Of Rhinos & Griffins

If the Universe came to an end every time there was some uncertainty about what had happened in it, it would never have got beyond the first pico-second. And many of course don’t. It’s like a human body, you see. A few cuts and bruises here and there don’t hurt it. Not even major surgery if it’s done properly. Paradoxes are just the scar tissue. Time and space heal themselves up around them and people simply remember a version of events which makes as much sense as they require it to make.
-Douglas Adams



Merryn gets to Politics early, leaving the common room well before the bell goes just to make sure she isn’t late. The classroom is empty when she gets there and she delights in taking her favoured seat in the middle of the class, spreading her stuff out across the table so as to discourage anyone from any foolish notions they might be harbouring about sitting next to her.

(Not that they would, Merryn knows that. Merryn is tall and haughty and intimidating and she’s pretty sure that everyone outside her immediate group of friends - that is, Rhys and Benedict - would rather sit by themselves than next to her. She’s not even sure about the two of them, sometimes.)

She’s quite looking forward to Politics, though in all honesty, she only took it so she’d have an excuse to argue about something for an entire hour without people rolling their eyes at her or getting pissed off at her or telling her to shut up because she’s boring them shitless. It was this or Religious Studies and honestly, she’d rather pickle her own eyeballs in vinegar and then eat them than suffer through that.

So Politics it is.

A few minutes later, the bell rings and she automatically jams her hands over her ears because it is bloody well ear-piercing on this side of the building, and when she removes her hands and looks around, the blonde boy from her Maths class is standing in front of the seat next to her, an amused look on his face.

“Hello,” the admittedly very attractive blonde boy from her Maths class says.

And all of a sudden her palms are moist and her cheeks are flushed and her heart’s beating like she’s about to solve a particularly complex equation.

In other words, she’s- she’s nervous, and she hasn’t the faintest idea why.

Hormones, she decides, scrabbling around in her brain for a vaguely plausible conclusion. They are the root of all teenage-related evil, after all. Her body is simply overreacting to the presence of an admittedly very attractive male with the most primitive results imaginable, like her pulse rate increasing and her cheeks flushing and- and all the other stuff. Yes, that’ll be it. Hormones.

She nods decisively to herself as she looks up at the boy, an eyebrow arched in expectancy. “Hello?”

“Hello,” he repeats, a smirk playing at his lips. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

And before Merryn can protest that yes, she does mind, her mouth is saying, “Not at all. Please feel free to take a seat.”

BETRAYER! the saner, more intelligent part of her mind shrieks. MUTINEER! The other part, presumably the one responsible for these ridiculous feelings Merryn is experiencing, merely cackles furiously and goes back to behaving like a thirteen-year-old girl. Especially when he smiles, that ridiculous, flying-insect-in-the-gut-inducing smile of his.

“I’m Remy, by the way,” he informs her, apparently unaware of the effect his smile is having on her internal organs because he’s notched it up a couple of levels now.

“Pleasure to meet you, Remy,” she replies, her polite tone a concerted attempt at keeping the gushing to a minimum. “I’m Merryn.”

“Merryn,” Remy says slowly, rolling her name around his mouth like he’s testing it out for something. “That’s really-”

She makes a face. “Trust me, I’ve heard it all before. Unique, individual, downright weird-”

“Actually,” Remy cuts her off, and Merryn just gapes at him for a few seconds because she physically cannot remember the last time someone who was not Rhys or Benedict did that to her, “I was going to say pretty.”

That is ridiculously cheesy, Merryn tells herself firmly. It is ridiculously cheesy and every single chick flick Rhys has ever forced you to watch has only ever served to reinforce this fact, remember? Remember?

But it seems her traitorous body and its fickle balance of chemicals aren’t willing to listen to reason. Her cheeks heat up and she glances away, opening her mouth to say, well, she’s not sure really, but she’s saved from having to work it out when Mr. McKinney, their ginger-haired Politics teacher, walks in, beaming, and clears a space on his desk to sit down on.

“So,” he says slowly, his gaze sweeping over the seventeen students clustered around the room, “how much do we hate Nick Clegg right now?”

Merryn snorts. “Don’t even get me started on Clegg. He is a filthy traitor who betrayed the electorate that voted for him and is, to put it very politely, sucking up to David Cameron.”

“You mean he’s the Prime Minister’s bitch,” a girl sitting nearish the front wearing a flowery headscarf corrects her. Aisha, Merryn thinks her name is.

“Essentially,” Merryn agrees. “The man has no morals, has done nothing for the students - who were, lest he forget, the ones who voted for him in the first place - and his job is basically just to stand in the corner and look 'pretty' - though I cannot see how anyone could possibly find him attractive in the slightest - and he has absolutely no substance to him.”

“Does he even remember he’s a Lib Dem, which means he’s supposed to care about students and poor people and the generally not very well-off?” Aisha sighs. “Our country is so screwed.”

They bitch collectively about Nick Clegg and his traitorous, power-hungry ways for a few more minutes, but then they get onto talking about the coalition government, and that’s when things turn from innocent bitchery into something more intense.

“Okay, okay,” Mr McKinney laughs, holding up his hands as if in defeat. “We’d better leave it there before it gets really vicious. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to rate it or slate it later; it’s a good thing we’ve got such a variance of opinions in this class. But first, I want to play a little game I call Spot the Tory.”

Spot the Tory is more interesting than it sounds, and it involves hitting a metaphorical buzzer – or just yelling really, really loudly – whenever a Conservative celebrity appears on Mr McKinney’s PowerPoint presentation.

(Merryn had no idea that Charlie Simpson was a Tory - not that she really knows who he is, or has ever listened to either of his bands, of course, but she recognises him from the old Busted CD Rhys doesn’t think she knows about – and finds the wole process rather enlightening.)

After that, Mr McKinney gets them to work in pairs to make a mind-map of the main policies of the different political parties. Merryn and Remy get the Conservatives. Merryn is not amused.

Remy smiles a little at her chagrin. “Take it you’re not a Tory, then?”

Merryn makes a disgusted noise somewhere between a snort and a choked laugh. “God no, not in a million years. You aren’t, are you?”

“Nah.” Remy shrugs a little, and Merryn tries not to make her relief too obvious. “I’m sort of Liberal, but after what happened with the election, I’m seriously considering throwing it in and joining Labour. Nick Clegg is a world-class prat.”

“Yeah,” Merryn mutters, glancing down at their sheet of poster paper. “I think we established that fairly well.”

Remy chuckles wryly. “Yeah, I rather think we did. I don’t suppose I need to ask what you think of David Cameron.” Merryn makes a face which can only really be described as revolted, and he laughs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Are there any politicians you actually like?”

Merryn thinks for a few seconds. “Ed Miliband seems marginally less of a bumbling hoddypeak than the rest of them. But on the whole? Not really. What about you?”

Remy shrugs. “I don’t know. I’d like to think there are a few half-decent politicians out there who still care about the little people and genuinely want to make a difference, but I don’t know if I really believe that any more.” He smiles, but it’s a sad sort of smile, wan and weak and so strange perched on his lips. “I used to want to be a politician, actually. I used to want to save the world,” he admits, in a tone so earnest Merryn can’t quite bring herself to laugh and take the piss like she normally would’ve done.

“‘We don't have to save the world,’” she quotes instead. “‘The world is big enough to look after itself. What we have to be concerned about is whether or not the world we live in will be capable of sustaining us in it.’”

“Douglas Adams,” Remy says slowly, but the sadness is gone from his eyes. “That’s- exactly.”

“I used to know someone who wanted to- well, not save the world, exactly, but change it.” Merryn frowns when she realises what she’s said. She’s not sure why that memory resurfaced, why it occurred to her now of all times, why she decided telling Remy about it would be a good idea.

Remy tilts his head, curious. “Used to?”

“He moved away when we were ten,” Merryn says shortly, pushing her glasses up her forehead. “So, what subjects are you doing apart from Maths and Politics?”

Remy’s eyes narrow at the abrupt change of subject, but he doesn’t question it, and for that she is grateful. “English and History,” he replies instead. “I kind of want to do History at university, but I might end up doing PPE instead. What about you?”

“Physics and Chemistry. I want to be a physicist,” Merryn tells him, nodding firmly, because this is safe and people she hasn’t seen or heard from in six years are not. “I want to be a part of the future, not get stuck in the past. I’ve always been more interested in what could happen rather than what already has.”

“I see your point,” Remy acknowledges with a nod, “but knowledge of the past is essential in building a viable future. It provides us with the tools we need to ensure we don’t repeat our mistakes. Don’t you agree?”

“Okay, yes, I suppose, but think about it this way,” Merryn argues. “You can change the future but unless you’re building a time machine on top of your house or in your vintage DeLorean, the past is staying just the way it is.” Remy sits back, smiling disarmingly at her, and she glances away. “What?” she mutters, self-conscious, and seriously, this has to stop. Merryn is never self-conscious, certainly not where those of the male persuasion are concerned. Just- no.

“Nothing, you’re just-” Remy shakes his head, smiling. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“So, uh,” she says, clearing her throat pointedly, “Conservative ideals? Values? Do they actually have any?”



Merryn has a free next, so she heads back to the sixth form block where Rhys and Benedict - and Nikesh, though she still isn’t sure how she feels about the newest addition to their group - should already be, since they all have a free right now. Sure enough, the three of them are sitting in their corner and as she approaches, Benedict smiles at her and inclines his head towards the empty space beside him before going back to the Biology textbook propped up on his knees, which he is studying intently, a frown furrowed between his brows.

She drops her bag to the chair, glancing around at them as she sits down. Nikesh is reading a newspaper which looks suspiciously like The Guardian - and that observation improves her opinion of him infinitesimally - and sharing an earphone of Rhys’s iPod touch. Rhys is playing on it and dancing around on the spot a little to whatever it is they’re listening to, most likely something heavy and screechy and nothing she will even remotely like, Merryn assumes with a distasteful grimace.

“Reading anything interesting?” she asks, nodding at Nikesh’s newspaper.

He glances up, startled, and pulls out the earphone to dangle it between his fingers. “The obituaries,” he informs her with a serious expression.

“Right,” she says slowly. “Okay. Because that’s not strange at all.”

Rhys looks up and grins at his sister. “Hey, don’t mock it, Rhyne. Nikesh here is very serious about the obits. It’s his thing.”

Nikesh nods, his face the very picture of sincerity. Merryn just laughs, shakes her head and turns away, deciding to just leave them to it. She leans across to Benedict and fluffs his hair affectionately, smiling at him when he turns to look at her, a vaguely exasperated look in his eyes.

“Merryn, I really have to read this,” he tells her, his voice weighed down with reluctance.

She makes a face. “Ugh, Biology. Why did you even take Biology? It’s so boring.”

“You mean apart from the fact that I kind of need it to do veterinary medicine?” Benedict says dryly. “Anyway, Biology’s not boring. It’s really cool. We’re learning about different cells and their properties and this one type is really interesting and it’s called- you don’t care, do you?” Merryn shrugs, not apologetic in the slightest, and Benedict just shakes his head at her, smiling a little. “So how was Politics?”

She shrugs as apathetically as she can manage, but her traitorous body manages to slip a smile on to her face without her permission. “It was pretty good, really.” Benedict only raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, okay, it was fantastic,” she mutters, rubbing at her flushed cheeks. Traitors. “The blonde boy from Maths is in my class and he’s called Remy, and don’t look at me like that,” she adds crossly when Benedict beams at her. “He’s nice. And more than vaguely intelligent at the very least, so talking to him is a nice change from you lot.”

Benedict’s grin just grows. “Merryn and Remy, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” he says in a sing-song voice.

She gives him a thoroughly disgusted look and folds her arms. “You’ve been spending far too much time with Rhys, haven’t you? I’ve warned you about doing that, Benedict. If you don’t watch out, you’ll all regress into nursery school children and I am not suffering through that all over again.”

“Oi!” Rhys hollers, only catching the end of the conversation. “I’ll have you know that I’m very mature for my age!” He manages to keep a straight face for all of ten seconds before the song on his iPod changes and he lets out a girlish, high-pitched squeal, saying, “I forgot I had this on here!” and breaks into vaguely tuneful song. “Here I am, face to face with a situation I never thought I’d ever see, it’s strange, how a dress could take a mess and make her nothing less than beautiful to me...”

Merryn rolls her eyes at him. “Yeah, Rhys. You never cease to baffle me with your infinite maturity.”

She pulls out her book and spends the rest of the free period reading it, keeping her mind firmly off blonde boys with pretty smiles and green, green eyes.

Nikesh goes to the toilet at one point, and as soon as he’s out of earshot, Rhys darts across the room, plonks himself down next to Merryn and asks earnestly, “So what do you really think of him?”

“Who?” Merryn frowns, not looking up from her book.

“Your boyfriend Stephen Hawking,” Rhys replies, earning a whack on the arm for his cheek. “Who do you think? Nikesh, of course.”

“My impression of him is on a very complex plane,” Merryn replies, turning the next page of the book with undue care. “He seems like a nice enough boy, with several points in his favour, but there are also plenty of points against him.”

“Like what?” Rhys demands, looking outraged on Nikesh’s behalf.

Merryn looks up at him, an eyebrow raised. “Perhaps his ritualistic obsession with the obituary section of newspapers?” she reminds him. Rhys grunts. “And then there’s his questionable taste in music-”

“How is it questionable?” Rhys objects.

“He likes the same music you like, does he not?” Merryn decides that’s a yes from the disgruntled look on Rhys’s face. “That’s questionable enough for me. On the whole, however, I find him to be an amicable enough boy, I just don’t think I know him well enough to judge him properly. I wouldn’t be averse to getting to know him better, though, and I suppose that is a good sign.”

Rhys makes a vague grunt she takes as acceptance before turning to Benedict. “What about you, Ben?”

Benedict shrugs. “We had Biology together. He’s nice. I like him.” And that’s that.



People start leaving a few minutes before the bell goes, so they follow the example and pack up their stuff just as the alarm shrills through the room. Merryn promptly drops her bag to jam her fingers in her ears until it stops and once it has, she gives a satisfied smile and picks her stuff up again.

They walk out together, wheeling their bikes along with them down the drive. Benedict veers off the path and nearly collides with a tree, but Merryn grabs him and hauls him back before he can make impact.

“Honestly, Benedict,” Merryn laughs, shaking her head at him as she releases him from her grip. “You can’t walk in a straight line at all, can you?”

“I’m dodging butterflies,” Benedict’s insists, his cheeks pink. Truth be told, he’s never been able to walk straight, even with other people to steer him in the right direction. Years ago, when they were at a nature park for a day out, one of the keepers asked Benedict the third time he crashed into a tree if he was dodging butterflies, and it’s kind of stuck.

Rhys bites back a smile. “Of course you are, cariad. Of course you are.”

When they reach the school gates, Rhys asks Nikesh where he lives. He gestures vaguely to the right, and Rhys says, “Oh, right. We all live in the other direction.”

Nikesh looks resigned as he says, “Guess I'm walking home alone, eh? See you tomorrow, guys.”

He waves at them before turning right, whistling something familiar under his breath. The three of them watch him for a few moments before they turn in the opposite direction and head home.