Faraday.
There was only one thing that could mean, of course—Faraday, as in Faraday shield, as in a conductive material of some kind that could block electromagnetic waves.
Why Lehrer was passing him notes about this was a little harder to understand.
Noam stayed up late thinking about it almost every night that week, turning the word over and over in his mind until it lost all meaning. Faraday. How was that supposed to help the refugees? Was Sacha planning some kind of electromagnetic attack against them? Was Noam meant to use his newfound power over electricity and magnetism to build a Faraday shield and protect them?
Noam lingered after lessons every day, hoping Lehrer would ask him to stay late again and give him another hint (or another note, or even another several notes), but Lehrer seemed to have said all he planned to on the matter. As if oblivious to how much mental energy Noam was spending trying to decrypt his code, Lehrer gave him just as much homework as usual—on top of everything his new, regular teachers were giving him. That meant by the time it was Saturday, the day of Dara’s party, Noam’s head was so full of geology and anatomy and physics he was amazed he remembered his own name. Now Taye was outside knocking on Noam’s door telling him to hurry the fuck up.
Still, they spent about five minutes loitering on the sidewalk while Taye tried and continually failed to hail them a cab.
“Have you ever been to the Pinwheel before?” Ames asked. She wore sky-high glittery heels; Noam was pretty sure he’d break an ankle trying to dance in those.
“No, never,” he said. “What’s it like?”
Ames gave him a mysterious little smile and exhaled cigarette smoke in his face. “I guess you’ll find out, won’t you?”
“Come on!” Taye called from over by the curb, his breath clouding in the air before his face; he’d finally caught them a cab and stood holding the door open, stomping his feet to keep them warm. “Hurry up and get in, I’m freezing.”
Noam slid across the back seat in front of Ames, Taye behind her and Dara claiming the front passenger seat. Dara twisted around as soon as he was in, the corner of his mouth tilted up.
“All right, here’s the deal,” he said. “If we’re going all the way to Raleigh, then we’re going to do this right. No one gets to stay sober. No one wallflowers. If you want to–you know–go somewhere with someone else, let someone know and we’ll wait for you. Just don’t stay all night, yeah?”
“Sounds good,” Taye said, stretching out a crick in his neck. “If no one stays sober, does that mean you’re buying?”
Dara just laughed and turned back around properly. Noam watched the city slide past outside the window, the cab turning onto the highway to Raleigh. Noam didn’t have any money, never mind a fake ID. Guess that meant he’d be breaking Dara’s whole no-sober rule. Maybe the bartender would serve him water in a martini glass if he asked.
Taye had brought a music player along with him, and he played music out of it with the volume turned all the way up the whole ride there, something fast with a heavy bass that made Ames bounce in her seat and Dara grin from up front, the city lights casting strange patterns on his face. By the time they arrived the club was already full, with a line out front a block long, but Dara walked right past it, all the way to the front to smile at the bulky man holding the clipboard. “We’re on the list. Dara Shirazi plus three. Sponsor name is Ames.”
Ames as in, their Ames? Or as in her father, General Ames?Surely not. Noam glanced sidelong at the Ames they had with them, but she was busy reapplying her lipstick and didn’t notice.
The man looked at his list, grunted, then waved them in. Dara looked back over his shoulder and said, “Come on. Coat check’s free. Ames’ dad took care of the cover.”
Must be nice, having a dad willing to pay for you and your friends to go out every Saturday.
Inside, the Pinwheel was dark, lit only by spinning lights overhead that trapped everything in purple and blue and silver, dizzying and otherworldly. Someone at a desk took all their coats, and that was when Noam realized he might be a little underdressed. Or maybe overdressed. Everyone else in this place was wearing as little as they could get away with, or as tight, or both. The four of them were the most modest by far, but even Dara’s black shirt fit him a little too well. Noam might as well have come in his drabs.
“This way,” Dara had to yell to be heard over the music. He didn’t wait long enough for anyone to shout back, just grabbed Noam’s wrist and dragged Noam into the crush after him, Taye’s hand catching hold of the back of Noam’s sweater.
The body heat hit Noam like a wave, the push and press of bodies and voices drowning him in sensation; the only real thing was Dara’s grip on his wrist as they waded through the pulsating crowds, Dara almost hidden by the glut of people around them, everyone drinking and jumping and grinding to the rhythm of whatever the DJ played on the turntables. It was totally disorienting, and Noam was breathless by the time they broke free on the other side and Dara led them across the bar area then up a narrow spiral stair to a small loft overlooking the dance floor.
There was even a velvet rope drawn over the gate with a sign saying Reserved.
Dara stepped onto the loft with all the ease of someone who belonged in Reserved spaces, the darling of Carolinian high society. He tugged a bottle out of the ice bucket and poured them each a flute of shimmering champagne.
To Taye and Ames, maybe, this was perfectly normal—but Noam couldn’t stop staring. At the plush couches, the free drinks, the disco-bright lights glittering over the dance floor and casting silver sparks on their skin.
“Your father must really like you,” he said to Ames, who snorted and shook her head.
“Not me,” she said. “Him.” She pointed at Dara, who lifted a brow back in response and took a sip of his champagne.
“I just mentioned that we liked coming here sometimes,” Dara said. “Tell your father we’re grateful for his generosity.”
Ames laughed. “Tell him yourself,” she said. She grabbed at Dara’s arm, squeezing it, then let her hand glance upward to brush the backs of tattooed knuckles along Dara’s cheek. Dara didn’t flinch, the way Noam would have–just smiled. “No,” Ames said, “with a face like this, Dara could get in anywhere. Don’t you think, Noam?”
Noam felt awkward all of the sudden, too aware of his ill-fitting clothes and the way his shirt tag itched at the top of his spine. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”
Ames’ grin widened, and Noam just looked back at her, blank-faced because he couldn’t figure out what the hell Ames wanted. If she and Dara were…together, or something. He hadn’t forgotten that night during the movie, Ames and Dara alone in the bedroom. Too easy to imagine how Ames decided to help Dara feel better, after Noam left.
Dara finally batted Ames’ hand away, still smiling. “Leave him alone, Ames. Most people don’t share your sense of humor.”
“You’re right–I’m sorry, where are my manners? Noam, let me get you a drink.”
Ames reached for Noam this time, pulling him forward by the wrist to press a champagne flute into his hand with an order to drink up. Noam was inclined to obey. The only way he was going to get through this night without feeling incredibly out of place was if he was too drunk to care, and if he didn’t have to buy the drinks himself…. He ended up drinking another two before they went down to the dance floor, following the backs of familiar heads until they were so deep in the crowd that he lost track.
Noam didn’t know how to dance, but he was buzzed already, and the people he knew were far enough away they couldn’t see. He let himself become part of the movement of the crowd, the music vibrating in his bones, reflecting the way everyone else seemed to throb along with the bass. He thought he recognized a few faces, people from the government compound maybe, but they didn’t talk. They just danced. Someone he didn’t know handed him a shot of something sour and he took it, then another, until the last of his inhibitions faded away and left the music in its place.
He ended up dancing with a girl at some point, his hands on her tiny waist and her fingers in his hair. Then she was gone, and there was someone else, another drink poured down his throat.
Noam saw him. Dara, maybe ten feet away, dancing. He looked–magnetic, so unlike anyone else here, his hips undulating against someone else’s, that someone else with hands on his body, pressing up beneath the hem of his shirt to touch brown skin. Dara tilted his head back and somehow the gesture wasn’t vulnerable at all, not on him. Noam stopped dancing, at some point, standing there watching a stranger tangle his hands in Dara’s dark curls. Kiss him.
The song changed and Noam tore his gaze away, suddenly dizzy. He’d had too much to drink–or not enough, he thought, and he shouldered his way past dancing bodies to find the stairs leading back up to the VIP loft. He felt…voyeuristic, dirty. And something else, too.
The only person up here now was Ames. She stood near the railing, holding a low glass of whiskey in hand, and when Noam stepped onto the balcony she looked at him and lifted the glass in his direction.
“Cheers,” Ames said. She downed the rest of her drink. “You having a good time?”
“Fine,” Noam said, going to sit down on the sofa and tug the chilled bottle of champagne toward himself, refilling one of the empty flutes; he wasn’t even sure it was his. He overpoured and the bubbles leaked down the side of the glass, dripping over Noam’s fingers.
Ames came over and dropped down onto the sofa beside him. Some magic tugged his empty glass out of his hand and sent it sliding across the table to clink into the ice pail. “So,” Ames said, hooking one elbow over the back cushions and twisting her torso toward Noam. “You’ve been here two months but I feel like I barely know you, Noam. Tell me about yourself.”
“I don’t know what there is to say.”
She refilled his glass with telekinesis, much more neatly than he’d managed to, and passed it back. “C’mon, be creative. Dara thinks you’re cool, which means I think you’re cool. So say something cool.”
Wait. Noam frowned. “Dara thinks I’m cool?”
Ames rolled her eyes dramatically and downed the rest of her whiskey, setting the glass on the table to refill itself. “Please don’t get pathetic on me. I know Dara can’t help it, he just transforms gay boys into these drooling stalkers by existing in proximity, but I don’t want to start puking this early tonight.”
“Okay, well, I’m not gay. Must be your lucky night.”
“Jesus, Noam. Come on.”
He sipped his champagne and just smiled at her. The expression felt false. He’d come up here to get away from Dara and Dara’s…whatever Dara was up to out there. And now Ames wouldn’t let him forget about it. Now he wanted to know about these pathetic gay boys. He wanted to know who else Dara had been kissing. If Dara kissed a lot of men. If Dara kissed only men.
“Dara and I aren’t together, in case you were wondering,” Ames said, leaning in closer. “About the other night, that is.” She seemed to have forgotten about her refilled whiskey; the glass remained on the table, untouched. Noam could smell the alcohol on her breath. He wondered if she was on something else, too. Surely it wasn’t natural, to have pupils so large.
“I meant it when I said I wasn’t gay,” Noam said.
Ames arched a brow.
Noam smirked. “Bisexual isn’t gay.”
At last, Ames laughed. Her hand came to rest on Noam’s knee and Noam looked down at it, Ames’ fingers digging in just slightly, seeing it as if from a distance. He wanted to lean in, to kiss her and find out if her mouth tasted like whiskey.
Or maybe he wanted to pull away. He couldn’t decide.
But then Ames did it for him, catching sight of something over Noam’s shoulder and tugging her hand back into her lap. “Hey,” she said, “back for more drinks?”
Noam looked around just in time to hear Dara say, “It’s starting to get too crowded out there. I needed a break.”
“That’s a first for you,” Ames said, and her gaze flicked back to Noam as Dara sat in one of the free armchairs, crossing his legs at the knees. His lips looked red in this light; Noam wondered if that was because he’d kept kissing even after Noam left. If maybe he’d done more than kiss.
“It’s been a long week. Aren’t you going to pour me a drink?”
Ames grinned. “Bossy,” she said, but did it anyway, handing Dara a fresh glass of whiskey. Dara drank half of it in a few quick swallows then set it down on the arm of his chair. He kept looking at Noam, little sidelong glances that made Noam wonder if he had something on his face.
“I was just telling Noam here about our little dinners with dad and the Defense Minister,” Ames said, which was an obvious lie of course. She still had one arm slung over the back of the sofa; her touch brushed the back of Noam’s neck. “Dad’s having another soirée this weekend. Maybe you’ll come.”
“Sure,” Dara said easily. His thumb tapped against the rim of his tumbler. “If you’ll have me.”
Ames shook her head. “Don’t be crazy, Dad loves you. I think he’d keep you there permanently if he could. Probably wishes you were his kid instead.”
Dara didn’t say anything to that, just sipped at his whiskey again, watching Noam. Annoyed, and without the inhibition to hold himself back, Noam just lifted his eyebrows back at him. What? Dara’s gaze slid away again.
A clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and then Taye emerged, flush-cheeked and bright-eyed. “It’s crazy out there,” Taye declared. “And I think I lost my ID. Or it got stolen.”
He claimed the rest of the bottle of champagne for himself, dropping down onto the sofa between Ames and Noam. Noam tried not to look as relieved as he felt when Ames pulled her arm back off the seat cushions and let Taye settle in, tipping the bottle up to pour its contents into his mouth.
“What do you mean, lost your ID?” Dara said, and for the next fifteen minutes all they talked about was Taye’s ID and how they were going to get it back, if they should report it or if Ames’ dad could pull some strings–apparently the authorities didn’t look kindly on cadets losing badges. Noam was starting to feel a little sick to his stomach so he kept his mouth shut, wishing he had enough money to just go hail his own cab and go back to Durham. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in his bed and sleep for a week.
The nausea ebbed, though, and eventually the other soldiers turned up in the loft again, some of them with different beautiful people than the last time. Ames ordered a fresh round of drinks and Noam made himself choke down another shot, this time tequila. After that they all poured back onto the dance floor. Noam tried to stick close to the others this time, but it wasn’t easy. Worse when he had to watch Dara dance with someone else, another boy, this time closer to their age. He didn’t kiss him, at least that Noam saw. So Noam danced with a girl he didn’t know and wondered what Dara would do if he pushed his way through and told Dara to dance with him instead.
The girl was pretty, with pale skin and white hair, almost like a negative image of Dara. And she was forceful, which Noam appreciated in its own way, because it meant he didn’t have to wonder about the boundaries or what he should and shouldn’t be doing. He just let her take the lead and tried to forget about Dara when she pressed her body against his, when she tugged his lower lip between her teeth. He kissed her back, not really thinking about it, his mind blurred and his body feeling overly warm.
He might have been dancing with her for an hour, maybe just for ten minutes, before someone grabbed his arm and Taye’s voice said in his ear, “We’re heading out. You coming?”
“Yeah,” Noam said.
He looked back at the girl, who shrugged and waggled her fingers at him. Noam let Taye tug him out toward the bar where Ames waited, impatient, mascara smeared beneath her eyes.
“Did you find him?” she said.
“No,” Taye said, letting go of Noam’s wrist. “Noam, you seen Dara? He’s not up in the loft, and we didn’t see him out on the floor. Did he leave with someone?”
Noam’s heart stuttered painfully in his chest. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Ames made a sound in the back of her throat and said, “I’m going to check the bathroom again, make sure he hasn’t suffocated himself on someone’s dick. I’ll be back.”
“I’ll look too,” Noam said quickly. “You stay here, Taye, we’ll be back in five minutes. With Dara. Okay?”
“Sure,” he said, pulling a bag of his ubiquitous red candy out of his jacket. “Fine. Hurry up.”
Noam headed in the opposite direction from Taye, skirting the edge of the dance floor to head into some of the other, smaller rooms, where people sat around tables and drank and ate bar food and chatted about whatever they chatted about. He didn’t see Dara here either, though maybe that shouldn’t have been surprising; Noam couldn’t imagine Dara making long, flirtatious conversation with strangers who were probably prostitutes. There was a dark hall heading off from this room, though, with a glowing red ‘Exit’ sign lit near the ceiling and an arrow pointing toward the right. Noam followed it, past a faceless couple making out against the wall, hands down each other’s pants.
He thought about what Ames had said, about what Dara did in bathrooms.
Something dark had laced itself through Noam’s gut; all those threads twisted tight.
The hall took a sharp turn to the left, but Noam didn’t have to turn the corner–he heard a male voice, low and murmuring just out of sight. Dara’s voice.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to make it tonight,” Dara was saying. Noam waited for a response, but nothing came—no, of course. That was Dara’s phone against his ear, still technopathy-warded. A beat passed. “No. I told you, I’m out with people. …Yes, Level IV people.” From the tone of Dara’s voice, Noam could practically see him roll his eyes. “Why do you care who, specifically? Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”
A rustling sound, then movement, Dara’s footfalls pacing away from Noam and then back again. Then stopping.
“Let me get this straight. When it’s your friend, it’s fine, but when it—” He broke off abruptly. For a moment Noam thought the call had been disconnected, but then: “…No. I’m sorry.” Dara’s voice was soft now, gone from sharp to subdued so fast Noam got whiplash.
What the hell was this?
Was Dara seeing someone?
Those black threads knotted in tight, Noam’s gut lurching up toward his throat.
“…No. You’re right. I…” The next part was too soft to catch, practically whispered into the phone.
Noam shouldn’t be listening to this. He knew that. He knew that.
In fact, yeah, he should…he should go.
He turned and darted back up the hall, away from Dara and Dara’s warded phone and the angry person on the other end of it.
Taye was right where they left him, halfway done with the candy now and flicking through his phone with his free hand. “No luck?” he asked when he caught sight of Noam, and Noam shook his head.
It was at least five minutes before Dara reappeared, Ames trailing a step behind at his heels.
“Good,” Taye said, “you found him. Let’s go home before I fall asleep standing up.”
Noam dared to steal a glance at Dara’s face. There was nothing there to betray what Noam overheard, no lingering guilt or tension. Just the calm façade of the Dara who belonged to these late-night parties with a drink in hand and glitter in his dark hair. He met Noam’s gaze, and for one dizzy moment Noam worried he knew, somehow, what Noam had overheard—but then he looked away and the moment passed.
They retrieved their coats at the check desk and made their way back out to the street corner, which was even colder now than it had been when they arrived. Dara hailed a cab and sat in the back seat this time, next to Noam. If Noam had been sober maybe he wouldn’t have made as much of it, the way Dara’s leg pressed up against his, Dara’s thigh warm through the layers of clothing that separated them. But instead it was all Noam could think about on the way home. That and Dara’s hands in his lap, safely not touching Noam or anyone else.
It was a terrible thing, the way Noam’s mind circled around it again and again, Dara dancing in the crowd, Dara with his hands sliding beneath them hem of a strange man’s shirt, Dara’s low voice whispering in corners, don’t tell me you’re jealous.
It didn’t matter, of course. Noam had no interest in claiming Dara from whomever thought he owned him.
But that evil feeling in the pit of his stomach didn’t go away.