by Nina Lemay
“Oh, please.” I’m smiling, and the dried trails of tears crinkle on my cheeks. “That’s in, like, a million years.”
He brushes the last of the tears from under my lower lashes with his thumb.
“I don’t care about anything. I just want to have you in my life. For a million years or for a week.”
And I melt, my knees buckling, and sink into his hug. We stay like this until we have to break away before someone sees us.
It’s amazing, how easily we pick up where we left off.
I spend the entire weekend with Emmanuel, at his place. He drives me to a small ski town a couple of hours away from Montreal, just for the day; it’s empty and desolate-looking, with the last of the leaves gone and no snow to cover the depressing brown-grey slopes and trees. We spend the afternoon in an outdoor spa before heading off to dinner at a cozy French restaurant.
But mostly we just stay in bed.
“So, you know my story now,” he says, pulling me close to him. “Your turn?”
I playfully punch his arm. “You wish.”
He’s supposed to drive me home Sunday night, but we’re both too comfortable to get up—and neither of us says it, but we still haven’t gotten enough of each other. I suspect it might take a while.
So on Monday morning, we go through the charade. He drops me off at the Metro station closest to the school and goes to park his car while I make my way to class through the usual subterranean tunnel. At least it means I’m the first one to arrive, so I get my seat back, the one closest to him.
Before class starts, he takes something out of his bag. My heart skips with joy when I see it’s the camera. He puts in on the table in front of me and I pick it up; the familiar roughness of the leather case, its satisfying weight in my hands—it feels like an old friend.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I thought about it, and you can keep it. It’s yours.”
“But—wasn’t it your dad’s?”
“So it was. I still want you to have it.”
The first students arrive, and we make sure to change the subject to something neutral. Audrey is among them, but she doesn’t seem to bat an eyelash at the fact that I took her seat. She walks to her old place, chatting with another girl.
But I notice that her eyes keep darting in my direction. Just for half a second at a time, when she thinks I can’t see her.
A chill runs through me, to my core.
“So,” Emmanuel takes his place at the front and leans on the table. “Since I like you all way too much to give you a final exam, I think it’s time to talk about that thing your grade will depend on. The final project.”
“Dun-dun-dun,” someone echoes dramatically.
“As we have discussed, it will be a series of photos. All projects will be displayed at the department’s end-of-term exhibit, so keep that in mind. Y’know, don’t do anything you don’t want a whole bunch of strangers to see.”
Audrey giggles.
“The proposal is due next week and the project must be handed in by December 7th. Everyone here knows how to do a proposal?”
“Can we change our mind once the proposal is handed in?” Audrey asks.
Emmanuel nods. “Yes, but it would be preferable if you let me know anyway, even if it’s just by email. It’s worth the bulk of your grade, so I want you to do well.”
“’Cause I’m working on something,” she says coyly. “But I don’t know how it’ll turn out yet.”
Emmanuel’s lips stretch in a cold smile. “Take your time.”
“Oh, I’ve been at it since the semester started,” she bats her eyelashes. She’s the worst flirt I’ve ever seen. She’d do fantastic as a stripper.
The thought makes a vindictive grin spread over my face.
“Then I look forward to seeing the result of a whole semester’s work,” Emmanuel says.
“Oh, you won’t forget it.”
“Getting ahead of yourself a little, perhaps?” Emmanuel teases coolly.
“I’m not the type.”
I really wish she’d stop, and he’d stop going along with it. Everyone is staring at them.
Thankfully, after that, someone asks a real question, and Emmanuel launches into the explanation. People start to talk amongst themselves, discussing their ideas. Someone—a guy, naturally—wants to do a set of photos of unmade beds. Of the girls he’d banged, as it’s implied.
“This Tracey Emin shit is so 1990,” a girl scoffs. I wonder if she was one of the unlucky lays.
Another girl is doing a set of seemingly random storefronts that all used to be music stores, now turned into fro-yo places or GAP outlets or what have you. She wants to call it Death Notes.
I look at the blank notebook page in front of me. What will my project be about? All my ideas are lame.
I think of the paintings back at my place, but put them out of my mind. Just like my relationship, my real art has to be kept secret. For a fleeting moment, it makes me sad.
On Tuesday, Leary’s class drags on and on. Looks like I’m not the only one who’s getting tired of his monotonous lectures: the class is half empty. The end of semester is nearing, and people are getting restless.
He catches me on my way out of class.
“Ms. Shay.” His voice makes me stumble. I consider just walking on and pretending I hadn’t heard when he calls my name again. “Hannah.”
I stop and turn. “Yes?”
“I trust you’ve received my email.”
I nod, not without dread.
“But you haven’t gotten back to me. About that appointment.”
“I was—I’m sorry, I have a lot of work in my other classes. End of semester and all.” I try to smile but the result is not reassuring.
“Well, my office hours start now. We can talk.”
“I, uh—”
“You don’t have any classes after this,” he interrupts. “I have access to your schedule.”
I don’t know whether that’s true or not, but decide not to argue.
“Or is there something more important than staying off academic probation?”
I shake my head. I like this less and less.
He’s not actually going to fail me, is he? I’ll gladly take a C- at this point.
“So how about we head over to my office, look over the work you’ve handed in, and talk.”
I follow him to the office—on the same floor, at the end of one of the looping, convoluted hallways of the old building. It’s the end of the day, and everyone seems to have already left.
In spite of myself, my heart starts to pound, falling in rhythm with the thump of my steps on the linoleum.
His office is small and cramped, like most in the department, and windowless. There’s a glass panel in the door but other than that, the only light comes from a humming halogen. The office itself barely fits a cheap plywood desk and a bookshelf piled with volumes on art history and related subjects. A few posters of famous paintings are pinned to the wall, their corners curling from the humidity.
On his side of the desk, there’s a comfortable swivel chair with a leather back. On my side, there’s one of those rickety plastic chairs.
He gestures toward it. “Have a seat.”
I obey. This feels too familiar, too much like being at the principal’s office back at my high school in Minnesota. Memories of the day they called me in come flooding back, making me grit my teeth. Except by then I already knew all too well what it was about. And this… it’s killing me. I wish he’d just cut to the chase. So he’s going to fail me. So I’m on academic probation. I’ll survive. All I have to do is not fail anything next semester and I’m in good standing again. Sure, it’s not great for my GPA, but…
“You know, Hannah, I was one of the people reviewing your portfolio,” he says. “Did you know that?”
It’s a stupid question, of course I didn’t. I sent that poor sadsack portfolio out into nothingness, hoping someone would take pity on me.
; “So if you got in, it’s because I—and other professors at this school—thought you had talent, and potential.”
Great. This is the Guilt Trip portion of the tour—I took you in, and you spend my classes daydreaming. I hang my head. There’s no arguing that I didn’t exactly give it my all this semester.
“Look, I know I didn’t do very well,” I start. “But I had a lot of things happening in my—in my personal life.”
My face flares. I didn’t just have the gall to pull this excuse. I know people had gotten leniency for missed deadlines and assignments because of family things, illness, and such. But to use my relationship with Emmanuel—whether I say it outright or not—to justify doing badly is just too much.
He sighs. “Yeah, yeah, personal life. Sure, all you kids it’s the same thing, I get it, you’re young, you wanna party and drink and sleep around.”
When my head snaps up in shock at his directness, he rolls his eyes. “Please, Hannah. Let’s drop the pretenses and talk like normal people, one adult to another. You’re not in middle school anymore.”
No joke.
“I’ll be honest, this isn’t about your last paper. Well, not just about your paper.” He folds his hands on the table in front of him. I stare at them: veiny, crinkly hands, they look older than the rest of him. He has a scratched-up, faded wedding band on his ring finger. I consciously halt my work-brain and look up into his face. “Although your paper was absolutely mediocre. Lizzie Siddal? I teach you about great masters, and all you took away from it were the trials and tribulations of a deranged woman who would have been forgotten if not for the man she chose to sleep with? Really?”
I want to say something, but the words die on my tongue.
“But I digress. To be honest, I have to say I’m a little bit concerned about this downward spiral your life has become lately.”
“I’ve had some personal troubles, like I said.” My voice comes out hoarse.
“Troubles? That’s a genteel way of putting it.” He switches those weathered hands around, right on top of left. The dull glint of the ring vanishes from view. “I must admit, ever since I saw your portfolio and read your essay, I’ve felt a certain protectiveness of you. With the right guidance, you could go very far. Well, it saddens me that you seem to be throwing away the opportunities that you no doubt worked hard for.”
His icy gaze lands on mine. His eyes are watery, rheumy, red around the corners.
“I’m not throwing anything away. I just hit a rough patch,” I say. “I’ll be back on top by next semester.”
“Really? Well, many of your teachers will probably agree with you. And give you a shining A-plus, to boot, and a glowing recommendation.”
My heart drops. The shockwave travels down my spine through my fingertips, nails me to the spot. My ears start to ring. “Excuse me?”
“And the truth is, I want to be one of them. I really do. That’s why you’re here.”
I raise my chin. My heart is hammering like crazy. Its thrum fills the cramped space of this office, rings hollow inside my skull.
“But what you’re doing, it’s not going to get you anywhere. I hope you understand that. Do you even realize it? What if your mother knew?”
I almost say I don’t know what you’re talking about. Almost. But I don’t want to be any more of a flaming cliché than I already am. So I just dig my fingers into the seat of the uncomfortable chair and say nothing.
He reaches under the desk and takes out one of those grainy beige envelopes they use to send you back your graded papers after the semester ends. And suddenly I just know.
Things flash before my eyes, one image after another, with a dry click like frames on an old roll of film. The fake Facebook account, the party at my place. People piling in, everywhere in my apartment. And one among them, going through my things.
A plastic container with a single roll of film that I had shoved into the bottom of my duffel bag as I gathered my things from the hotel room in Quebec City. And I could bet a month’s earnings it’s no longer stashed at the bottom of that duffel.
I’m not even surprised when he slides out the stack of glossy black and white photos. I already know them all by heart, in order they were taken. Emmanuel. Me. More of him, more of me, view of Chateau Frontenac, Emmanuel and me posing on the boardwalk, Emmanuel tilting his head to kiss me for the camera. My naked back in front of the window. A story told in snapshots.
“That’s one hell of a term project you have here, Hannah.”
I know he expects me to get up, to yell, to demand where he got this. But I won’t, and I already have a very good idea where he got it. So I just say, simply:
“It’s mine.”
“Yeah, I can tell.” He flips over the stack of photos, and the very top one is the one of my back. It really is a beautiful shot. Emmanuel knew what he was doing. It’s sensual but not revealing, and I look so pure, light and vulnerable, ephemeral. White curtains billow around me like a cloud, like I’m a wisp magically caught on camera film.
I remember how I flipped out when he took it, and my eyes fill with tears. I thought this was a big deal.
Silly girl.
The real big deal sits in front of me with a widening smirk on his face.
“You realize there’s a policy against this in this university?”
“It’s not a crime. We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re both adults,” I blurt out. All my excuses, all the things I said to myself when I couldn’t fall asleep. But each one of them bounces off him with a sharp little clink.
“The school board might see it differently.”
“Is this why you brought me here? To threaten me?”
“I’m not threatening you, Hannah. I’m just warning you that eventually we all have to face the consequences of our actions.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Give me a break.” His voice changes, a mean and ugly snarl. He slams his hand on top of the pile of photos. “For God’s sake, had I known from the beginning it was so easy, I would have outed you ages ago.”
I sit across from him, my spine arrow-straight. “What?”
“You heard me. The moment I read your application I ran a search and found what you were up to in high school. Not exactly the profile we look for in this university, is it.” His mouth twists.
Blood drains from my face.
“But did I tell on you? No. I was one of the people who decided to admit you. I thought you should have a chance. And you come here and what’s the first thing you do? Get a job flashing your tits on stage to a bar full of creepy old men.”
I dig my fingernails into the plastic seat until agony shoots through my fingers, all the way up into my shoulder blades. My body is a string about to snap. “You,” I say. My lips move of their own free will. “The text, the call, that was you?”
“I first saw you there last year. I didn’t want to embarrass you, so I made myself discreet. And you’re young and pretty, don’t play modest—I’m sure you know it, doing that job.” He gives an oily chuckle. “I decided to do the decent thing. To keep your secret. You’re entitled to your privacy after all. Until, of course, that punk with the tattooed knuckles showed up. I saw you dancing for him, Hannah, and I knew he was going to be your teacher long before you did. I figured he might take advantage, threaten to expose you. And the next thing I know, you’re banging him in the darkroom. This is what you get, for trying to be a decent man.”
“You’re out of your mind,” I say through clenched teeth. “If you think—”
“I think,” he echoes mockingly, “I think that I have rather a lot on you, no?”
“Like what? I’m not doing anything illegal.”
“Illegal? Maybe not. But what do you think will happen if your innocent flirtation with Mr. Arnau comes to the attention of the school board? Maybe you get suspended, maybe not, but he’ll be in hot water. He could lose his job. And he could have trouble finding another one. Think anyone will let him tea
ch a bunch of seventeen-year-olds in a CEGEP? Maybe in a high school. He should fit right in, he likes them prepubescent-looking.” His gaze strays to my chest. I shudder, fighting the urge to wrap my arms around myself. I remember what Emmanuel told me, after that complaint—I now have a good guess who filed it.
“And as for you, when I write a report about your behavior off-campus… not to mention your prior history… I wonder if they’ll still find that you fit the image of a Mackay student. You’ll get expelled.”
“No one will expel me for that,” I say, even though deep down, I have no idea. For all I know he’s right.
“…you’ll get expelled, there’s one other English university in this city and I teach there as well… so unless you manage to learn fluent French overnight, your college career is over. And you know what that means? Bye-bye student visa. It’s back to Minnesota, to mommy and daddy and ex-classmates, who have all already seen your naked ass. No degree and no more cute French boyfriend. How does that sound?”
My vision starts to fray at the edges, fuzzy darkness crowding in. My mouth goes dry.
I can’t bring myself to move a muscle.
At the edge of my consciousness, I hear the soft creak as he slides back his chair, see his dark form move around the desk until it’s looming over me, covering me in its shadow.
“I’d hate to have you thrown out of here,” he says. “I think it would be a loss for this school. And for Mr. Arnau. Not to mention all the men who rely on you for their wet dream material.” He chuckles.
Everything else that happens is a blur. A short but vivid nightmare from those moments just before you wake, the one that slams you back into the reality of your sweat-drenched bed, the one that feels like it lasts a year but in reality only lasts a second. The hiss of his zipper slices across my eardrum, the tug of his fingers on the hairs above the base of my neck. Pressure on the back of my head, holding my breath, red motes dancing in front of my shut eyelids. Gasping, choking and coughing, sputtering while the rustle of his steps fades and the shadow lifts.
Tears sliding slowly down my numb cheeks.