The Becoming of Noah Shaw (The Shaw Confessions #1)(62)

Jamie is silent, but he doesn’t avoid my gaze. He’s not rattled.

“What happened to thinking for yourself?”

At this, Jamie just rolls his eyes. “Classic splitting.”

“Pardon?”

“Didn’t all those years in therapy cover this? Splitting: Everything’s black-and-white with you. I’m interested in what the professor’s doing, so to you that means I’ve given up my autonomy. It’s all or nothing. Good or evil.”

I lean against the wall, languorous, casual. “Is that right? Explain Mara, then.”

I watch him think for a moment. “She’s your tragic flaw, I guess.” His lips curve into a smile. “Every hero has one.”

“Don’t tell me you believe my father’s bullshit. Please don’t tell me that.”

Apathetic shrug. “It’s not your father, Noah. It’s just—who you are. Not lawful good, but chaotic good.”

“Do you plan to make sense anytime soon?”

His eyes turn to the clock face behind me, and he stares at some spot in the middle distance. “Daniel’s lawful good.”

“Still have no idea what the shit you’re talking about.”

“Alignment. Dungeons & Dragons? Wait, don’t tell me.” Jamie holds up a finger. “You’ve never played it. Quelle surprise.” He tugs one of his dreadlocks, stares at it. “How does Mara even talk to you? You’re barely nerd-compatible.”

“We make it work,” I say archly.

Jamie holds up a hand, a look of horror on his face. “Say no more. Please. Okay, lawful good is basically, you believe in the morals of the world you live in, and you live by those morals always—or you try your best to, at least.”

“Daniel,” I say.

“Precisely.”

“But chaotic good is different. The player is less rigid about the ways he tries to achieve what are still ultimately good goals—good in the eyes of the world of the game. Still with me?”

“Clinging on, thanks for checking in, though.”

“NP,” he says, leaning farther back on the table.

“So what does that make you?” I ask.

“Chaotic neutral,” he says without hesitation. “When the player has their own moral code, and has the flexibility to achieve his goals according to his code.”

Mara. “Or hers.”

Tips his head, acknowledging. “Or hers.” He goes on, “You never know which way he’s going to go, which other players he’s going to become allies with, or enemies with.”

I’m reminded of Daniel’s earlier wariness, but I just . . . don’t feel it myself. “So what you’re saying is”—injecting sarcasm into the words—“you’re a wild card.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “You could say that.”

“Rebelling against the mores of society. So, this is how you think of Mara as well?”

“Totally.”

“Chaotic neutral,” I repeat. Another way of saying “dissonant,” which does fit.

“Yep.” But he pauses, long enough for the silence to stretch from pensive to awkward. “We don’t have the same code though.”

His voice sounds bruised. There’s a weakness there—to exploit. And so:

“You killed Anna Greenly, I hear.”

He blinks at the name, reacting as though he’s never heard it before. But then, “Yeah. Guess I did.”

Me, neutral. “Do you feel guilty?”

He hops off the table, picks up the cue. “Not really.” I can’t see his face now, which is no doubt intentional.

“Because of your code?”

“No . . . .” He draws out the word, arranges the pool cue between his fingers. “First of all, I wouldn’t have killed her if I’d known that, like, just telling someone to drive off a cliff meant that they’d basically do the equivalent. Not all of us are perfectly in control of our Gifts all of the time.” He aims for a ball and pockets it. “But I’m not sorry she’s dead.”

Oh?

Tilting his head at the table, he says, “The bullies never remember, but the bullied never forget.”

I’ve known Jamie for nearly three years now. I’d seen how he’d been treated, by Anna, others. But I want him to keep talking. I need to keep learning. “What if she would’ve changed someday?”

At that, he scoffs. “Nobody changes. We are who we are until we die.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Well, that’s not dramatic at all.”

He inhales, circling the table after I sink the ball. “People grow up into slightly more complex versions of their infant-slash-childhood-slash-adolescent selves, but that usually means they get worse with age. More apathetic. Less passionate. Bored.” He glances up. “Numb.” Another ball, another pocket.

He’s the one pressing on my bruise now, except it’s worse than that—it’s a raw wound. I can’t seem to help but rise to the bait. “So according to your philosophy, I’m the Hero, and there’s nothing that’ll change that.”

“Nope.” He laughs, a mixture of genuine mirth and sarcasm. “You walk into a room preceded by the scent of sandalwood and unicorns or whatever. Your skin sparkles in the sunlight.”