Riven

by Lissa Del

  “Hi there,” Tom grins, his hand extended, “you must be Leo.”

  “Kill me now,” I groan, holding my head in my hands.

  “It really wasn’t that bad,” Jess says. The two of us have come outside for air, leaving a practically salivating Tom alone with Leo and have taken shelter in the small outdoor section of the bar. It’s quieter out here, a few forlorn-looking wooden tables surrounded by plastic chairs that must once have been black but which have been faded by the sun to an insipid shade of grey.

  “He’s such an ass!” I say for the twentieth time, and then, in my best Tom-impersonation; “Ooh, you must be Leo. Not that Sarah mentioned your name or that you were here!”

  “He’s an ass,” Jess agrees sagely, “but, look on the bright side – Leo’s getting you a new drink.” Her low opinion of him seems to have lifted, although whether it’s due to the booze, or his posse of successful friends, I’m not sure.

  “That’s the last thing I need, Jess.” The fresh air is doing little to sober me up, and I have a sinking suspicion that my eyelids are flying at half-mast. I make a conscious effort to open them as wide as I can as Leo approaches.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, looking at me in mild alarm. Tom, who is standing beside him, shakes his head urgently, opening his own eyes so wide that he looks freakish. Fair warning. I blink quickly a few times, trying to regain some semblance of normal.

  “Thanks.” I take Leo’s proffered beer and give up trying to look sober as he clangs his own bottle against mine. He looks far too composed, far too cheerful and, as I have a feeling he is laughing at me anyway, I may as well just be myself.

  “How’re your classes going?” I ask.

  “Good. I’m struggling a bit with the history theory – I’m more of a practical kind of guy - but I’ve made a few friends who seem to know what they’re doing, so I’ll rack their brains closer to exam time.”

  “If you need a tutor, Sarah’s been top of our class for four years now,” Jess offers on my behalf. It seems her opinion of Leo has risen enough in the past twenty minutes that she is once again ready to offer me up on a silver platter.

  “Sure,” I smile up at him, “I’d be happy to help.”

  Leo is silent a long moment and I feel my bravado fail me. He has an unnerving way of holding my gaze without an inkling of discomfort. Eventually, he gives me a small, sympathetic smile.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll be okay.”

  “He could’ve at least pretended to be interested!” Jess’s indignation on my behalf is touching, but my cheeks are still flushed with humiliation. The offer to tutor Leo was so clichéd it couldn’t have been a more obvious excuse to spend time with him, but he rejected it. He rejected me! Not that I think I’m above rejection, but all the signs were there. I was so sure he was into me.

  “Maybe I was imagining his signals?” I muse out loud. We are wandering aimlessly in the general direction of my building, but have yet to find a cab.

  “No way!” Jess raises a hand to emphasise her point as I hop over a huge crack in the sidewalk. “He was putting out major vibes. And let’s not forget, he was the one who practically eye-fucked you in class. And he held up that note. No,” she shakes her head so vehemently that her braids whip across her face. “The signs were there. That man wanted you.”

  “Maybe he changed his mind after seeing me in all my drunken glory?”

  “Probably,” Tom hiccups, oblivious to my feelings. Jess punches his arm.

  “Sarah’s adorable when she’s drunk,” she says, although her tone implies that this is less of a compliment and more an indication that there is something seriously wrong with me. “It can’t be that – something else spooked him.” She considers this for a second and then snaps her fingers. “Maybe you’re too smart! I did say you were top of our year. If he’s a bit useless, he might’ve been intimidated. Maybe he doesn’t want you to find out that he’s all penis and no brains.”

  “I think the correct term is all brawn, no brains,” I point out, but she ignores me.

  “What we need is a plan. Maybe we should invite him to Game Night next Friday?”

  I turn to gape at her. Jess has spent the past four years advocating the sanctity of Game Night. No-one is allowed inside our inner circle. Once, when my brother Dylan rolled up halfway through a particularly gripping game of Monopoly she actually threw an empty champagne bottle at him.

  “Game Night Jess, really?” I ask incredulously. I look at Tom to gauge his reaction, but he is standing in the middle of the road, shirt hitched up, admiring his abs. “You’re going to get run over,” I point out before turning back to Jess.

  “Yes, Game Night. Nobody gets away with snubbing you.” The only thing that Jess loves more than Game Night is a challenge. Her eyes are narrowed and she has adopted the same fierce look she usually reserves for her mortal enemies - the likes of Samantha Simpson and her gaggle of silicon slappers. That look never bodes well.

  “I think we should just let it go,” I mumble.

  “Agreed,” Tom announces, appearing at my side. “He already turned her down once. Sarah’s not exactly a sucker for punishment.”

  Jess’s eyes narrow even further, although I honestly didn’t think it was possible.

  “Besides,” Tom continues, “Sarah Russell really doesn’t have a nice ring to it.”

  “Russell?” I ask, confused.

  “Yeah, that’s his name. Leo Russell. I asked him at the bar.”

  “We’ll ask him on Monday,” Jess announces, and it takes my fuzzy brain a moment to realise she’s still talking about Game Night. The look on her face is so fierce that neither Tom nor I dare argue. When Jess makes up her mind she is a force to be reckoned with. I should be more upset that I’m about to commit social suicide, but, in truth, the enigma that is Leo Russell is a challenge I can’t back down from either.

  CHAPTER 6

  By Thursday I haven’t seen Leo once, which is not really surprising given the size of the Holmes Institute’s campus, and the fact that he hasn’t snuck into any of my lectures again. Jess, who is behaving like a woman possessed, has assured me she will handle what she dubs the ‘Pipe-Cleaner’ project, so I try to focus on my classes instead. Rumours are flying around campus that two representatives from Burke & Duke have asked to meet with the Institute’s nominated candidates for the Advanced Placement Program, but, being one of the only two candidates, along with the dreadful Samantha Simpson, who is not as stupid as she looks, I know this to be false. The interviews won’t take place until after our thesis submission, toward the end of the academic year. This placement is something I have been working toward for the past four years, and any mention of it gets my nerves firing. I want this placement. I want it more than anything else in the world. I’ve worked for it and secretly, I know I’m the better candidate.

  Surprisingly, today’s Technology lecture has been cancelled. I saw Noah coming out of the lecturers’ lounge on my way to class this morning so I know he must be here. It’s not like Noah to miss a lecture - not because he takes any pride in the grades of his students, but the opportunity to be fawned over is not something he avoids. Presented with a free hour, I find an empty table in the cafeteria and make notes on my final project.

  “I hope that’s your thesis you’re working on,” a gravelly voice interrupts and I can’t help the smile that pastes itself on my face as I look up. Dianna Marchant is well into her fifties and terrifies most of the students here at Holmes. She is tall – over six feet – and slim, with broad shoulders that carry most of the weight of the college upon them. Students can only guess at the length of her nothing-natural-about-it black hair because her trademark tight bun gives nothing away. Dianna is stern and intimidating, but the mischievous twinkle in her blue eyes gives her an air of youthfulness. I think so, anyway. Most students don’t let her get close enough to notice.

  “Dianna!” Yes, I am on a first-name basis with the Dean. I make no apologies. She has he
r favourites, all of whom work harder than most. She is also my allocated mentor for this final year and the person to whom I report my thesis and ideas. It’s no coincidence that in a class of almost a hundred students, only Samantha and I were allocated Dianna’s tutelage – she works exclusively with those nominated for the Burke & Duke Advanced Placement program. Technically, we began our mentorship with Dianna at the end of last semester, in our fourth year, making preparation for the mighty workload that we would be set this year, and it hadn’t taken long for me to grow comfortable with her. I set down my pencil and get to my feet, my eyes reaching the uncomfortable level of her insignificant bosom. “How lovely to see you!”

  “You too, Sarah,” a pause and then, “how’s it coming along?” She gestures at the stack of papers on the table.

  “It’s a work in progress,” I stammer. Dianna had approved my thesis topic only last week but she expects almost immediate results.

  “Did you find a location yet?”

  “I think so, I’m going to check it out next week.” My thesis involves tearing down an abandoned warehouse and building an art gallery in its place, right in the heart of the district. After weeks of walking the streets I ironically found the location online, but next week I will conduct a site visit to see if it will work for my proposal.

  “I’d like to see your progress by next Friday.”

  “I’m sure I’ll have the location finalised by then.” I nod convincingly.

  “I’m counting on you,” Dianna reminds me, “I’m sick to death of losing out to ATC and Monet.” At the mention of the rival colleges her lip curls. The Burke & Duke placement hasn’t been won by a Holmes graduate since… well, since Dianna herself was a Holmes graduate and won it. She is possibly the person I admire most here at Holmes. She still lectures occasionally and, when she deigns to do so, the lecture hall is full to bursting. Unlike Noah, who is as sub-standard an educator as he is in terms of professional practical skills, Dianna’s skills are legendary. After winning the Burke & Duke placement over thirty years ago, she went on to become one of their most successful architects, earning herself a full partnership in just four years. Dianna is what Noah is simply not: enormously talented. She spent fifteen years with the company before, in what many refer to as a moment of insanity, resigning from the firm and returning to Holmes to pass her knowledge on.

  “You can’t possibly put in a good word for me, can you?” I tease, knowing full well what her answer will be.

  “No,” she replies firmly and expectedly, “and even if I could, I wouldn’t. You shouldn’t need me to.” Her voice drops even lower and a satisfied smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “You don’t need me to,” she corrects, and her meaning is clear. “Why aren’t you in class?” she adds, as if she is aware of being too kind and is looking for something to take me to task about.

  “Noah… Mr Allen’s class was cancelled.”

  “Of course it is,” she snaps impatiently, “he’s probably schmoozing the B & D reps.”

  “They’re here?” I gasp, a surge of panic coursing through me. I hadn’t given the rumours that the Burke & Duke representatives were here a moment’s thought, but it appeared that they were true after all.

  Dianna waves her hand breezily through the air between us. “No need to panic, dear. They’re not making any decisions about the internship. They just need to review some of your previous work. Not that Mr Allen,” she emphasises the title, “would be required to assist.”

  “Then, why would he cancel his lecture?”

  Her eagle eyes fix me in their stare. “That is something you should think about,” she says, and I detect a warning in her tone. “I don’t like to get involved in the private lives of my students, but between you and me, Sarah, I am relieved that that particular affair is over.”

  I can feel my jaw tightening as the blush spreads unbidden across my cheeks. I tried to be discreet about my relationship with Noah but it was common knowledge on campus. Never, though, had I expected Dianna Marchant to know about it or to have an opinion about it, one way or another. But know she must and I am mortified. Strictly speaking, there is no law against student-lecturer relations, but that doesn’t stop it creating a scandal.

  “I… I…” I mutter, trying to form a coherent response. Fortunately, Dianna isn’t expecting one.

  “Noah Allen is charming,” she continues, “and certainly very easy on the eye, but he is also narcissistic and petty, and not above taking the low road. You have a bright future ahead of you, Sarah. Don’t let someone like him be your downfall.”

  “He won’t be,” I insist, “it’s over. I called it off months ago. We’ve both moved on.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I am.”

  “Good. Keep your eye on the prize and don’t do anything to antagonise him, not when you’re so close to getting what you want. Noah may be a lot of things, but he’s not stupid. And I wouldn’t put it past him to hit you where it hurts most if he feels inclined.”

  “But he couldn’t interfere with the internship? You wouldn’t allow that, surely?”

  “I think you give me too much credit,” she smiles again, and the atmosphere lightens perceptibly. “Just keep your head down, keep your nose clean and stay away from trouble until the internship is awarded.”

  As she walks away, students parting like the Red Sea in her path, I mull over her words: stay away from trouble, and, at that precise moment, Leo Russell looms large in my field of vision.

  “He said he’d think about it!” Jess hisses triumphantly in my ear, the sound carrying across the cafeteria to where Leo is standing. Dianna had barely taken five steps away from me before Jess dashed forward. Leo tries to hide a smile, fails miserably, and then, as if to save me from any further embarrassment, he turns away and strides out of the cafeteria, the doors swinging innocently behind him. “Oh,” Jess follows his departure and then gives a little shrug, “oops. I thought he’d left already.”

  “You are so bad,” I say, gathering my paperwork and stuffing it unceremoniously into my book bag. “And what do you mean he said he’d think about it? It hardly sounds promising.”

  “Beats me.” She shrugs again, the padded shoulders of her military-style jacket making the gesture far more effective than it would usually be. “I asked him while you were chatting to Dianna and he said he’d think about it. Of course he’s coming, though. I mean, who turns down an invitation to Game night?” This is said with all the confidence of a woman who always gets her own way.

  “Jess,” I groan, slinging my bag across my shoulder and meeting her eyes.

  “He took the address,” she says, as though that decides it.

  “Just stop,” I say, “enough with the Leo project.”

  “It’s actually the Pipe-Cleaner…”

  “I know!” I cut her off before she can finish her sentence in that high-pitched voice of hers. The cafeteria is filling up as the lunch crowd descends upon us. Lowering my voice to a whisper I continue. “Enough with the Pipe-Cleaner Project. In fact, you’re never allowed to mention my pipes again. Period.”

  “But…”

  “No buts, Jess,” I laugh at the look of desolation on her face. “Let’s try and retain just a little dignity for me okay?” Her answering grumble is barely audible but I catch the words “fine” and “ruin all the fun” and with that I’m content to be satisfied.

  I’m waiting for Jess and Tom on the steps outside at the end of the day when the topic of my earlier conversation makes his appearance. A shadow falls across the page of the textbook I’m browsing through, blocking out a large portion of the sun.

  I look up, shielding my eyes automatically, but Leo is so broad-shouldered that I am completely shaded. Dropping my hand, I close the book, carefully marking the page with a Post-it.

  “Hey,” I smile up at him.

  “Hey,” he replies, “do you mind if I sit?”

  “Sure!” I gesture at the spot beside me and he curls
his body into it. His name suits him; I find myself thinking. He’s all tanned, toned skin and lithe grace, despite his size. The sunlight catches the copper in his hair, which flops into his insanely blue eyes and I fight the urge to brush it aside. His eyebrows slightly darker and perfectly shaped, in contrast to his wild hair, arch enviously over his dark lashes. Don’t look at his lips, Sarah, I chide myself, an instant before I do exactly that. No man should have a lower lip that full. Too late, he catches me mid-stare.

  “So, what’s up?” I ask, clasping my hands together between my knees and praying that Tom and Jess are delayed. There’s no telling what inappropriate comments they might send my way if they catch me talking to Leo.

  “Not much.” His voice is ocean deep, soothing and intense at the same time. “It’s been a quiet week. I think I’m finally getting ahead in history theory,” he adds, his mouth twitching as if there is some private joke in his words. I don’t respond, feeling the embarrassment of my offer to tutor him rising again. Leo seems to realise this and he quickly changes the subject. “So… your friend Jess invited me to a Game Night tomorrow.” He has an unnerving way of holding my gaze when he speaks, maintaining the direct eye contact that is only truly comfortable when you know someone intimately. His knees are spread, his hands hanging casually between them. The position is relaxed and graceful, with no air of insecurity. Leo is as confident as he is forthright.

  “She may have mentioned that,” I say, feigning nonchalance. “Are you coming?” This close up I notice a jagged scar just above his left eye which zigzags back into his hairline. Not perfect, then, I tell myself unconvincingly. Seeing where my gaze wanders, he shifts imperceptibly, turning his face and I wonder if he has a complex about the scar. He certainly doesn’t need to; it does nothing to detract from his appeal.