CHAPTER 22: DITCHING THE PANTIES

SERICA

Well shit.

They weren’t going to come to their senses. I ran my hands through my hair, waiting for the throbbing to recede. Despite the sudden turn and its implications, I actually didn’t mind having a moment to myself.

The day so far had been an onslaught, and things showed little sign of slowing down. Leaning forward, I grabbed my pack’s strap and let myself slump, forehead colliding with the table’s cold surface.

I could just take a nap...

"No," I told myself. What’s my next move?

The obvious choice was to track down Deneel and Ains, to apologize. It placed as my least favorite option. Those two were set to ruin the draft. My missing list stung. More on a symbolic level than anything else. Better in Deneel’s hands now anyway. I had little faith that she would actually use it, but there was a chance.

The fabric of my inherited cotton undergarments pressed tight into my now flaccid length. I sighed, reaching under my skirt to right the situation.

Fuck these panties. Fuck the kitten-heels. Fuck the pleated skirt.

I dragged myself from my seat with a plan in mind, a course of action. Having already won my defi against Cechele, there was no longer reason to suffer the oppression of too-tight knickers. I set out through the door and set a path toward the fourth-floor washroom.

Passing through the nearest circle of shelves, I met eyes with the Fuefoyer, Ainset’s paramour. Her glowing brick face held a warm smile; she gestured toward the basement level’s other side, offering a hint at Deneel-Ainset’s trajectory.

"Thanks," I nodded with an ounce of mock gratitude and proceeded in the opposite direction toward the library stairs. Knowing they’d stayed close was a slight relief. Their storming out seemed to only be a ploy, likely in hopes I’d chase after them.

That can wait.

Making my way through the halls, I noted a good number of my classmates carrying wax-paper cones stuffed with miniature beignets, small puffs of fried dough topped with powdered sugar. My stomach was already grumbling, and the smell of them only made it worse.

As kids, they’d been a favorite snack of Deneel’s and mine, purchased from carts dotting the nearby streets and parks we roamed. Before lycée, our lives were carefree. We’d spend the summer afternoons lounging under trees or dancing in fountains.

Then she took more interest in Mûrie, roaming farther than I cared to follow, taking day-trips to secluded shrines on the outskirts of town. I went on a few with her before growing bored with the experience. Fooling around on the road was fun enough. Still, once we arrived, she’d spend hours "communing", which consisted of sitting quietly, palm in palm with whichever Esprit happened to be on location.

Back then, her ribbons were pure white, without their red script, without tassels. There wasn’t a flashy show of possession, just silence. After the first trip, I learned to bring a book along; after the third, I learned not to go at all.

Things grew worse at [lycée], where she’d ignore instruction, constantly practicing her second sight, eyes closed in her seat. Most of the class grew resentful. So did I. She wasn’t fun, she was just there.

Teasing turned to bullying. Girls like Cechele practiced sneaking up on her with scissors. All it took was a single snip, and the whole outfit would unravel. She at least wore underwear back then. At first, I saw it as an injustice and tried to defend her. That earned me the same ire, but she didn’t seem to care.

I stepped into the washroom and couldn’t help but grin. Day one, and this small space already sparked fond memories of Ainset and Reilin. Sorting through my pack and cubby, I set about changing back into my boots, harness, and leather skirt.

The panties were a mess, thoroughly sullied by the day’s antics. I balled them in my hand and tucked them down into the bottom of my pack, then went to the mirror. Ainset’s work, my braided pony-tail, was loose, its dark-green ribbon trying to work itself free. The color of it was unmistakably Illia’s.

Do I keep her there?

I didn’t have much choice in following her direction, but that didn’t mean I had to wear her in my hair. I still wasn’t sure what to make of her. The woman seemed to have three sides: an instrument of the school’s hierarchy, a caring instructor, and a pursuer of personal interest.

She had you eat her out.

I needed to quit kidding myself. The act hadn’t just been for research purposes. Ainset wore her interest on her sleeve; she made it apparent. Illia hid hers behind a thin veneer of research and policy.

Working my fingers into the ribbon’s loops, my thoughts rewound toward Deneel, trying to figure out how I would even go about apologizing. There was no culminating event, no big break between us. Our split came in a long series of declined invitations and ignored pleasantries. I started taking different routes to the lycée and, between classes, saw her less and less. Eventually, she gave up.

A prolonged groan came from my stomach. I shook my head, retied the bow, and gathered my things.

It felt good to be back in boots, descending stairs with a wobble. Sure, they garnered a few glances, but my concerns were set on people I actually knew, not these strangers.

The matter of Vivienne’s draft pick still pressed. I realized how I’d neglected to mention her to Deneel.

The draft would begin in a few hours, and she still needed to be prepared. Part of me wanted to let her make her own picks, as compensation for my prior actions.

No.

The draft was too important; if she botched it, we’d be in hot water. I couldn’t do that to Viv, not after giving her hope.

I had to face Deneel and quit being such a wimp.

Returning to the library, I searched the basement level, then the two levels above it. I asked the Fuefoyer if she knew where they’d gone, but she was clueless.

Fine.

My stomach let out a dismal, demanding warble, and I decided to continue my search at the École de Cuisine.