What Thunder Lefty Behind by DT Martin 5 Thunder and Silk 8 O
6:00 AM Saturday, September 14th Dorm room.
The cursor blinks twice before the screen resolves.
My breath drifts faintly against the rim of my mug.
T still warm, though steep too briefly to hold meaning.
A new tablets. The student portal flickers,
then centers itself. Student Profile.
Fall Term. Ross, Lilly Ann Mathematics
Major accelerated placement minor Computational cognitive
systems. A single click reveals the full
schedule. Monday at 8:00 AM Accelerated
calculus one through 2. Monday, 5:30 PM Lab neural
interface Independent research project undefined.
Tuesday, 10 AM. Linear Algebra Tuesday, 11 AM.
Writing seminar Yarrow Tuesday, 2:00 PM.
Human machine interaction design.
Wednesday, 9:00 AM, Differential equations.
Wednesday, 11 AM. English Lit, Trauma and the
modern Voice. Doctor Keen.
Wednesday, 5:30 PM. Lab neural interface.
Independent Research. Thursday 11 AM Writing Seminar
Yarrow Thursday 2:00 PM Writing with Algorithms Friday 9:00 AM
Intro to Cognitive Science Friday 11 AM Intro to Computer
Science Lin Friday 1:00 PM Problem solving for accelerated
learners Friday 5:00 PM Lab Neural interface Independent
Research. The list scrolls longer than
expected. Eleven classes, 3 labs, two
writing seminars demanding. This is what the experimental
accelerated placement program requires.
Compression intensity, no margin for error.
The course title near the bottom lingers in my mind.
Lab neural interface. Independent research.
I stare until the words blur. Nothing beneath them yet no
shape, no center, only the pressure to become something
undefined. 8 O 9:00 AM Saturday, September 14th.
Dorm room. 11 courses. I count them twice, tracing the
arc of each one, hoping repetition might rearrange their
weight. 3 labs, 2 seminars, 4 technical lectures, 1 cognitive
core, a workshop built around stress tolerance. 29 documented
hours more behind them. Drift time, collisions, mental
spillover. I blink and look away.
The schedule hums behind my eyes, so I retreat to something
older, something built on memory and forward motion. 0 yields 11,
becomes 11, expands into two. Two folds into 33, gives rise to
55, increases to 88 leads to 13. The Fibonacci sequence.
Recursive, predictable, a structure lengthening over time
without fracture. Each number depends on the 2
before it carried upward and steady intervals, growth with
pattern expansion with order, 13 evolves into 21, then 34, then
55. I breathe with its rhythm, not
to escape the pressure but to contain it.
The pattern offers scaffolding. The schedule lacks.
It doesn't demand interpretation or multiply consequences.
It simply holds across the room. My tea cools unevenly, one side
warmer where my hand circled the cup too long, the other already
ambient. The imbalance fits.
It mirrors the data. I accept it.
I place my palm over my notebook, feeling the pressure
points left by yesterday's calculations.
Inside, the page holds an unfinished equation, harmonic
interference drawn in a single line before the rest collapsed
into inkless thought, a mirrored arc, incomplete.
Tammy steps in, wind tangled in her collar, earbuds looped
around one wrist, hair still damp from the shower.
She looks from me to the clothes laptop, then to the protein bar
left untouched on my desk. You haven't eaten.
I stay where I am, arms folded, spine held, two straight.
Tammy Slows. What happened?
It's 11, I say. She crosses to my desk and flips
the laptop open, the screen brightening with my course list.
Her eyes narrow slightly as she reads once, then again, slower.
The tension moves through her face in quiet degrees. 3 laps.
She asks. I nod.
She exhales through her teeth. And a shut.
He built it. Tammy sits on the edge of the
bed, one knee drawn up, hands clasped loosely.
Her gaze never drifts. The experimental track is going
to break someone. One of these years you'll manage
it, but not if you pretend you're a machine.
I keep my focus on the floor. Oh, I'm already slipping before
I've even begun. You haven't lost anything yet.
It feels like velocity without control.
She reaches for my hand. Steady, warm, unassuming.
Then pause the acceleration today for a few hours.
I glance up. We're going shopping.
She says. Somerville appointment only
boutique with better lighting than the campus library and
fitting rooms that don't smell like carpet glue.
I start to speak, but she cuts me off with a half smile.
Sour straws already cleared security.
I told them you had a glycemic sensitivity.
A breath catches and releases. Tommy stands.
Go shower, wear something you can climb out of without
breaking your arms and no hoodies.
I rise slowly, the sequence still moving in my head.
55891449-O2 AM Saturday, September 14th.
Campus walkway. Tommy walks with the rhythm of
someone unwilling to waste a step, her stride clipped, scarf
fluttering in cadence with the wind.
The sidewalk glistens from yesterday's rain, though the air
promises light gold, warming the glass buildings that watch over
us. James waits beneath the skeletal
frame of a Maple tree, one hand curled around a paper cup, the
other tucked into the pocket of a wool coat he didn't wear
yesterday. His posture is casual, but his
attention sharpens the moment he sees us.
That quiet precision, the kind only a best friend develops over
time, lands before his first word.
There she is. He calls, his tone light but
certain. Our prodigy in exile, flanked by
her personal storm system. Tammy doesn't glance over.
We're booked. She has to try on three dresses
and emotionally survive at least one of them.
James's eyebrows lift as he falls into step beside me.
You're letting her dress you. She's choosing the dresses, I
say. I get to choose whether they get
zipped. His smile curves into something
warmer than teasing. May the math gods protect you.
Then softer. How you doing there, Pie
Princess? Oh, better than yesterday.
I answer, and that's enough. He gives my hand a quick
sideways squeeze before releasing it, his voice already
shifting as he pivots toward Tammy.
So what's the plan? Glamour, distraction or full
blown reinvention? Tammy slows at the crosswalk.
She's showing up tonight and she's doing it without hiding
behind sleeves and. Shadows, James hums.
She's going to make everyone else look underdressed.
Obviously, Tammy replies and taps the walk signal with
deliberate flair. And you're wearing the black
trousers, the ones that make you look confident.
James places a hand to his chest.
I am always competent. You are occasionally
presentable. He gasps.
And this is the thanks I get for years of moral support and post
midnight cocoa deliveries. She tugs me forward as the light
changes. Be under the lights at six.
Bring something that sparkles, even if it's sarcasm.
Behind us, James lifts his cup in salute.
I'll bring both. The wind sharpens as we turn off
the main road, the buildings pressing closer, glass catching
light and uneven fragments across the sidewalk.
Tammy keeps the pace, her voice somewhere ahead, but I fall
behind by half a step. A shift moves through the air,
an edge beneath the breeze too dense for morning, the kind of
pressure that builds inside low systems before the sky decides
what to do with it. Storms begin without permission.
A gradient forms. The numbers tilt.
My breath shortens. I reach inward, toward the only
rhythm that ever answers back, the Fibonacci sequence. 144 two
hundred 33377 each value carried forward from what preceded it,
each step dependent recursive whole 610987-I Let the sequence
stretch farther than the moment demands.
The structure steadies with the atmosphere cannot 1597 By the
time we reach the corner boutique my pulse has aligned
with the pattern, though the weight beneath my ribs remains.
10:42 AM Saturday, September 14th Elin form Somerville.
The boutique rests beneath an awning trimmed an Ivy, its glass
doors framed by copper and shadow.
The sign on the window is hand painted eel and form, the
brushstroke serif balanced and deliberate.
Inside, everything narrows. Sound dims with the weight of
fabric and distance. No music plays.
The lighting falls from concealed fixtures, warm but
indirect, meant to flatter without announcement.
A woman behind the counter glances up with practiced
welcome. Tammy crosses the tile without
pause. Appointment for two.
She says, already signing the sheet.
She writes her last name, Wang the Ink, settling on the page
with certainty, and hands the clipboard back with the
confidence of someone who has done this before.
The attendant nods and gestures toward a partition section near
the rear. Stalls 3 and 4 waters to the
right. Let me know if you need
additional lengths. Tammy hands me a hanger without
looking. Start with this one.
The dress is soft, Navy, sleeveless, with a narrow plunge
in the back that reveals more than I ever offer willingly.
The fabric shimmers faintly under the boutiques glow, a note
pinned discreetly at the collar. Bias cut, fluid motion.
I follow her into the dressing room corridor, the stalls
curtained and velvet soundless when drawn.
The mirror leans against the wall, tall and gently warped at
the edges, framed in reclaimed wood.
On the bench rests a bowl of spare pins and a folded throw.
I do not touch. I stare at the dress for a long
time before unzipping it. The fabric folds easily,
slipping over my skin without resistance, but the drop along
the back hollows everything behind me.
Exposure built into the silhouette, precise and
unyielding. I hadn't intended to try this
one. I never wanted the weight of
reflection, or the silence that arrives when skin becomes
unfamiliar. Scars run from shoulder blade to
spine in uneven branches, Pale where skin should hold color,
textured where it should smooth. The dress offers them to the
mirror without hesitation. The mirror returns them without
judgement. I reach for the zipper too late.
The curtain draws back behind me in slow motion.
A sharp inhale escapes from behind me.
I freeze. Tammy says nothing for a
heartbeat. Then her voice softens, wrapped
in immediate regret. Oh, Lily, I didn't mean.
She catches herself mid sentence, eyes already lowered,
the gesture careful, unforced. I thought you.
Called, she murmurs, stepping back with deliberate quiet.
I'm so sorry, I should have waited.
Her gaze never rises again. She closes the curtain and
leaves me with the dress. I return the dress to its hanger
with careful hands, smoothing the line of fabric across the
waist before settling it back into place.
The material offers no resistance, already softened
from motion. My fingers find the weight of my
clothing folded neatly on the bench, the sweatshirt holding a
memory of body heat that feels foreign.
Now. Each movement becomes a choice.
Sock, pant, leg, sleeve. The cotton clings momentarily to
my shoulder, catching against skin still marked by exposure,
but the pressure fades once the fabric adjusts.
Here, truth remains unspoken, and the mirror confirms
everything I don't need it to. The sensation remains.
The dress is gone, but its intention lingers.
Tammy saw the part I had never planned to name.
She didn't ask. She backed away with her gaze
lowered and her posture intact. Her apology landed with
precision, then disappeared. No questions, only breath.
Still. Something exists between us now.
An equation unsolved, held in quiet parentheses.
I step out of the dressing stall.
Tammy waits in one of the low back chairs arranged in an arc
along the far wall, her posture composed but far from still.
She wears a soft pink dress that narrows at the waist and flares
again above the knee, the hem catching at the edge of her
boot. When she shifts, the neckline
draws high across her collarbone, interrupted only by
the gentle movement of her curls against one side.
A single silver pin fastens the loose strands behind her ear,
the metal catching the light with quiet insistence.
She doesn't stand when I approach.
Her hands remain in her lap, fingers threaded loosely,
shoulders squared and welcome rather than caution.
I sit beside her, posture parallel but withdrawn.
I told a story, I say, once my breath finds the shape of the
sentence. At that party.
Tammy tilts her head slightly, her expression open without
pressure. Some of it, I continue, might
have been true. The silence she offers in return
holds its own structure, measured intact.
Her gaze remains steady, neither soft nor sharp, but calibrated
to listen without reaching Tammy.
I really can't afford a shop like this, I say.
But I wanted to see you find something.
I already have a dress. Tammy smiles, one side first,
then the other. Her voice arrives in its usual
rhythm, light without dismissal. Then let me try on something
that would terrify an architect. Sequins, iridescence, maybe
structural fringe. I'll be here to consult.
She rises, smoothing the dress along her thighs before crossing
toward the central display. Her step remains fluid, her
hands already in motion, pausing briefly over satin velvet,
something with mirrored threading along the sleeves.
From the chair, I watch her blend into color.
Tammy returns with a black dress, lung over one arm, the
hanger crooked at the elbow like it belongs there.
The garment carries an unapologetic shape, sharp
neckline, corset seams, minimal straps.
It's material doesn't reflect light so much as absorb it,
every thread calculated for impact.
The attendant packages it in tissue and satin ribbon without
small talk. Tammy thanks her with a nod and
leads us through the glass doors again, the wind rising enough to
lift the corners of the boutiques Ivy trimmed sign.
We walk in silence for two blocks.
Neither of us names what occurred.
The quiet serves a different purpose now.
Space, not tension. Tammy carries the dress like a
mission. I carry the memory of Navy silk
and mirror edges. When we reach the dorm, she
already has her key card in hand.
The room feels smaller than usual, sunlight catching on the
scatter of books across my desk, The open drawer wear socks never
stay paired. The faint scent of cinnamon from
the instant oatmeal packets she keeps stocked in the bin under
her bed. Tammy holds the dress up to the
mirror, pivots slightly, and nods once to herself.
Stevens going to trip over a table.
I lift an eyebrow. You think he's coming?
He always. Comes.
She unzips the garment bag and drapes the black dress across
the bedspread. Then, without ceremony, she
pulls open her closet and begins flipping through a line of
hangers with curated aggression. You're not wearing the one you
brought. He says, already halfway through
her selection process. I didn't bring it for anyone
else. Exactly, which means it won't
do. My gaze catches on a dark purple
dress pressed flat between two plastic covers, the color bold,
the lines clean and unapologetic.
A little outside my comfort zone.
High collar, sleeveless. The back rises all the way to
the nape but kerfs close at the waist.
The skirt cuts diagonally across the thigh, leaving one leg
nearly bare. I reach for it just as Tammy
does, our hands brushing at the hanger.
She laughs, letting go first. Looks like you found your armor.
This dress is beautiful, I say, voice stronger than I expect.
I hold the dress up to the mirror, feeling the weight in my
hands. This time, the choice is mine.