Текст книги "Reckless"

Автор книги: Devon Hartford

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Madison narrowed her eyes and snarled. “All right, fine. I’m cutting the bitch’s guts out after class. Don’t try and stop me,” she said menacingly.

“I won’t,” I smiled. “Promise.”

Me and Madison broke into giggles.

SAMANTHA

A few minutes later, the professor walked through a pair of double doors at the bottom of the lecture hall. He wore a white button-down shirt with a conservative tie. He was cue-bald with a thick ring of head-warmer hair.

I was totally stumped.

Why the heck was Managerial Accounting so packed? For this guy? Based on the crowd, I’d expected some gorgeous supermodel (male or female) or maybe a dancing bear.

Perhaps Madison’s easy-A theory was accurate? It was all I could think of.

The professor set his shoulder bag down on the table at the bottom of the lecture hall, and pulled out the contents. I was expecting stacks of free money and booze for all the students, but all the professor pulled out was a laptop and a stack of syllabi.

I was perplexed.

He walked up to one of the wall-to-wall chalkboards behind him, grabbed a fresh stick of yellow chalk, and starting spelling out his name.

“All right class,” he quacked, and I mean quacked, “My name is Doctor Dorkman—”

What?! He couldn’t be serious. Did he just say Dorkman? My jaw practically banged against my desktop as he spelled out his name on the board in all caps, like so:

DR. D O R Q U E M A N N

“—and I will be instructing you on the topic of Managerial Accounting for the duration of the quarter. Shall we begin?”

When I said quacked, I literally meant quacked. Like, I was expecting a flock of mallards to come flapping in and settle down at the bottom of the lecture hall by the side of their great king.

Because Dorquemann had the nasaliest voice I’d ever heard in my entire life.

Madison and I exchanged a horrified look. There was no way we were going to make it through the hour without getting ejected for interrupting the lecture with our hysterical laughter.

I gave us five minutes, tops.

Our only option was to focus on the material.

We did our best to take notes.

Unlike in Sociology 2, where I’d easily tuned out the droning Professor Tutan-yawn-yawn, listening to Dr. Dorquemann forced me to dig deep and find reserves of concentration I didn’t know I had. I teetered on the precipitous ledge of silence while staring down at a pit of insanely inappropriate laughter. The only thing preventing my fall from grace was my ingrained sense of politeness. At least my parental upbringing had been good for something.

Despite my best efforts, I knew my silence wouldn’t last much longer. Within minutes, snickers issued from around the lecture hall. I was certain the professor—I couldn’t even think his name without wanting to laugh—would notice his anonymous hecklers, but he didn’t seem to care. Was he ignoring everyone?

Maybe he was used to this.

I, on the other hand, was about to lose it. I did the only thing I could. I pulled out my sketchbook, ready to start drawing. I had learned over the last several months that drawing consumed my attention like nothing else. It sucked me right in.

But I needed to find a subject to draw, quick.

I glanced around the room, looking anywhere except at the professor. It only took a second before my eyes landed on Tiffany, and I had my subject.

I went to work in my sketchbook doodling out the gory cartoon murder of Tiffany Meanston-Lightsout.

Madison, bless her stone-cold focus, was busy typing notes into her laptop. “Shouldn’t you be taking notes, Sam?” she whispered seriously.

“I can’t!” I whisper-whined, “not without losing my shit. This guy is going to be the end of me if I listen to one more word, I swear.”

“I hear you, girlfriend. I’ll share my notes with you later.”

“Thanks, Mads,” I whispered, still drawing.

Madison periodically peeked over at what I was doing.

“Don’t look!” I whispered, a big smile lighting up my face. “Wait till I’m done.”

The drawing had been the perfect protection against Dorquemann’s quacky voice. I don’t think I heard a word he said for twenty minutes.

During that time, I scrawled a cartoon of Tiffany lying on a big table with her tongue hanging out, her head haloed by a pool of blue ballpoint blood, her torso cut in half by a giant circular saw operated by what was supposed to be Madison wearing a magician’s tuxedo and a top hat with her blonde hair flowing out below the brim. I made Madison’s eyebrows a stark, angry V and gave her snarling fangs. I drew a word balloon over cartoon Madison’s head that read:

“WHEN I SAY I’LL CUT A BITCH, I MEAN IN HALF.”

When I leaned back in my seat, finished, with a satisfied smile stretched across my face, Madison glanced over. I allowed her a good look at my handiwork.

Madison erupted like a laughing klaxon, snorting bellows of belly-laughter, drowning out the professor.

Everyone in the entire lecture hall stopped and slowly turned to stare at us.

Unsure whether I should be proud of my comic accomplishment or horrified, I sank down in my seat, trying to slide to the floor. But the seat-back in front of me was too close. I was stuck in plain view.

Madison clapped her hand to her mouth in mid-bellow.

The room was pin-drop silent.

The sensation of nuclear embarrassment continued unabated for what seemed like an hour. Or four. I don’t think I breathed the entire time.

“Should I call for an ambulance, miss?” Professor Dorquemann quacked at last. He had a good-natured smile on his face, as if nothing was wrong. “Or is Managerial Accounting inherently funny?” He paused in thought for several moments as a smile of his own appeared, then he honked, “I always thought so, anyway.”

I couldn’t help myself, I had to say it, even if everyone was still staring. In the smallest squeaky whisper I could manage, I said to Madison, “How does he not realize it’s his voice?”

“Shut up!” she whispered from the corner of her mouth through clenched teeth, then kicked my ankle.

Although my ankle smarted, I couldn’t hold it against Madison. I’d triggered her laughter by showing her the Tiffany cartoon, and she was the one in the hot seat.

Dr. Dorquemann raised his eyebrows at Madison expectantly.

“Uhhhh,” Madison croaked. She glowed tomato red, her eyes darting around for the nearest hole to hide in. “Sam! I’m going to pee my pants!” she hissed.

“Please don’t, Mads,” I whispered pathetically. “Otherwise they’ll never stop staring.”

Four hundred pairs of eyes were pinned on me and Madison.

I wasn’t any better with crowds than she was. With no place to go in my cramped desk, I held my sketchbook up to my face, trying to hide behind it. Too bad it was so small. It barely covered my face. I tried to think like a toddler. If I can’t see them, they’re not there, right? I peaked over the top of my sketchbook a moment later, in case it had worked.

Nope. Everyone was still there, all of them still staring. I sunk back behind my sketchbook.

“Ladies,” the professor honked in an amused tone, “as much as I’d like to issue you both detention slips and send you to the office, this is a university where we are beyond such things, wouldn’t you two agree? If my lecture isn’t properly stimulating, perhaps you both can sign up for a drama class instead.”

I happened to peak over at Tiffany who sneered with ample superiority at both me and Madison, resting her chin casually on her hand, her middle-finger extended against her cheek in a stealth flip-off.

Bitch.

There were several random chuckles from some of the students, but the professor resumed lecturing as if nothing was amiss. To say that he was unruffled by our antics would be an understatement.

I was impressed.

Did Dr. Dorquemann’s bizarre demeanor belie the most laid-back professor of all time? He had my vote for the Cool Cat of the Year award.

No wonder everyone liked his class.

Amazingly, I actually managed to take notes for the remainder of class.

SAMANTHA

Madison and I made our way to the Student Center. It was crowded as always. We got in line for coffee at the Toasted Roast.

“What the hell happened back in Accounting just now?” I asked.

“Oh, Sam, I almost died in there. Dorquemann? Really? I think we were in the Twilight Zone or a Saturday Night Live skit.”

“I know, right?”

“I think Managerial Accounting is going to be way better than Fundamentals was last quarter,” Madison said. “That class was a snooze-fest by comparison.”

I smiled. “Yeah, but how can you not laugh at Dr. Dorquemann’s voice for ten whole weeks?”

“If you keep drawing cartoons of murdered Tiffany, I don’t stand a chance,” she chuckled.

We made it to the front of the line and ordered our coffee, then sat down outside. The sun peeked between cloud banks intermittently, and the weather was slightly chilly, but not cold. My unzipped hoodie and jeans were more than enough to keep me warm.

Madison wore an SDU sweatshirt and shorts. She was always trying to catch as many rays from the sun as she could, even in winter.

I inhaled the aroma of my brew before taking a sip. “So, Mads, I was thinking about changing my major.”

“To what?”

“Art?” I said with a tinge more reluctance in my voice than I wanted.

“You should totally do it,” Madison said confidently. “Christos was telling me on Tiffany’s yacht the other night how far your drawings had come in a few short months. And based on your murdered Tiffany cartoon, I can see what he’s talking about.”

“You really think so?”

“Totally,” she reassured.

“Thanks, Mads.” Sharing that moment of comedy gold in Accounting with her was exactly why I was reluctant to change majors. “Would you be bummed if it meant no more accounting classes with you?”

Madison smiled. “Why would I be bummed? You’ve got to do what’s right for you.”

“But it’s our only class together.”

“It’s not like we won’t see each other all the time. Don’t worry about it, Sam. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re sure?”

She squeezed my wrist. “Totally, girlfriend. Besides, my stay in Dorquemann’s Domain will be more productive if you aren’t there busting my guts with your newfound cartoon genius.”

“But aren’t shared experiences like that an important part of the college experience? What if we never see each other?”

“Don’t worry, Sam. We’ll hang plenty outside of class.”

“Promise, Mads?”

“Totally,” she smiled.

I was suddenly on the verge of tearing up because I was so grateful to call Madison my friend. She was so understanding. After my outcast status for the last two years in D.C., being welcomed, valued, and accepted at every turn by my new friends was still a noteworthy experience for me. I still wanted to pinch myself every five minutes to make sure my friends and boyfriend weren’t all just a dream.

“And speaking of classes,” Madison said, “I’ve got Spanish in ten minutes.” She stood up and slung her book bag over her shoulder.

“Oh crap! My history class is on the other end of campus! How do I manage to have classes so fricking far apart?” I grabbed my book bag and we walked out of the Student Center’s outdoor seating area.

“Try taking the campus shuttle,” she suggested as we walked up the steps beside the zig-zag fountain.

“I hate waiting for them. I’d rather walk.”

“So take the underground riot tunnels,” she winked.

We paused at the top of the stairs, on the Central Walkway.

“What are those?” I asked.

“There’s some rumor about tunnels that run under the entire SDU campus like catacombs. Supposedly, they were used in the sixties by the cops when everyone was protesting all the time. But I think Morlocks live down in them now.”

“What are Morlocks?” I asked.

“Didn’t you have to read The Time Machine by H.G. Wells in high school?”

“No, we read A Brave New World.”

“Oh. Well, Morlocks are these horrid troglodyte things. Anyway, have you ever noticed all that steam pumping out through the tall vents near the music building? The ones that look like obelisks?”

“Yeah, I always wondered about that.”

“I’m telling you,” Madison looked around cagily, “it’s the Morlock machines. And they’ll kidnap any unsuspecting young maidens they find and enslave them to work in the bowels of the earth below campus until you die young from hard labor.”

I grimaced. “Who wants to work in a bowel?”

“I know I don’t,” Madison chuckled.

“I think I’ll skip the tunnels. Well, I better run, or I’m going to be late.”

“Bye,” Madison waved as I ran off. “Watch out for Morlocks!”

As I ran, I was on my guard for Morlocks and Tiffany Kingston-Whitehouse, because based on Madison’s description, they were pretty much the same thing. And I always seemed to stumble over Tiffany when I was in a hurry. I’m convinced she was bitch-stalking me. Was she the Morlock Queen? It made sense.

But I was in luck today. I made it to the other end of campus to my history class on time. It wasn’t nearly as packed as Managerial Accounting. But then again, the legendary Dr. Dorquemann wouldn’t be presiding.

I found a seat and pulled out my laptop, determined to do nothing but take notes about fascinating historical topics. I pictured myself recounting the highlights later to my friends while they all listened attentively.

Yeah, right.

Despite my best intentions, history class went over like a Roofinated sleeping potion. I could barely keep my eyes open.

I swear I had no intention of doodling during class yet again. But some alien pod creature must have suckered into my brain through my ear canal while I was carefully avoiding the Morlock tunnels. You were damned if you did, and damned if you didn’t.

When the professor finished his lecture, I realized that not only had I not taken notes, but my laptop was asleep. On the plus side, I had drawn more cartoon doodles in my sketchbook.

I did the math:

  One sketchbook full of doodles 

– One empty laptop

– 

= Time to change my major.

At least my Accounting skills were good for something.

I stuffed my laptop in my book bag and marched up the steps of the lecture hall, determined to change my major.

It was time.

Ten minutes later, I was smiling as I walked through the doors of the Registrar’s Office. Despite its DMV vibe and long lines, everything moved quickly and efficiently. I filled out the paper work to officially change my major to Bachelor of Fine Arts. And I dropped Managerial Accounting. My condolences to the great Dr. Dorquemann. I was going to miss him.

When I walked outside, the sun had broken through the overcast clouds that had hung over campus for much of the morning. Brilliant sun rays slid around the clouds, illuminating the cloudscape in shimmering bronze and gold.

Looked like a good omen to me.

Bye-bye, Sam Smith, CPA. Hello, Samantha Smith, world-renowned crayon craftswoman.

Nothing was going to stop me from following through to becoming an artist.

Now I just had to figure out how to break the news to my parents.

Chapter 11

SAMANTHA

Christos met me at my apartment that evening for dinner. His ’68 Camaro rumbled downstairs as he pulled into a visitor’s parking space. When I glanced out the curtains, it was already dark due to the winter hours. I think the evening hour made me feel like we were any other married couple, like I should have a drink waiting for him, or dinner cooking, or whatever.

When he rang my doorbell, I had a fantasy of a little boy and a little girl running up behind me, so the whole family could greet Christos together, the kids shouting “Daddy!” in unison. My heart accelerated at the thought. I took a deep breath and reminded myself it was only a fantasy.

I opened the door and was greeted by a face full of flowers. Not the real kind, but a big oil painting of a bouquet of them. It was gorgeous.

I tried to peek around the picture frame. “Christos? You back there somewhere?”

Christos leaned over the top of the giant painting, his even white teeth gleaming back at me as he grinned.

“What’s this?”

His dimples flashed. “Most English speakers refer to this as a painting.”

“Duh, I know what it’s called. But what’s it for?”

“It’s for you, agápi mou,” he smiled. “I painted it.”

I was flabbergasted. “What? When? Today?”

“No,” he chuckled. “Between Thanksgiving and Winter Break, when you were avoiding me. I wanted to do something special for you. Show you how important you were to me. Anyone can buy flowers, but I figured a painting of them would be twice as nice, and it lasts forever.”

“Oh my God, Christos, you shouldn’t have done this,” I was tearing up already.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, shouldn’t you save this for a special occasion? Like an anniversary or whatever?”

“Every day is a special occasion with you, agápi mou. That seems reason enough to me.”

My heart hammered again. It seemed like this evening was going to be rich with fantasy fulfillment.

Christos walked through the doorway, careful not to bump the painting into the doorframe. “Where should I hang it?”

I had a chance to better appreciate the painting as he held it up for me to inspect. It was intricate and breathtakingly beautiful.

“How long did this take you to paint?” I gaped.

“Does it matter?” he smiled.

“Yes, it matters! It looks like it must have taken forever!”

“For you, agápi mou, forever is the right amount of time,” he grinned.

“Oh, Christos,” I smiled. Yes, tears were imminent.

“How about I hang it on this wall?”

“That would be perfect,” I sniffed.

He pulled a hammer out of his back pocket, and some small nails. After eye-balling the wall, he tapped several nails into the plaster, then hung the painting. “How’s that?”

“It’s perfect.”

“Remember, don’t over-water them. That’s a common mistake,” he winked.

“I won’t,” I laughed. “It’s beautiful, Christos.” I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him fiercely. “This is the best bouquet ever.”

“Anything for you, agápi mou.” He kissed the top of my head softly. “You ready for some dinner?”

“I’m getting sort of hungry.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m getting a bit tired of takeout. We’re going to have to either start spending more time over at my place so I can cook for you myself, or I’m going to have to stock up your fridge so I can cook for you here.”

“Wait, both of those options are you cooking for me. Isn’t that only one option?”

“That I cook for you is a given,” he smiled, “it’s only a question of where.”

I frowned. “Are you saying I can’t cook?”

He grinned. “Samantha, I have no doubt you make a mean ice cream sundae. But a man requires sustenance. So what’ll it be?”

“An ice cream sundae sounds pretty good right about now,” I winked.

“I’ve got a better idea. Grab your purse.”

Five minutes later, Christos parked his Camaro on the Pacific Coast Highway and we walked toward a restaurant with big blue awning. He held the door for me as we entered Pizza Port.

“I’ve never been here before,” I said.

“What? How can you not have discovered Pizza Port? You practically live right on top of it!”

The interior was covered in crisscrossed bare wood, surfboards hanging from the ceiling, and photos of surfers all over the walls. Picnic tables with the attached benches were laid out on the floor. A bunch of kids in soccer uniforms and their parents occupied most of the seats in the room.

“Wow, it’s packed,” I said. “My parents would never go to a rowdy place like this.”

“Do you want to go someplace else?”

“No, I kind of like it,” I smiled. “It’s perfect.”

While we waited in line to order, I noticed they had these huge metal tanks behind the counter. “What are those tanks?”

“They brew their own beer,” Christos said. “It’s good stuff. I can buy some for you, if you want.”

“Oh, I’m good.”

At Christos’ suggestion, we ordered a Pizza Carlsbad, which had pesto, grilled chicken, sun-dried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and feta. Then we found a place on the benches to sit, squeezed between what looked like two opposing soccer teams, green uniforms on one side of the divide, orange on the other.

“You sure you want to sit here?” Christos asked.

“It should be okay, right?” I said cautiously, not sure what he meant.

“These kids seem sort of surly. Like a drunken brawl could erupt any second.”

The kids were all about eight years old. I giggled. “If you need me to protect you, Christos, just say the word.”

He smiled and extended his hand toward the bench. “I’d pull the bench out for you, but it’s bolted down.”

“Always the gentlemen,” I smiled.

He held my hand as I lifted one leg, then the other, over the bench. “Thank you, sir.”

As he was about to slide in next to me, two boys in green soccer jerseys who had just finished playing a video game at the back of the restaurant came barreling toward Christos, shouting, “We need more quarters!”

The second boy wasn’t watching where he was going. He was distracted by Christos’ lifting his leg over the bench.

“Be careful, Jordan!” a woman hollered at the boy.

Jordan pivoted to avoid running into Christos’ knee but stumbled headlong in the direction of a floor-to-ceiling post. I grit my teeth as I imagined the certain concussion the boy was about to suffer.

Christos reacted instantly. His knee still in the air, he spun on his planted foot and swept Jordan up in his arms, pulling him off his trajectory. Christos planted his elevated foot and swung the boy high into the air.

“Airplane ride!” Christos sang as he held Jordan aloft.

The boy was surprised for a second, but all smiles.

Christos continued to hold him up. “Jordan, can you touch the ceiling while you’re up there?”

The boy giggled and slapped the beam overhead.

“Got it!” Christos said before lowering him to the floor.

The woman who had hollered at Jordan was already walking over to claim him. She was smiling nervously. “Thank you so much. I think you saved my son a trip to the Emergency Room.”

“No problem,” Christos smiled.

“Say thank you to the nice man, Jordan,” the woman said.

“Thanks,” the boy said bashfully.

“Any time, little man,” Christos winked. “Let me know if you need another airplane ride.”

“I think he’s had enough action for the evening,” the woman said.

“But, mom!” he begged. “Me and James weren’t done playing Galaga! We need more quarters!”

“You need to finish your pizza, young man. Then we’ll see about more Galaga.”

“Mom!” Jordan pleaded as his mom led him back to their bench.

“Thank you so much,” the woman said to Christos.

“Any time,” he smiled at her before sitting next to me.

I pulled at Christos’ collar and looked down his shirt.

“What are you doing?” he laughed.

“Are you wearing blue pajamas under this shirt? With a big red S?”

Christos chuckled. “Sorry, my tights are at the cleaners with my cape.”

A short time later our pizza arrived. I’d never had a pizza like this, and definitely not one with artichoke hearts. It was amazing. “This is like, the best pizza ever,” I said before taking another bite.

“Wait’ll you try their beers.”

“Really?” I mumbled as a string of cheese stretched from the slice in my hand to my mouth. It kept getting longer and longer and didn’t seem to want to break. “I think I need scissors!” The cheese finally broke and stuck to my chin in a wiggly string.

“That’s a good look for you,” Christos laughed before leaning over to lick it off.

I couldn’t decide if that was gross or hot. Maybe both. I grimaced while he did it. I hoped no one was watching.

“Daddy,” a little girl sitting two seats over said, “that man is eating pizza off that girl’s face!”

Nope, no audience.

“Kids are the best,” Christos said.

After my public humiliation subsided, I said, “Do you ever think about having kids?”

“When I’m older. But you have to find the right person to do it with first.” He gave me a knowing look. “Emphasis on the ‘do it’ part, and the ‘right person’ part,” he winked.

“Stop!” I giggled excitedly, a flash of that earlier family fantasy I’d had warming my heart once again. Could it be true? Me and Christos, and babies? Some day? I pushed the thoughts quickly away, afraid of jinxing myself if I thought about it too hard.

“What,” he looked confused. “You don’t want to do it anymore? Was it that bad?”

I blushed thinking about how unbelievably good “it” had been. “Eat your pizza, Christos!”

“That’s not all I’m going to be eating,” He said suggestively.

Yes, my thighs quivered expectantly beneath the picnic table for the remainder of dinner. In a good way.

SAMANTHA

After dinner we went back to my apartment.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” I said as I raced up the stairs. “You’ve got to see what I drew in my sketchbook today!”

“You mean the little traveling one I gave you for Christmas?”

“Yeah!”

I opened my apartment door and we went inside. I pulled the sketchbook out of my book bag and opened it to the page with the drawing of Madison sawing Tiffany in half.

Christos barked laughter instantly. “That’s awesome! Is that Madison slicing Tiffany to pieces?”

“Yeah!” I was kind of surprised he could tell. “How did you know it was them?”

He studied my drawing thoughtfully. “This is obviously Tiffany. I think it’s the hair. Besides, what other bitch could the caption be referring to?” He winked at me. “With Madison, I don’t know, you just captured that smile of hers.”

“But it’s just cartoon drawings,” I said. “Not like your oil paintings that look like photos of people. Anyone could tell your painting of Tiffany was her.”

“I see what you’re saying, but cartoons have their own weird kind of magic. I can’t articulate why, probably one of those mysteries of how the mind works. But have you ever noticed how with political cartoons you can always tell it’s a drawing of the president?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s what you did with Tiffany and Madison. You captured the essence of them in your drawing. That’s pretty amazing, Samantha. I’ve been telling you that you have talent from the beginning. This is further proof. Who knows, maybe you’ll be a famous cartoonist someday.”

I was bashful again. Would I ever be able to accept all the compliments that Christos showered on me?

“Speaking of which,” Christos said, “did you change your major?”

“I did,” I smiled, proud of myself.

“That’s awesome, agápi mou. You totally did the right thing.”

My stomach somersaulted. “But I haven’t told my parents yet,” I winced.

“Ah. I imagine that’ll be tough.”

“Do you want anything to drink?” I asked, needing to change the subject.

“Sure. Water’s good.”

I walked into the kitchen and pulled a pitcher out of the fridge and poured a glass. When I put it back, I couldn’t help staring at the freezer. “Want some ice cream?” I hollered.

“I could go either way,” he said, now standing in the kitchen. “You’re freaking about telling your parents, aren’t you?”

“Stop reading my mind!” I whined. I couldn’t help my sudden poutiness. The idea of finally telling my parents about changing my major made me want to eat too much ice cream, vomit it up, get drunk, vomit that up, then go for a jog so I could eat more ice cream.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked softly. He walked toward me and clasped my arms in his warm hands. He leveled his super-powered blue eyes at me.

Why did I feel so at ease every time I gazed into those eyes of his? Was it their color? Because they were impossibly beautiful? Or was it the man behind them, and his love for me? I’m sure it was both. But it was also the fact that I’d never felt this kind of love in my entire life. Unconditional, supportive, understanding, compassionate love. I was tearing up again. It was starting to become a bad habit.

Is that what love did to you? Made you cry all the time?

Christos pulled me into his arms. “You don’t need ice cream, agápi mou. You need to talk, I can tell.” He grabbed his water and led us to my couch. “What’s eating you?”

I sniffled and giggled. “My need for ice cream.”

He chuckled. “We can have some later. But right now, I want to know what’s bothering you so much about telling your parents, if you want to talk about it. If you want to wait, that’s fine too. But it needs to come out, or it’s going to keep eating away at you.”

I wasn’t sure where to begin. I held my hands up plaintively, then dropped them in my lap. But I knew Christos was right. This was just like the Taylor Lamberth situation. I knew I needed to get it out. I took a deep breath, and began.

“I never told you this before,” I started.

“Sounds like a familiar opening,” he smiled.

I shook my head and leaned into him. We were thigh to thigh on the couch. He put his arm around my shoulder and I rested my head on his chest. It was so firm and supportive, just like he was.

“When I was applying for colleges in high school, I got the idea into my head that maybe I could go to an art college. But I never told my parents. I went online and found a bunch of different schools, all of them in California.”

“Which ones?”

“Mainly CalArts and Art Center College of Design.”

“Those are the big gun schools in Southern Cal.”

“I know. Anyway, I read about portfolio submissions, and realized I needed to do some drawings of my own. Some serious drawings. So every day after school, I would draw all kinds of different things at home. Since I’d lost all my friends after the Damian thing, I had plenty of spare time. But every day, I’d make sure to put away my drawings before my parents got home. Somehow, I intuitively sensed they would say something to knock me down if they ever found out.”

“Serious?” Christos frowned.

“I guess it wasn’t like that in your house growing up.”

“Heck no. My dad and my grandad were always wanting to see what I was working on, always trying to help me make my work better.”

“You have no idea how lucky you are,” I said, my voice quavering. “Because, one time, I was so wrapped up in one of my drawings, I never heard the garage door when my mom came home from work. I was trying to copy a photograph of a horse, and I remember how amazed I was that my drawing looked good. I was drawing the entire horse, legs and all, and for once, it didn’t look like a kid’s drawing. To me, anyway.

“The next thing I knew, my mom was over my shoulder saying, ‘What are you doing?’ I covered my drawing instinctively, fear instantly knotting my guts.”

I looked up at Christos. “How lame is that? I was afraid of my mom looking at my drawing.”

Christos cupped my cheek with his palm and stroked my face with his thumb, wiping away my tears.

I continued. “I told my mom it was nothing. I remember her eyes narrowing as she searched my face, almost like she knew I was up to something…I don’t know, like I was up to something dangerous…”