Written on the Margins

Chapter XIV: Written on the Margins

VP and BP Standings

Claire - 23 VP - 2000 BP
Sam - 5 VP - 2500 BP
Emi - 4 VP - 2000 BP
Dawn - 3 VP - 2000 BP
Marissa - 3 VP - 1500 BP
Erin - 0 VP - 1000 BP
Liesa - 0 VP - 2000 BP
Norah - 0 VP - 1000 BP

The library was colder than the rest of the hotel, and Andy suspected the stonework was older than the building itself. Last time he’d been here, he’d noticed how sound carried inside: every footstep ricocheted off the vaulting, every whisper carried through the stacks like a secret searching for the right ear. Yet in some spots, you couldn’t even hear your own voice if you tried.

He ducked his head as he entered, even though the lintel was a good eight inches above him. The place felt… reverential, the kind of hush that made you want to apologize for the noise you made by simply existing. The air was thick with the smell of old leather and dust, and Andy felt something in his chest relax.

He almost missed Claire, perched on a rolling ladder in the farthest alcove, her legs looped through the rungs like a schoolgirl hiding from a particularly bothersome teacher. She wore a sweater with thumb-holes chewed nearly to ribbons, and a pair of plaid shorts that looked three sizes too big. Her hair was messier than usual, the pale strands forming a halo of static, almost glowing in the filtered, dusty sunlight.

Andy watched her for a second, unsure if it was rude to interrupt someone who couldn’t technically tell him to go away. He cleared his throat anyway. “Hey.”

Claire glanced up, startled, then offered a one-handed wave and a quick smile. She held a book in her other hand, thumb marking the page, and Andy caught the faintest flash of cartoonish breasts on the exposed spread. Claire snapped the book closed, mortified, her cheeks instantly pink.

Andy stifled a laugh. “You found the rare volumes, I see.”

She rolled her eyes, hopped lightly off the ladder, and retrieved her battered notebook. With a flourish, she wrote:

I didn’t know it was porn. I thought it was a classic.

She held the page up, then flipped the book around and underlined the word classic three times for emphasis.

Andy walked over, peered at the cover. “Is that Les Misérables?”

Claire nodded, then opened to the bookmarked spread. Andy expected a dry treatise on class struggle; what he saw was an artfully rendered orgy, a tangle of limbs and, for some reason, three bishops in full mitre.

He snorted. “That’s not how I remember the musical.”

Claire’s expression morphed from embarrassment to indignation. She grabbed the notebook again.

They hide it so well. I read 200 pages before it got graphic.

Andy grinned. “That’s on Victor Hugo. You have to build up to it. Foreplay, you know.” Then he noticed the name on the book’s cover. “Ah, I mean, Victor Huge. I guess. Wait-did you really read the title?” He pointed to it, and Claire blushed, slapping her forehead in mortification.

Claire started to laugh, staring at the title printed in delicate script, ‘Les Moisterables’, but caught herself. She drew a little smiley face, then scribbled:

Most are like this. Don’t look at ‘War and Peace’. I warned you.

Andy let the silence settle, the two of them standing in the blue-gray shadow of the stacks. He looked around, noticing for the first time just how many shelves there were, how deep the collection ran. “You want to read all these?” he asked, meaning it as a compliment.

Claire shook her head. She wrote:

Just the ones that I love. And the ones I haven’t read.

Andy liked that. But he couldn’t keep from teasing her. “Lots of porn.” He nodded sagely. She choked in silence.

She set the book aside, then gestured for Andy to follow her. She led him to a little reading nook—two high-backed leather chairs, side by side, separated by a battered side table. She flopped into one chair, legs dangling over the side, and pointed to the seat next to her.

He sat. The chair creaked dangerously under his weight. “So,” he said, “what’s the verdict? Is the library worth it?”

Claire thought about it, then she nodded, and then shook her hand. She paused, looking at him out of the corner of her eye until she had built enough suspense, then she scribbled:

Maybe only if you don’t mind being tricked.

She handed him the notebook, as if passing the baton.

Andy read the sentence again. “You mean, like, plot twists?”

Claire shook her head, eyes wide, and pantomimed a book exploding in her face.

Andy laughed. “Oh, like jump scares. Pornographic jump scares. Victor Huge.”

She nodded.

He felt at ease around her, more so than he ever had, even in high school. He wondered if it was a side effect of her transformation, her direct line into his feelings and desires. He leaned back, let his gaze drift over the spines.

After a while, he asked, “What are you looking for?”

Claire tapped her notebook. She wrote:

Maybe a way out.

She paused, then added, in smaller script:

But really, I just like the stories.

Andy nodded. “Ah, the porn. Me too,” he said. She made an outraged face, and punched him indignantly, with slightly more **** than necessary.

They let the quiet breathe for a moment. Claire spun her pen in her fingers, eyes darting between Andy and the rows of books. Eventually, she wrote:

Three days to the challenge.

Andy considered. “Probably.” He hesitated, then: “Does it bother you?”

Claire shook her head, a little too quickly. Then she wrote:

I’m not scared of the game.

I’m scared I’ll miss something important, and someone will be hurt.

She handed him the notebook. Her hands trembled just a bit.

Andy read the words, then looked at her. “Claire, you’re probably the only person here who could outsmart the show.”

She shrugged, as if to say, so what?

He was about to say more, but Claire reached for the pen, scribbled:

Looking forward to our next night together.

Andy blinked. “Oh.”

Claire clapped a hand over her mouth, mortified. She blushed. She snatched the notebook back, started to scratch out the sentence, then drew an arrow to it and frenziedly underlined:

Not a date. Just… You’re safe. It’s easy with you.

Her face was red, but her eyes didn’t leave his.

Andy felt something warm in his chest, a knot of old pride and new affection. “Claire. A date is more than fine. I’m looking forward to it too,” he said.

Claire smiled, relieved. She mimed drinking tea, then reading a book, then pointed at him with a question mark.

He grinned. “Deal. Tea and reading. No weird bishop orgies unless you want to.”

She scribbled:

I’ll skip the bishops. But maybe a little weirdness is OK.

She frowned at the page, then she scratched out the words ‘a little’ and showed Andy the scribbles again, eyes twinkling with promise, and something that looked a bit like… anxiety?

For a while, they just read in companionable silence—Claire pulling down books at random, Andy leafing through a heavy encyclopedia of “modern” art that was mostly nudes and the occasional, inexplicable and disturbing drawing of a coffin surrounded by fruit and flowers.

At one point, Claire opened a volume and pulled out a crumpled slip of paper, her eyes going serious. She gestured for Andy’s attention, then handed him the note written by the mysterious Sarah. Andy read it twice, then looked up.

“Did you find this?” he asked, voice low.

Claire shook her head, glancing over her shoulder as if Arabella might materialize in the stacks. She wrote:

Marissa. Thinks it’s real.

Andy frowned. Claire hesitated, then scribbled:

Do you think you’ll change?

He considered the question, the weight of it. He thought about the things he’d felt since coming here—the way his heart ached for Sam, the way Erin could still make him feel like a kid, the way Emi’s hands felt when they wrapped around his. He thought about the strange, unnameable pull toward Arabella herself.

He sighed. “We’re all changing, I think. But I know what you mean. I promise, if I start to change, you’ll be the first to know. And I drafted Sam in keeping me on the straight and narrow.”

Claire looked at him for a long time. She drew a smiley face in the margin of a blank page of her notebook and wrote:

I’ll hold you to it.

They spent another hour in the library, moving through the shelves, discovering the secret world of old erotic jokes, forgotten sexual warnings, and, occasionally, softcore Italian woodcuts. They didn’t talk about the next challenge, or the leaderboard, or what Arabella might do if she ever caught them plotting. They just existed, together, in the cool safety of the books.

When it was time to leave, they left the library side by side, the cold behind them and the letter folded back in the book Claire took it from.

The resort’s rec room was a wonderland of well-calibrated distractions: pool table, pinball, a mini fridge filled with boutique sodas, and a row of polished wooden cabinets housing every console known to humankind. At the back, past a battered air hockey table, a big-screen TV flickered with the bright, candy colors of Mario Kart 8. That’s where Emi and Dawn had camped for the morning, feet tucked under them on the couch, controllers locked in mortal combat. They planned to defeat Claire in the next league match, but Dawn felt glumly she had a long way to go.

Dawn didn’t know who had started keeping score, but she was pretty sure it was her. “You’re cheating,” she said, watching Emi’s Princess Peach snake through a shortcut she hadn’t even noticed before. “No way you got that much acceleration on a dirt bike.”

Emi grinned, never taking her eyes off the screen. “It’s the tires,” she murmured. “You have to use the cloud ones. The other ones are just for style.”

Dawn groaned as her kart pinballed off the edge of Rainbow Road, falling into the void for the fifth time in as many seconds. “Ugh. I’m going to lose again.”

“You can still get a blue shell,” Emi said, almost apologetic.

“Not with this luck.” Dawn thumbed the controller harder, willing her avatar back onto the track, but the gap was hopeless.

Emi’s six hands moved with eerie grace, two on the controller, one in her lap, the rest resting on her knees or fidgeting with the hem of her cardigan. “Sorry,” she said, as her Peach soared across the finish line in a cloud of hearts and stars.

Dawn dropped her controller, dramatic. “Destroyed. Utterly destroyed.”

Emi gave a little bow, as if accepting an Olympic medal. She glanced at Dawn, her eyes shy. “Want to do teams this time? We can beat the computer together.”

“Sure,” Dawn said, then hesitated. “But you have to promise not to carry me too hard. It’s embarrassing.”

Emi’s laugh was like wind chimes. “I’ll try to sandbag.”

They set up the next race, both choosing characters at random. As the countdown timer blinked on screen, Dawn leaned back into the cushions, stretching out her legs and sighing contentedly.

“I miss this,” she said, voice soft. “Just… playing games. Being a kid.”

Emi tilted her head, curious. “You played a lot, growing up?”

Dawn shrugged. “Not really. But my dad was obsessed with gadgets. Like, he’d come home from the hotel and go straight to his office, tinkering with espresso machines or model trains. He tried to make his own pinball table once. It didn’t work, but the basement flooded with marbles for weeks.”

“Sounds like fun,” Emi said, nudging her kart onto the shortcut again. She didn’t take her eyes off the race.

“It was, sometimes,” Dawn said. “But mostly I was helping with my little brothers. Or cooking, or cleaning, or just keeping the house from falling apart. My mom was… sick, a lot. So it was my job to be the adult.”

Emi’s fingers stilled on the controller, just for a heartbeat. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Dawn shrugged, eyes locked on the screen. “It’s fine. I got good at taking care of people. And now it’s just… what I do.”

They raced in silence for a bit, the sounds of banana peels and engine whines filling the space.

“I don’t know if I could ever be like that,” Emi said, quietly. “So… dependable.”

Dawn laughed, genuinely. “You’re the most dependable person here, Emi. You always have snacks, you always have tissues, and you’re always ready to give a hug. Even if it means losing the race.”

At that, Emi blushed so pink it was visible even in the shifting light. “It’s just a game,” she mumbled.

“Maybe,” Dawn said, “but I think you’re the only one in this hotel who would sacrifice a win just to make someone else feel better.”

Emi went silent, and for a second Dawn thought she’d overstepped.

But then Emi said, “My dad wasn’t around much, either. He worked for a delivery company. Sometimes I’d go a week without seeing him, except for dinner. But my mom was always there. She made everything feel safe. If she was in the house, nothing could hurt me.”

Dawn nodded. “Moms are like that.”

Emi’s hands moved restlessly, top left hand twisting the sleeve of her cardigan, lower right fidgeting near one of her breasts. “She’s still good at it. She always grounds me, you know?”

Dawn nodded, but she didn’t really. “Yeah,” she lied, “I get it.”

Emi glanced at her, then back at the game. “Do you ever feel like it’s easier to disappear than to try?”

Dawn thought about it. “Sometimes. But I always had to stay. There wasn’t anyone else to pick up the slack.”

“Must be nice,” Emi said, but she didn’t sound jealous. More… wistful.

They finished the race, their avatars coming in third and fourth, which was pretty good for a team. Dawn whooped, throwing both hands in the air. “We didn’t lose!”

Emi giggled, and the sound was bright and honest. “See? You’re good at this.”

Dawn smiled, letting the feeling linger.

After a while, Emi asked, “What’s your dad like? Now, I mean.”

Dawn hesitated, then said, “He’s okay. Lonely, I think. After mom… after she died, he got obsessed with coffee. He started working at this chain downtown, learned how to roast beans, even grew his own little coffee plants. It was like he needed something to take care of, so he wouldn’t have to feel.”

Emi’s eyes glistened with understanding. “I bet he makes good espresso.”

“He does,” Dawn said. “But he’s never found the perfect machine. He used to get so frustrated—always chasing the next big thing, like the right gadget would fix everything.” Her voice caught, just for a second. “But then he stopped. I think he just got tired. Or maybe he realized nothing was going to bring her back.”

Emi reached over, four hands wrapping around Dawn’s wrist, gentle as a moth landing. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she really meant it.

Dawn looked at Emi’s hands, then at her face, and she felt something shift inside her. “Thanks,” she whispered.

The touch lingered. On the TV, their karts idled at the starting line for the next race, waiting for input.

Emi let go, sheepish. “I’m sorry, I always do that. Grab people. It’s a bad habit.”

“It’s a good habit,” Dawn said. “Better than hiding.”

Emi smiled, then reset the race.

Dawn picked up her controller and said, “Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Of course,” Emi replied, eyes on the screen.

“Why do you always… go somewhere else? Like, I mean, sometimes you look like you’re a million miles away. Not even sad, just… gone.”

Emi didn’t answer right away. She waited for the game to load, then said, “I’ve always been a bit like that. Even in school. If something was too much, or too loud, or if someone said something mean, I’d just drift off. Like, into stories, or daydreams. But after—” She stopped, looked down, then shrugged. “After Laura died, it got worse.”

Dawn blinked. “Who’s Laura?”

Emi went pale. “You don’t know?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Dawn shook her head.

Emi hesitated, then said, “She was… she was important. To Andy, a lot. And to me, too. But she’s gone.”

Dawn frowned, trying to connect the dots. “She was your friend?”

Emi nodded. “She was. Much more than that, for Andy, though. But when she died… She took a little piece of me with her.” She sighed. “But it was much worse for Andy. Still is.”

Dawn’s voice softened. “What happened?”

Emi looked away, hands clenching the controller. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not my story to tell. If you want to know, you should ask Andy.”

The room went quiet. Dawn didn’t know what to say, so she just pressed the A button and let the game start. Their avatars zoomed forward, the world blurring with speed and color.

They played for a while, not talking, just racing. After a few laps, Dawn said, “It doesn’t matter, you know. If you’re here or somewhere else. You still give the best hugs.”

Emi looked at her, eyes shining, and smiled.

“Thank you,” she said. “That means a lot.”

They finished the race, both of them crossing the finish line side by side.

Emi turned to Dawn, and in a voice steadier than before, said, “Want to play again?”

Dawn grinned. “I never say no to a rematch.”

Norah prided herself on the ability to slip through public spaces without being noticed. The trick, she found, was to walk like you owned the place, even when your insides said you barely belonged. In the Banquet Hall, though, it was impossible. The room was a trap: light from the wall of windows, no shadows to fade into, every movement visible from anywhere in the room. There was nowhere to hide.

She spotted Marissa immediately, sitting at a table near the glass, two steaming mugs between her and Liesa. They looked like the world’s most photogenic odd couple—Marissa in dark, conservative slacks, her pale gold hair knotted with brutal precision; Liesa in a cream summer dress, her hands moving in fluttery gestures as she spoke. For a split second Norah thought about retreating, but Liesa’s green eyes tracked her before she could even turn. Shit.

“Norah!” Liesa called, waving her over with too much enthusiasm to ignore.

Norah plastered on a smile and crossed the room, bracing herself. “Hey,” she said, sliding into the chair beside Marissa. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not,” Marissa said, voice calm and pleasant. “We were just debating whether Belgian waffles or stroopwafels are more iconic.” She poured a third mug from the carafe and slid it toward Norah. “Sit.”

Norah curled her fingers around the mug, letting the warmth creep into her hands. She didn’t drink right away, instead watching the steam coil up and vanish.

Liesa picked up the thread as if she’d never been interrupted. “I know stroopwafels are Dutch, but you cannot tell me they do not belong in Belgium. The border is just a line on paper.”

Marissa smiled, eyes flicking to Norah. “Lines on paper have started more wars than waffles.”

Liesa huffed, mock-offended. “Americans. You know nothing of culinary diplomacy.”

Norah almost laughed, but bit it back. She knew the game Marissa’s type played—let the talk go in circles until you forgot why you were anxious. It was an old therapist trick. She tried to focus on the mug, the faint scent of cardamom, but it didn’t help.

Liesa noticed. “Is okay, Norah. You don’t need to smile.”

Marissa set her own cup down. “What’s on your mind?”

Norah shrugged, staring at the table. “Nothing. Just… didn’t want to be alone right now.”

Liesa’s eyes crinkled. “This is good reason.”

They talked waffles for a while, Liesa rattling off place names with musical lilt: Brugge, Antwerp, Gent, each with a preferred breakfast. Marissa mostly listened, adding the occasional dry joke. Norah sat there, drinking and letting the rhythm settle around her.

It was halfway through Liesa’s impassioned defense of “real” Gent mustard that Norah blurted: “I think I’m getting eliminated at the challenge.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than the sunlight.

Marissa blinked, but didn’t flinch. “Why do you think that?”

Norah traced the rim of her mug, pressing her thumb into the ceramic. “There’s a system. Points, rewards, some kind of math. I’m not stupid—I’ve seen how the show works. First you have the harmless fun, then they start cutting the elimination bait, show the stakes are high without affecting anyone of importance. I’m the bait.” She managed a laugh, but it sounded like a cough. “And tomorrow’s my night with Cooper.”

Liesa was quiet, all the brightness drained from her eyes. “You are scared?”

“Terrified,” Norah said. She didn’t mean to sound so raw.

Liesa reached out, not quite touching Norah’s hand but close. “I am scared too. My night is tonight. I am… not ready.”

Marissa glanced between them, then spoke. “Can I ask you both something?” She waited for a nod, then: “What is it you’re really afraid of? The date, or the elimination?”

Liesa was the first to answer. “Both, I think. But… the date. Andy—he is not like the other men. But I do not want to be rejected. Or worse, to be pitied.” She smiled, but her lips trembled. “Also, my… transformation… It’s very hard. I cannot even flirt.”

Marissa arched an eyebrow, amused. “You seem to be managing fine with us.”

Liesa blushed. “This is different. With Andy, if I want something… I cannot ask. If I want him to hold me, I cannot say so. Even if I try, it does not come out.” She looked at Norah, then at Marissa. “I told him, first night, that if he wanted to be with me, he must come to me. But what if he does not want to?”

Marissa set her mug down. “Then you wait. Or you remind him.”

Liesa gave a brittle laugh. “That is what I keep telling myself.” She looked at Norah. “What about you? Why are you so afraid?”

Norah tried to find an answer that wouldn’t sound pathetic. “Because I don’t trust anyone here,” she said. “Not Cooper, not the Host, not the rules. Every time I start to think I know what’s coming, the ground shifts. It’s like—” She searched for the right image. “It’s like trying to run on ice. No matter how careful you are, you’re going to fall. Eventually.”

Marissa nodded, her expression gentle but firm. “You want control. That’s what you’re really afraid of losing.”

Norah thought about it, then nodded. “I guess.”

Marissa looked at both women, then said: “Let me give you some advice. Don’t put so much pressure on yourselves. Or on Andy. If he remembers your transformation, good. If not, you remind him. But don’t **** it. The only way to get through this is by being honest, at least with yourself.”

She turned to Liesa. “If you don’t want to talk about your past, don’t. You don’t owe him everything. Just tell him what you’re comfortable with.”

Liesa’s eyes glistened, but she didn’t cry. She looked at Marissa with open gratitude. “Thank you,” she said, voice soft.

Marissa smiled, then faced Norah. “You, on the other hand, need to stop going it alone. You’ve spent the last week keeping your distance, except for Emi. For some reason, she’s immune to your defenses.”

Norah almost snorted at that. “She’s like… a cat. She can sense when you want to be left alone, and then she sits on your lap anyway.”

“That’s called empathy,” Marissa said, not unkindly. “And you need it, whether you admit it or not.”

Norah looked away, embarrassed. “I don’t want to bother anyone.”

Liesa shook her head. “You do not bother us. We are all in this together.”

Marissa leaned in. “And as for Andy, maybe you should tell him how you really feel. Explain the reason for your anger. Not in a fight, but… just talk. People get defensive when they feel attacked. Maybe if you were honest, you’d find some common ground.”

Norah gripped the mug harder. “He’s the reason I’m here. If it wasn’t for him—”

“If it wasn’t for him, none of us would be here,” Marissa said, gently. “But he didn’t choose this, any more than we did. If you have something to say, say it. Just don’t expect him to read your mind.”

For a long time, they were silent. The only sound was the faint clatter from the kitchen, invisible staff prepping for the next meal.

Norah finally spoke. “I’m still angry,” she said. “But… I guess I could try.”

Liesa smiled, full and unguarded. “This is all any of us can do.”

Norah grinned, crooked. “I’m still not getting eliminated at the challenge. I refuse.”

Marissa laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

Norah set her mug down, then eyed Marissa. “So… You also didn’t get your night with Cooper yet, right?”

Marissa’s face colored, but she didn’t evade. “I… did not. But he and I met in the spa, a few days back. It was surprisingly normal… The previous relationship boundaries no longer hold. We talked, and then—” She stopped, glancing at Norah, then Liesa. “We went to the sauna. That’s all.”

Liesa winked. “That’s not all, I think.”

Marissa rolled her eyes. “You know what? Fine. Yes, I showed him my boobs. I did it on purpose, too, although he thinks my top snapped accidentally. But it wasn’t weird.”

“Was it… nice?” Liesa asked, honest curiosity in her voice.

Marissa smiled. “It was. Actually, I think it helped. I stopped being afraid of the change. After a while, it was just… me.”

Norah looked at her, suspicious. “You’re okay with it? Just like that?”

Marissa considered, then nodded. “Yes. It’s just a body. It’s still mine.”

Liesa grinned. “You are brave.”

Marissa shrugged. “We all are.”

Norah fidgeted, then asked, “Is he a boob guy?”

Liesa and Marissa both burst out laughing.

Liesa said, “You could say that, yes.”

Norah smiled, despite herself. “Figures. Not that it matters—I don’t even know how to seduce someone, let alone make it real.”

Liesa leaned in. “You don’t need to seduce. Just talk. Be honest. Maybe he will surprise you.”

Marissa added, “And don’t use your body to win points. It doesn’t work that way. Andy’s a good man. Don’t play with his feelings.”

Norah rolled her eyes, but she heard the warning. “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. He nearly ruined my career once. I’m not that forgiving.”

Liesa’s face got serious, and for the first time, Norah saw the steel underneath her smile. “Then don’t. But if you try to fake a connection, you might lose more than you think. There could be penalties.”

Norah nodded, accepting the advice. “Okay. I’ll be myself, for what it’s worth.”

Marissa smiled. “It’s worth a lot.”

They sat together, finishing their drinks in the early sun. After a while, Norah stood, gathering her things.

“Thanks,” she said, quietly. “For not laughing at me.”

Liesa touched her arm. “We never would.”

Marissa added, “If you need to talk, come find us. Or Emi. We’re all on the same side, here.”

Norah nodded, then walked out, the weight in her chest lighter than before.

When she was gone, Liesa glanced at Marissa. “You think she will be okay?”

Marissa smiled, soft and certain. “I do. I think she needed to hear she wasn’t alone.”

Liesa sighed, relief in her voice. “Good.”

They watched the empty doorway together, sunlight pooling across the table, and for a moment, the world seemed almost manageable.