Serval and Sheep (Chapter 7)
Solomon wishes to have a heart to heart.
Hafsa couldn't get out of that room fast enough. She wishes her breakneck acceptance of Solomon's offer is read as a fledgeling's earnest enthusiasm to help her upperclassman rather than the desperate escape she wants.
The two wave goodbye to the equally relieved Desmond and Brian. Hafsa hurries to regain her composure as she and Solomon walk through the long halls of the academy together, but realize her cryptic silence must be brutally awkward for her companion. She paints a docile smile on her face and hastens to fix the atmosphere.
"I suppose the student council helps with just about everything, then?"
Solomon returns her smile. "You could say so. This academy has a funny way of delegating these sorts of things. Though a position in student council is highly coveted, you quickly learn that we are the school's jack of all trades. Most odd jobs are handled by us."
"I can only hope I'm up to the task!"
Solomon gives a soft chuckle, but doesn't say more. Hafsa found the silence between them strangely comforting. Throughout her career as a socialite, she discovered an awkward silence can shatter an interaction like glass, so she had accumulated a series of icebreakers and conversation starters to resuscitate the friendly mood. But perhaps because she's in the presence of another feline, Hafsa feels no need to inject more chitchat into the journey. It is an unsaid understanding between one another.
Arriving at reception, they immediately spot the payload. Three large boxes sit beneath the reception's counter, disrupting the otherwise stylish scene. The main receptionist, a mild-mannered koala, waves the duo over to her.
"That was quick! Thank you so much again for helping out!" She titters, compulsively reaching for the thin frame of her glasses.
"Please, it's nothing. Have a nice evening, Mrs. Cally." Solomon answers, supported by a quick bow from a nearby Hafsa.
A quick assessment of the cargo later (and three rejections of Mrs. Cally's offer of a quick cup of eucalyptus tea), the feline pair decides that Solomon, being the bigger cat, carry two of the lighter boxes, while Hafsa carries the heaviest, as it would weigh roughly the same.
The trek to the gymnasium is around 5 minutes walking through open campus, but when carrying 50 pounds worth of sporting equipment, the time of commute stretches to around 15.
Hafsa, despite her slender frame, is endowed with a carnivore's strength nonetheless. She prefers her strength to be more focused on her leg muscles, the pride of any serval, but ultimately, her brawn is one of her many gripes about her body.
"This is so embarrassing," she whines internally. "So much for a good first impression, with me lugging around this box like a brute. Staying with the sheep almost seems like a good idea."
At around the halfway mark, a groan escapes Hafsa's throat. She's far from exhausted, but a misstep in her breathing creates a weird concoction of air that resulted a strange guttural mewl.
The caracal, who had been silently soldiering on in front of her, turns around and delicately sets his boxes on the pavement.
"Are you okay, Ms. President?"
Someone kill her now.
Hafsa's face, already rosy from the heavy lifting, burns crimson underneath her fur. What a mortifying sound!
"I-I'm fine, please don't worry about me! A head cheerleader can take more than this! Ha hahaha ha!" she flounders, quickening her wobbly pace to prove her point.
Solomon frowns. As she passes him, he gently nabs her tail, freezing her in her tracks. Grabbing another animal's tail is usually a huge faux pas unless they are very close. The fur on Hafsa's tail bristles instinctively.
The taller cat suddenly speaks up, voice soft. "I apologize. It was a misstep on my part to give you such a heavy box in the first place."
Hafsa remains silent and paralyzed. She feels his grip on her tail loosen. From the back, she can hear his approach. A huge weight is lifted from her arms as Solomon takes the box from her with an "oof".
"Goodness, this is terribly heavy. I'm sorry you had to endure this for so long."
The serval snaps out of her trance and swivels to face Solomon, eyes wide in protest, but he is already arranging the packages on his own. After some fiddling, he returns to her with the smallest of the three boxes.
"You may be a serval, but you are first and foremost a lady. This package is much better suited to you. I shall handle the other two."
She opens her mouth to object, but Solomon interjects before the words could leave her.
"We're very much alike, Ms. President. Your conduct is a thing of beauty, and your behavior is masterfully controlled. Only another carnivore striving for excellence can pick up on the little details." He offers a smile, filled with far more warmth than his previous ones. "I noticed you seemed reluctant to be alone with the vice president. It was the slight twitch of your whiskers. It's good for animals like us to look out for each other. Please count on my support."
Hafsa stares dumbfounded as heaves the two heavier boxes in his arms. The packages conceal his face, only revealing his long tufted ear at the top.
"Let's carry on." He purrs as he passes her by for the final time.
She glances down at the pack, balanced at the palms of her hand. It weighed less than half of the previous one.
This year so far, has been comically cruel to this serval. This thought had echoed through her mind over and over again with each passing day. But now, she found herself unable to classify what was happening as positive or negative. Is that technically an improvement? Is this silence comfortable or uncomfortable?
This internal debate drags on until the two face the gymnasium's storage closet. The weight of the two parcels has clearly taken its toll on Solomon, his fur glossy with sweat and irregular breaths desperate to avoid becoming pants.
He swallows dryly. "We've made it at last. Are you terribly tired?" Hafsa quickly shakes her head. After the trade, she forgot she had even been carrying anything.
"Excellent. Let me just unlock the door." He places the boxes down as gracefully as he can, and reaches for the keys in his pants pocket.
Hafsa stares at him curiously. He's right. They really are alike. The way he moves, down to each blink, is the result of a training a lifetime in the making. His voice, so gentle, uttering words so carefully chosen, could only be carved out of the pitiless operant conditioning of society. It's like looking into a mirror. She had noticed it before. But really, elementary logic would've come to that conclusion simply by adding the facts. Carnies only ever get to the top by becoming machines.
Hafsa's breath suddenly suffocates. She inches her hand towards her throat but finds no resolve to complete the movement. She can no longer bear to see this cruel puppetry, this farce. Is this how Desmond views her? Is this how he views all carnies?
"Hafsa." A hand grips her wrist. Solomon's hazel eyes pulls her out of her panic. His grasp is strong, almost painful, but softens the moment she looks up at him.
"Don't be afraid." He says, his voice just above a whisper.
He relinquishes his clasp, but keeps his gaze fixes on her. His eyes remain with an ever-present docility, but a fierce determination seeps through.
"I'm sorry for my behavior today. It's not often I act so directly, especially to a female. Please excuse my discourtesy. But," his expression turns pensive. "I find myself anxious to help you. I carry great respect for you and for all you've accomplished as a student. No, as a carnivore.
"We both understand the sacrifices that were necessary to be made in order to be where we are now. As felines, we cannot rely on our nature. Truthfully, you have intrigued me since our first meeting long ago. It was the same fascination one would develop when witnessing a ballet. An utter admiration for your 'craft', let's say. It dwarfed my efforts to a miserable scope.
"I strive to become a beacon for this academy as you do. There is no need, between us, to be ashamed of our struggles. Please don't believe for a second I don't hold your best interests in mind. I understand the worth of reputation, I wouldn't take such a matter lightly."
Solomon's ears recoil, a brusque movement for any feline. It's clear he's allowing his body to express his honesty.
"I realize that we have but barely begun working together, and there is much we don't know about each other. We are not even of the same species. So perhaps I am intruding on your affairs to an irreparable degree. However, I still recklessly concern myself with your wellbeing."
He steps back, allowing her to catch her breath and observe his movements.
"And I have noticed the strange animosity between you and the vice president. Something... has happened between you two, has it not?"
Hafsa's face answers for her.
"I thought so," the caracal mutters. "As your upperclassman, but more importantly, as your similar, I wish to intervene. Desmond's disagreeable personality is evident simply by his looks, but what precisely happened? Can you please explain what he has done?"
"I-" Hafsa croaks. "I would much rather unpack these boxes."
Brusquely, she snatches a package from the floor and storms in the closet. Inside the dark, cramped space, she tears at the tape-sealed cardboard flaps and tosses the brightly colored assortment of ropes, discs and dynamometers to the floor.
This silence is definitely and unbearably uncomfortable.