by Linnea May
I expected her to come see me again, or at least show her face, so I could come to her. She knows where I am. I’m not on campus every day because it’s neither necessary nor possible, but I have to be there for consultation hours and faculty meetings, even though they are barely relevant to me.
Lana knows that. She knows when I’ll be around, and she knows where to find me. Yet, she has kept her distance since leaving my office with teary eyes and that hauntingly beautiful look of humiliation.
It’s exactly what I wanted to see. Her, wax in my hands and hazy with lust, just to send her away without that release she so desperately craved.
It wasn’t easy for me, either. I wanted her to come, I wanted to see her explode on my desk, to lose her inhibitions completely, even if it was just for a few seconds. The beauty of it is unimaginable.
I thought she was just being careful and smart about this. To be seen with me outside of class could still pose a risk, even if we were just talking to each other. Gossip is uncontrollable, and it would be all the more notable because I’m never seen with anyone else.
I’m aware of all the eyes constantly upon me when I walk across campus. While the initial excitement of the swooning crowd has subsided, there are still plenty who take note of me.
Enough time has passed for me to become accustomed to their attention. While I still carry that young boy with the broken heart inside of me, he had to make way for the person I have become today a long time ago. The boy who fell to the ground, accompanied by laughter and disgust, is long gone. He disappeared the very moment my gaze locked onto Aileen Watson and her ugly grimace.
Nonetheless, it still aches. The pain of losing something that beautiful - my innocent infatuation with a girl who was nothing but an idea of something - will never leave me completely.
However, breaking the Aileen Watson’s of this world helps a lot in dealing with that pain.
In a way, she made me the man I am today, and I never thanked her for that.
It started with a physical change. There was no Jackson Fatson left by the time I entered my senior year of high school. In that regard, I had turned into the exact opposite.
It took me years, and it was as hard as they say, especially for someone with as little money as I had and a mother who couldn’t care less about her own, let alone her son’s, nutrition. I ran in secret and I ate smaller portions of what was provided at home, but learned to fill my stomach with less harmful fuel. I added push-ups and crunches to my runs, since I couldn’t afford to join a gym until after I achieved financial success.
Once that crippling exterior was left behind, I had to get past my inability to follow a regime that wasn’t for me. The way they teach you at school is not the way I learn and thrive, but I had to meet the right teacher to figure out what could be my way.
I was hoping to become that teacher for some of these kids here, but so far Lana appears to be the only one who wants to listen. What attracted me to her was her resemblance to Aileen and my strong urge to break that type of woman, but what keeps me hooked on her now is so much more than that.
I wonder if Lana would have reacted the same way Aileen did back then? I want to believe that she would not have. I really want to believe that.
I dismiss the students a few minutes earlier today, too distressed about Lana’s absence to conclude class the way I had planned. Of course, they don’t care. They flee out of the auditorium without any further questions, except for the usual group who tends to hang around and pester me with small talk before I’m allowed to leave.
Just like every Monday after class, I check my phone for any urgent messages that might demand my immediate attention. My affiliates knew that I’d be present less for the duration of this semester, but I couldn’t assign all of my responsibilities to my co-founders, and Mondays are still the worst days when it comes to catastrophes and developments that call for my personal attention.
However, not today.
I browse through the few e-mails I received and decide that none of them need an instant reply or even another thought.
Good. I have other things to take care of right now.
I head for the faculty lounge because I need to drop off some papers. My plan is to get in and out as quickly as possible, but when I walk in and find Lilia Esquin sitting in one of the lounge chairs, casting me a bright smile as soon as I walk through the door, an idea pops into my head, a plan of action that could help me solve the Lana dilemma sooner rather than later.
“Hello,” Miss Esquin sing-songs in my direction, as I walk past her to the shelf where I need to drop my papers. I place them in the assigned box and turn to her.
“Hello there,” I say, applying the nicest voice possible. “Miss Esquin, if I remember correctly?”
She nods excitedly, sitting erect within a second as she beams at me.
“Yes, exactly,” she says. “I’m surprised you remember…”
“From the sociology department, right?” I add, smiling at her as I approach. “May I sit with you for a moment?”
She nods, slightly confused, but seemingly happy, as I take a seat next to her.
I have a goal, information that I want to extract from her, but as is always the case in these situations, I won’t be able to get to my goal without a little chit-chat first.
So, I engage her in a little small talk about the school, about how long she has been working here, how she ended up here, how she decided on teaching sociology, and so on. Like most people, Lilia Esquin is more than happy to talk about herself and flattered by my sudden interest in her and her life. She talks without interruption, and makes it easy for me to lead the conversation where I want it to be: her students.
I test the waters by trying to deduce as much as possible using her talkativeness to my benefit. Soon, I find her dropping names left and right, about kids who annoyed her, kids who impressed her, kids who surprised her.
To my disappointment, Lana Harlington isn’t among them. It would’ve been so much easier to talk about her without having to bring her name up myself. I don’t want to raise suspicion in any way, but I want to know if there’s anything Miss Esquin can tell me about Lana’s whereabouts. It’s a slim chance, because I don’t even know if Lana is one of her students, but I’m willing to waste a few minutes of my time in the faculty lounge if it could help me locate Lana. I’d hate to wait another week for a chance to see her, and I’d hate it even more if she decided not to show up for class again. If she misses another one, she’s jeopardizing her chance of passing the class at all, due to the standard attendance rule that - ironically - she was behind.
The longer Lilia talks, the more I find myself zoning out, but just as I’m beginning to lose hope on retrieving anything helpful from her, I’m drawn back by her mentioning a party that resulted in most of her students being hungover in her classes the following day.
“Those sociology majors sure know how to make the best use of their dorms for throwing parties,” she says, giggling as if she was a freshman attending those parties. “Well, I should know. I still remember when-”
“It was a dorm party?” I interrupt.
Miss Esquin looks at me, a hint of surprise on her undoubtedly pretty face. I’m sure she’s never run short of admirers, which only proves how she’s so not my type.
“Yes,” she says. “Most of the sociology majors live in Cleveland Hall. They try to keep students with the same major close to each other when they assign housing, and-”
“Is it just the undergraduates?” I want to know. “Or do they do the same with the graduate students, as well?”
“Oh, graduates are more scattered around, or live off campus, but-”
“But some of them live in Cleveland Hall?”
She nods. “Yes, sure. Some, if not most.”
“I see,” I murmur.
Some, if not most. That’s not a definite answer, but it’s a start. Together with what Lana told me about her Monday schedule, I now have two pieces of
information that could possibly lead me to her.
I endure a few more minutes of small talk with Miss Esquin, quickly diverting the topic away from her students and their living arrangements. She was casting me weird looks for asking in the first place, and I certainly don’t want to give an impression that I’m showing a little too much interest in that regard.
When I manage to excuse myself, leaving behind a visibly disappointed Lilia Esquin, I decide that I’ll pay a quick visit to Cleveland Hall this evening. I’ll be sure to arrive there shortly after six, which is when Lana’s last class of the day ends.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LANA
“You don’t look too good,” my sister comments, throwing me a skeptical look over the rim of her glasses. “Are these final classes draining you?”
I shake my head, unenthusiastically playing with the food in front of me. Why do I keep ordering pasta in this place? It has proven to be a bad idea so many times before, especially when cheese was involved, but I keep falling for the simple but promising taste of fettuccine Alfredo, one of my favorite dishes when I was a child.
“No,” I say, staring down at my plate, full of regret. “I just haven’t been sleeping well lately. Don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the moon.”
“The moon?” Harriet exclaims, incredulous. “You know there’s like a billion studies that have proven that the whole moon and sleeping disorder stuff is utter bullshit and that-”
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” I say, looking up from my plate and meeting my sister’s stern eyes. She’s looking more and more like our mother every day. The same sharp and kind of big nose, the same hazel eyes framed by thick and surprisingly dark eyebrows, and the same mouse-like expression. Except for the brown hair, I have very little in common with the two of them, for which I’m grateful. They look exactly like the people they are - strict and one-sided scholars, who could also pass as librarians. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until my sister starts wearing her hair up in a tight bun like my mother does.
“I wasn’t being serious when I said that,” I try to explain. Jokes, just like sarcasm, are beyond my sister’s comprehension.
“Oh, I see,” she says, nodding with relief. “Well, if it doesn’t get better, you should see someone about it. You’ll need to start preparing for finals soon.”
“I know.”
If it wasn’t for Mr. Portland and the confusion he’s brought into my life, I’d most likely be preparing materials to study for my finals already, even though there’s still plenty of time for that.
“Have you spoken to Professor Warwick yet?” Harriet asks, still looking at me over her glasses.
I look at her quizzically. “About what?”
She rolls her eyes. “About being your doctoral adviser? I thought he was your first choice?”
I freeze and stare at my sister, absorbing her words. Why is this making me so… unhappy? Harriet talking about me pursuing a Ph.D. as if it was already a done deal makes me feel like a steel clamp just slammed shut around my heart.
I was so set on following this path just a few month ago. I knew nothing else, and had she said the exact same words to me back then, I would have felt nothing but the urge to follow through on them.
But now I find myself in a place where I’d forgotten about all of it. About Professor Warwick, about my potential Ph.D., about having to make the necessary preparations so I could start the next level right after obtaining my master’s degree. It was all gone, replaced by an alternative plan, the one posed by Mr. Portland.
Mr. Portland, who, just a week ago, buried his face between my legs, licking and fingering me until I was close to orgasm, spanking me so hard my ass was still red when I got home - and who then sent me away without release. Leaving me hungry and embarrassed.
My cheeks are burning. Fuck, I can’t think of him now, not sitting here with my sister.
“No, I haven’t,” I say, finally replying to her question. “I’m… still thinking about it.”
“About what?” she asks, scraping the remains of her food onto her fork. “You think you might want to go with someone else after all?”
“About the Ph.D.,” I reveal, gathering all my courage. “I’m not sure if I want to do it at all.”
Harriet freezes mid-chew and looks up at me, her eyes wide in shock.
“What?” she stammers. “What do you mean?”
She contorts her face into an expression of sheer disbelief, looking at me as if I’d lost my mind. Maybe I have. Maybe I’m talking crazy, dazed by a forbiddingly handsome man who not only seduced me with his sexual appeal, but also with his maverick ideas.
“I don’t know,” I murmur. “I’ve just been thinking. Maybe a doctoral degree is not the right thing for me.”
“But how are you supposed to become a professor if you stop now?” Harriet asks, bewildered.
I raise my left eyebrow and look at her with a similar look as the one I so often see on Mr. Portland’s face.
“I wouldn’t be a professor, if I decided to not continue on to get my Ph.D.,” I say. “There are other things I could do, Harriet.”
“Like what?” she asks, letting her fork fall onto her plate with a loud clank. “Did you tell Mom and Dad?”
“Many things!” I declare, painfully aware how immature I must sound. “And no, I didn’t. There’s nothing to tell them, because I haven’t decided.”
“You should talk to them before you do anything stupid,” she warns. “Like seriously… dropping out of school?”
I huff at her.
“I’m not dropping out!” I protest, my voice emerging in a desperate, high pitch. “All I’m saying is that I’m not sure whether a doctoral degree is the right way for me to go. I never said anything about not getting my master’s degree. Jeez, Harriet!”
She rolls her eyes again, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms in front of her chest. “This would be a huge mistake, Lana. Trust me.”
“Why?” I seriously want to know, leaning forward and raising my chin defiantly. “Because Mom and Dad might get angry? Or because you can’t think of anything else I could do that would make me as happy as you are - or maybe even happier?”
“Yes to both!” she exclaims. “What on earth will you do with a degree in social studies? Like seriously, it’s not like the free market is waiting for someone who has never done anything but conduct research on society. You have never even worked, except for your job at the library.”
“I have a minor in Economics,” I remind her. “I didn’t focus on cultural studies like you did.”
“A minor in Economics,” Harriet repeats, laughing, as she rolls her eyes for a third time. “Yeah, sure. That’ll help.”
“It might,” I argue. “Besides, nothing is said and done yet. There’s no reason for you to freak out like this.”
“I’m not freaking out,” she says, uncrossing her arms as she leans over to me. “I’m just worried you might do something stupid. Where’s this coming from so suddenly? You never mentioned that you had any doubts about doing this before.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I never really thought about it. But now that my graduation is coming closer, I thought it would be time for me to re-evaluate a few things and-”
“Is it a guy?” Harriet asks, furling her eyebrows. “Did you meet someone?”
“What?” I exclaim, my voice squeaking at the worst possible time. “Why would you say that? That’s… I mean… How-”
“Oh God, it’s a guy!” Harriet concludes, rolling her eyes so hard this time that it almost looks painful. “Please don’t tell me you fell for one of those damn hippies in the humanities department.”
She looks at me with an expression of disgust on her face.
“No!” I insist. “And please, Harriet. Stop blaming this on me falling for someone. I didn’t. It’s not that at all. I’m just thinking about where I want to go in life after I graduate with this degree - why is that so hard to believe? Just because
you never second-guessed taking the same route as Mom and Dad, it doesn’t mean that I can’t.”
“Fine,” Harriet says. “Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”
I frown at her. “I won’t do anything stupid.”
While I may still decide to follow up on that doctoral degree, saying that I won’t do anything stupid might be a stretch.
I’ve avoided Mr. Portland for the past week and even skipped class - for the first time in my life – so as to not have to be confronted by him. I know he’s waiting for me, but I don’t know how to face him. The idea of having to see his face today in class, in front of all my unsuspecting classmates, was too much to bear. I chickened out, lying to every person I talked to today, including my roommate. Celia wouldn’t judge someone for skipping class, but she would’ve bugged me with a thousand questions because she knows me well enough to sense there must be something seriously wrong with me to do something like that. Especially skipping the class of the teacher she still refers to as Mr. Awesome would have made her more suspicious than ever.
“I gotta go,” I announce, glancing down at my phone on the table next to my plate. “My next class is starting soon.”
My sister lets me go without another word of warning, but I can tell by the way she’s looking at me that she’s worried - and she’ll most likely share her concerns with our parents.
At least I only have one class left for the day before I can get home and try to catch up on the sleep I’ve been missing.
A relaxing evening with a glass of wine and no further emotional turmoil. That sounds wonderful.
***
I shuffle toward Cleveland Hall with my head hanging low, alternating between staring at my phone and the pavement under my feet as I drag myself home. It was no lie when I told my sister that I hadn’t slept well for the past week.