The atmosphere inside the Starry Night restaurant was thick with the scent of expensive truffle oil and the faint, rhythmic clinking of silver against fine China. It was a place designed for the elite, a sanctuary where the lighting was dimmed to a soft, romantic glow that made everything—and everyone—look like a masterpiece. Yet, for me, sitting across from Mark Hendrix, I felt like a smudge of charcoal on a silk canvas.
I was still reeling from the shock of the morning's events. My hip throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a dull reminder of the red Lamborghini's fender, and my mind was a chaotic library of misplaced thoughts.
"Just a second, Mark," I whispered, my voice sounding small in the vast, high-ceilinged room. "I cannot find my wiper."
"Your wiper?" Mark asked, tilting his head. He sat perfectly still; his sightless eyes directed toward me with a focus that always felt more intense than that of a sighted person.
"My lens cleaner," I clarified, my hands diving into the cavernous depths of my backpack. To a normal person, a lost cloth was a minor inconvenience. To me, it was a crisis. My oversized glasses were my shield against the world, and they were currently smeared with a fingerprint that made the world look like it was underwater. I am, by nature, a sluggish person—my movements are deliberate, slow, and often frustrating to those around me—but when I am searching for something, my sluggishness turns into a frantic, uncoordinated dance.
I pulled out a crumpled anatomy textbook, a half-eaten granola bar, and three different pens before my fingers finally brushed against the microfiber cloth. "I found it already!" I exclaimed, perhaps a bit too loudly for the refined surroundings.
I rose my head, the triumph of the find lighting up my face, and then the world stopped. My breath hitched in my throat, and the microfiber cloth fluttered from my fingers like a dying bird.
Standing beside Mark was the ghost of my morning's misery. The white suit was unmistakable. The arrogant tilt of the chin was etched into my memory. The cold, piercing eyes that looked at me as if I were a biological anomaly were now widened in a mirror image of my own shock.
"What are you doing here!" we both roared in unison. The sound echoed off the crystal chandeliers, drawing the curious, judgmental stares of the surrounding diners.
Mark jumped in his seat, his hands flying to the edge of the table as if to steady himself against a sudden earthquake. "Do you know each other already?" he asked, his voice laced with a confusion that bordered on panic.
"I don't know that person and I am not interested!" I shouted, my face flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson.
"I don't know this sluggish creature, and I certainly didn't invite her to lunch!" the man in white countered, his voice dripping with a venom that made my skin crawl.
"Ok, ok, ok! Please, calm down, the both of you," Mark pleaded, his hands waving in the air between us as if he could physically push our mutual hatred aside.
We fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. I sat back down, my movements jerky and uncoordinated. I refused to look at him. Across from me, Drake Hendrix—for I now knew with terrifying certainty that this was Mark's "snappy" cousin—remained standing for a long moment before dropping into a chair with the grace of a predator. He adjusted his silk tie with trembling fingers.
The silence stretched for what felt like an eternity. In my mind, I was calculating the 8.33% of the hour again, but this time, the math was failing me. How could two people so diametrically opposed be related? Mark was the calm harbor; Drake was the Category 5 hurricane.
"Now," Mark said, his voice regaining its steady, melodic rhythm. "Can one of you explain to me where and how you met? And more importantly, why do you seem to want to hurt each other physically after only a few hours of knowing each other exists?"
Drake didn't hesitate. He leaned forward, the scent of his expensive cologne—something sharp and metallic—filling the space between us. "Just ask that very ugly and sluggish creature, Mark! She practically threw herself under my feet this morning, and then had the audacity to scream at me in the hallway!" He pointed a long, manicured finger at me, his expression twisting into a mask of pure insult.
"Why me?" I shouted, my stutter returning in full force as my anger peaked. "It should be you, Mr. Arrogant and Inhumane Man, who should be asked! You ran into me! You pushed me aside like I was garbage! You are the definition of a social catastrophe!"
"Shhhhhhh!" Mark hissed, his face pale. "The both of you, please stop! Don't say even one more word. We are in a restaurant, and we are disturbing people who paid a great deal of money to not hear a freshman shouting match."
He turned his sightless gaze toward his cousin. "Drake, watch your words. Francine is my guest. She is a woman of great intelligence and heart. You will treat her with the respect the Hendrix name demands."
Drake scoffed, but he subsided, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked like a cornered animal, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for an exit. It was then that I noticed something—a subtle twitch in his jaw, a slight tremor in his hands. He wasn't just angry; he was vibrating with a nervous energy that seemed almost painful.
"I am sorry, Mark," I whispered, my anger cooling into a dull, aching curiosity. "I didn't realize he was your cousin."
"And I didn't realize you had such poor taste in friends, Mark," Drake muttered, though the bite was gone from his voice, replaced by a weary sort of irritation.
Mark sighed and signaled for the waiter. "We are going to eat. We are going to be civil. And we are going to start over."
As the meal progressed, the tension remained, but it shifted. Mark began to talk about the university, trying to bridge the gap between us. He spoke of the history of Heroine Island, of how his grandfather had envisioned a place where the "peculiar" could flourish without the judgment of the "normal" world.
"In this university," Mark explained, "your differences are not weaknesses. They are your curriculum. Francine, your sluggishness is actually a form of deep-processing. You see the details others miss because you move at a speed that allows for observation. And Drake..." he paused, looking toward his cousin. "Drake's snappiness is a byproduct of his condition. He processes the world too fast. His mind is a Ferrari in a school zone."
I looked at Drake. He was staring intensely at his steak, cutting it into perfectly symmetrical cubes. "A mood disorder?" I asked softly, remembering the synopsis I'd heard of his life.
Drake looked up, his eyes flashing. "I don't need your pity, Scott. My brain is wired differently. I don't have the luxury of moving like a snail. Everything is loud, everything is fast, and everything is irritating."
"It's not pity," I said, surprised by my own boldness. "It's a diagnosis. I'm going to be a heart surgeon, remember? I look at people as systems. Your system is just... overclocked."
For the first time, Drake didn't have a snappy comeback. He just blinked, a strange shadow crossing his face.
"Speaking of systems," Mark interrupted, sensing a shift in the wind. "Francine, I wanted to tell you about someone you met today. Jesah Coogan."
The name hit me like a physical blow. "The girl who stole my seat? The one in the red gown?"
Mark nodded sadly. "Jesah wasn't always like that. We were childhood friends. Her family was close to mine. But Jesah has a tragic history that she hides behind that wall of arrogance. She is an orphan, though she tells everyone her parents are traveling royalty. She was raised by an aunt who valued beauty above all else, and she grew up in the shadow of Tiffany Carr."
"Tiffany?" I asked.
"Yes. Tiffany is the 'Gold Standard' of this island. Everyone loves her, everyone fears her. Jesah spent her whole life trying to be Tiffany, and failing. That 'jealousy' you felt from her? It's a poison that has ruled her thoughts for years. When Tiffany is around, Jesah is a shadow. But when Tiffany is gone, Jesah acts like a tyrant to feel a sense of power."
I thought back to the girl ripping up my name tag. I felt a pang of something I didn't expect: empathy. "I pitied her before because she was mean," I said. "Now I pity her because she's hollow. But Mark, being an orphan isn't an excuse to be a bully. I'm an orphan too, in a way. My mother left, and my father died. But I don't go around ripping people's names apart."
"I know," Mark said, reaching out to find my hand on the table. "That's why I need your help, Francine. I've been trying to bring back the 'old Jesah'—the sweet girl who used to play in the gardens with me—for years. But I keep failing. I think... I think a person like you, someone who doesn't back down, might be the key."
I looked at Mark's hopeful face, then at Drake, who was watching us with an expression I couldn't quite read. Was it jealousy? Disgust? Or something else?
"I'll help you, Mark," I promised. "I know how to handle people like that. The real Jesah Coogan will be back. I'll make sure of it."
Mark's face lit up with a brilliant smile. "My determination has been boosted just by hearing you say that. Thank you, Francine."
As we left the restaurant, the sun was beginning to set over the island, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold. Drake walked a few paces ahead of us, his stride quick and impatient. He stopped at his own car—a silver version of Mark's Lamborghini—and turned back to us.
"Don't think this makes us friends, Scott," he called out, his voice sharp but lacking its earlier malice. "You're still sluggish, and you're still weird."
"And you're still a jerk, Hendrix!" I shouted back.
He smirked—actually smirked—and disappeared into his car.
As Mark drove me back toward the dormitories, I looked out the window at the strange, beautiful world of Universal University. I came here to fix hearts, but I was beginning to realize that the most broken hearts weren't the ones on the operating table. They were the ones walking the hallways, hidden behind expensive suits and red gowns.
"Mark?" I asked as we pulled up to the gates.
"Yes, Francine?"
"Why did you really bring me here? It wasn't just the accident, was it?"
Mark was silent for a long time. The only sound was the ticking of the Lamborghini's cooling engine. "I have spent my life in darkness," he said finally. "But when I hit you this morning, I felt a spark. A ripple in the air. I think you're going to change everything on this island, Francine Scott. I just wanted to be there when it happens."
I stepped out of the car, my heart racing. As I walked toward the freshman dorms, I didn't feel sluggish. I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.