, and the new one was a pristine, out-of-the-box model.

How could I corrupt something like that?

Whenever she introduced herself to the teachers, the room lit up. At lunch, a few girls invited her to sit with them, and I could hear their giggles from across the cafeteria. People grew curious about the new student quite quickly. A fresh face was a worthy distraction from the mystery surrounding Curtis’ party.

Philip craned his neck toward the table where Harumi was. “That must be the new girl,” he said, squinting his eyes.

Bree turned around and looked the same way. “Oh, that’s her? She’s cute. Where’d she say she was from?” She then gaped at Curtis and me like we knew the answers. (We were Harumi’s new classmates, after all.)

“We were group mates for an activity earlier, and she said she was from an international school,” Curtis said. “She mentioned something about their school year being different? I didn’t get it.”

“You probably weren’t paying attention.” Rachael chided, looking up from her battered songwriting notebook.

Whatever Curtis said in reply, it didn’t matter. I could only think about how Deus Ex Machina didn’t know who Harumi was. Nobody at St. John’s did. She was the new girl that everyone wanted to meet.

But I remembered who she was. She was a girl who could devour an entire tub of ice cream and a big bag of chips in one sitting, an older sister who brought me chicken soup at the nurse’s office, and finally, she was a dear friend. Before meeting Julio, she had been the only person I could talk to about the Metropolis, and little did I know that she would disappear shortly after.

Now, with the brand-new Harumi, it was like the world wanted me to move on from those memories.

“Hey, Vasquez,” I heard Bree call. “Vasquez.”

I blinked and turned in her direction. I had been so lost in thought. I wondered how long Bree had been calling me.

“Deus Ex Machina will be practicing again soon,” Bree explained.

“You will be our manager again, right?”

I didn’t even ask the questions I was supposed to raise. What about the art club? Could I just leave? Instead, I gave an immediate answer like I was some kind of robot.

“Oh,” I replied. “Yeah, sure.”

Rachael narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been staring into blank space.”

“Yeah, you barely touched your lunch,” Philip added, gaping at my half-eaten solo pizza. “Are you going to eat that?”

I groaned. “Sorry, guys,” I said, ignoring Philip. “Not feeling well.”

“You need to go to the nurse’s office?” Curtis asked.

“Oh no, I’m fine,” I replied. “I’m gonna go get some air.”

Ah yes, air. Add that to the list of excuses I could use whenever some Metropolitan madness happens.

“You can have my pizza, Philip,” I added as I left.

I immediately found out that opting for air was not helpful. On the school grounds, I felt caged inside St. John’s walls. Students were coming from every direction, gathering on the nearby picnic tables, playing basketball on the covered court, flirting on benches, and getting beverages from an outdoor food stall. I couldn’t talk to any of them about how conflicted I was about Harumi’s return.

Even in a crowd, I was alone.

I walked around aimlessly, circling a statue of St. John the Evange-list at the center of the grounds. Maybe if I tried harder, I could get my mind off things. I tried to stop and admire the flowers blooming around the plinth, but as I did so, I felt someone approach me. I turned to see a smile that was too recognizable.

“Hey, you’re Quintana Vasquez, right?” the girl said.

She slightly mispronounced my name. It was just like the first time we met—back when things were normal.

“Quinn,” I said. “Call me Quinn.”

“Okay, Quinn,” she extended a hand. “I’m—”

“Harumi,” I said, shaking her hand. “Yeah, hi.”

“Hello, roommate.”

I blinked. We were roommates again, too. I might as well be on the verge of tears.

“Oh, so you’re my new roommate, then,” I decided to say.

Harumi nodded. “Yeah.”

“Wh—when are you moving in?”

“I’m still getting my stuff packed at my mom’s place. I’ll let you know. What’s your number?”

She handed me her phone. I punched in my number and gave the device back to her.

“Great,” Harumi beamed. “I’ll send you a text. See you around!”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yeah, see ya.”

She waved and turned around, joining a group of girls chatting at a picnic table.

I received her text just shortly before class, her name still registered on my phone.

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