Hadrian's Wall

by Felicia Jensen

  Silence dominated the kitchen. Her eyes twinkled behind shaded glasses, which contrasted with the white stems. It could only be an effect of light...What’s up with the light of this town, which causes an unsettling effect in people’s eyes?

  Suddenly, Mrs. McPherson looked directly at me. “You have a visitor, Miss. Baker.” When I looked confused, she added, “He claims to be your new instructor.”

  “Instructor?” Delilah asked, puzzled.

  “Oh...It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.”

  After creating a convincing lie, I mean...I got up.

  “He’s waiting for you in the living room. You know how to get there, don’t you?” Mrs. McPherson asked.

  I nodded.

  17

  PIECE OF CAKE

  I stared at the interiors of the students’ rooms that appeared very quickly through the doors that opened and closed when I passed. Something unusual was happening inside—something very different from when I arrived.

  Before, McPherson House seemed mortally dull. Now, I realized how wrong I was!

  I confess that my first impression of the place was not generous or fair. Although the house is a magnificent building, I felt pressured to see all in gray colors by strong emotions that accompanied me after leaving the hospital—emotions that reached a climax with Adrian’s odd departure. I felt out of place and alone...very lonely.

  I welcomed all of the exciting things going on around me because I wasn’t given the opportunity to drown myself in a sea of self-pity. Being a curious person by nature has become to me a positive element of distraction as I observed the excitement of all those young people. It was fun trying to analyze them because they were so different from me. I felt like an old woman around them. In a way I envied them, because I supposed to have been like them.

  It was the first time I allowed myself to socialize with people of my own generation, to let anyone get close to me. At the orphanage, I was always the oldest, the most loony, the most obtuse, or least interesting, if you prefer. Children didn’t remain in the orphanage very long to allow friendships to deepen, at least not in the extremely rare times that someone my age dared to approach me.

  Another door slammed. The muffled sound of laughter filled the corridor.

  “There’s an air flow through here. Don’t let the door slam again!” I heard a girl say to someone else who mumbled an unintelligible reply.

  As I reached in the end of the long corridor, a question came to mind” This place is usually dead in the middle of the afternoon, so what’s causing the uproar today? The Verano’s party?

  Suddenly, two girls crossed the corridor in front of me. It was obvious they were coming from the ladies room, because they weren’t dressed. Both had only a towel around their body. They disappeared into one of the bedrooms, squealing excitedly.

  “Hey! You two are committing indecent exposure!” shouted a guy who was clutching his books to his chest. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a nerd up close, I recalled. “You can’t walk around half-naked here. It’s not the Playboy mansion! Did you hear me? Damn it! Are you listening to me?”

  His fiery words had no effect because they slammed the door in our faces. The guy straightened his metal-rimmed glasses and brushed past me, muttering something like “...take advantage of his absence...”

  Who’s absence?

  For a moment, I thought about two reasons for all the excitement. First, many of the residents who were living away from home for the first time were preparing to spend their weekend at home. Baggage and backpacks stacked near the doors corroborated my theory. They’d be anxious to see their families and tell them about their classes. I’ll bet this is the first opportunity for a privileged few to go home, especially those who were still getting used to the routine.

  On the other hand, among those who did not intend, or could not travel, were the “assiduous frequenters” of parties—the party goers—and I bet they were in the majority. Before the doors slammed behind me, I caught some fragments of conversations that revealed plans for a night out with friends in Saint Paul; however, most of those who passed by me quickly spoke about only one thing—Joe V’s party. According to Adrian, he’s guy that I should avoid.

  As I watched the students moving around, sometimes talking loudly, sometimes whispering, a strange feeling came over me. I had not even been accepted by UWall, but somehow I already felt a part of the atmosphere of dreams and expectations peculiar to the academic youth—a phase I should not let pass. I had lost so much! My childhood and adolescence were gone. I’d been on the outside, looking in, not participating. All that I lived was through films, books and comics. Now I was an adult woman. No one else could control my life. I would remain on the outside only if I allowed it.

  But it was just so difficult to fight the past, to try to put it behind me! Despite my desire to be included with everyone and everything that I was seeing now, I still harbored the fear of repeating my failures. The past was my personal tsunami. I was constantly looking over my shoulder, hoping to see the tidal wave that would rise to destroy everything that I conquered. I wanted to accomplish something useful, to achieve something that I could feel proud of, that would help me be accepted by the group, overcome difficulties with my studies, but I was afraid to be living an illusion that was on the verge of evaporating. Actually, I was afraid of being rejected and despised, afraid that people might find out about my hallucinations and the target of ridicule. I simply couldn’t bear that because it would be confirmation of the harsh reality that I did not belong to the team of winners.

  An inner voice warned me to avoid depressing thoughts since they could affect my own interpretation of the situations in which I found myself and, therefore, the attitudes that I would carry forward. Somewhere I read that defeatist thoughts attract failure. They contribute to that person acting like and then being treated like a failure.

  Although the unresolved thing with Adrian caused me anguish, just thinking about him now gave me the strength not to dive back into depression. He believes in my potential. He doesn’t consider me insignificant and most definitely, he is a winner. If I was a loser, I never would have attracted a winner.

  Keep this in mind, girl!

  Once I reached the living room, I realized the place was very quiet compared to the hubbub of the corridor. There was no one there except a tall guy. Was he my instructor?

  He had his back turned, reading the messages pinned to the bulletin board. He was thin, his physique suggesting that he regularly participated in sports. I’d venture to say swimming because his shoulders were peaked in the manner of one who had been a swimmer since childhood.

  He would be distinguishable in a crowd—especially by the feline posture; however, I could not see his face, so I was only able to analyze everything else. In particular, his black gloves caught my attention. They covered his strong, elegant hands. The rest of the clothing was very casual: a jeans jacket, snowboard pants, and tennis shoes. His shiny hair was cut very short. The color was so beautiful - similar to honey.

  Suddenly he turned to face me, even though I hadn’t made any noise—at least I thought I hadn’t. Now I could see his face. He was a teenager! He couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. He was as pale as Adrian and wore the same kind of photochromatic glasses. Having seen the gloves, I was actually expecting something like that, so I was not surprised.

  The frames of his lime-green eyeglasses contrasted sharply with the simple clothes and the reserved attitude. He seemed almost shy. However, his shadowed lenses gave me a glimpse of the shape of his eyes and the color of his irises as he moved in the light.

  His body language also told me a little about him. His surprisingly strong looking, but skinny legs were separated and the way he held his arms behind his back suggested serenity. However, I noticed he was alert. A few seconds passed, until the corners of his lips lifted a little.

  “Good afternoon,” he said.

  “So, you’re my m
ysterious instructor?” I responded.

  He frowned, but nodded. As he crossed his arms to retrieve the laptop bag hanging from his should, I saw the strong muscles of his chest flex. He had the constitution of a man, despite his boyish face.

  “I don’t know exactly the implications of the adjective ‘mysterious,’” he joked. “I’m John Walter Hume, laboratory assistant of Mr. Wade. You can call me John, or Walter, if you prefer.” He extended his hand formally. “Nice to meet you!”

  Well, he looks more like a Walter than a John.

  I noticed that in addition to expressing himself with an indefinable accent, his speech was very ceremonious for someone so young. Wow! He must be younger than me. He speaks like my grandfather would have if he were alive! Walter Hume... well, according to Dad, it was definitely a sign...but a sign of what? That I could trust someone whose initials in reverse were the same as the town? I almost got distracted trying to find the logic in that.

  After a second’s hesitation, I greeted him, though my distrust remained. Pale people with flashing eyes, who disguise their attributes with gloves and goggles...most certainly hide little secrets. How far it was wise to trust them? When they weren’t causing electric shocks, mysteriously appearing and disappearing, or giving a show of walking on cobblestone pathways in stiletto heels... Oh, yeah! These people hide big secrets, about which I didn’t wanna know, but at the same time, I felt tempted to “peek through the keyhole.”

  I stared at Walter. He calmly returned my look, knowing that I was analyzing him. Demonstrating that he has good manners, he removed his glasses and continued looking at me in a frank and confident way.

  Now I knew that his eyes were light brown, speckled with gold dots. As was the case with all weird and pale people, his exotic irises had a tremendous impact on me, but I noticed something else. He sought to mitigate the impact with his smile and his sweet look. His body language told me something about his personality: John Walter Hume cared about what people thought about him.

  A sudden commotion alerted us to the approach of others. Soon, the excitement of the corridor would extend to the living room. Freshmen heading home were passing by us, carrying their luggage. They talked about bus tickets, cars, rides, roadmaps everything at the same time.

  Walter smiled and rubbed his chin, watching with interest the chaos that reigned around us. For a moment he seemed like a child standing in front of the candy store window. All this excitement was delighting him, as if he wasn’t familiar with this sort of situation.

  “I think it will be easier to talk in my room,” I said, pointing to corridor. “By the way, I’m Melissa Baker.”

  He nodded silently, still smiling. Apparently, he isn’t talkative. However he doesn’t seem insecure like guys his age often appear to be, I thought, as we left the living room.

  Halfway to my room, we heard the furious pounding of Derek Spencer on his piano. He was still practicing. Walter suddenly stopped at the door to the music room and then cocked his head, listening curiously.

  “The piano is a little out of tune,” he said softly to himself. “In my time, the tuning was provided by...” He hesitated, glancing up at me.

  Okay, that’s the last straw!

  “How old are you?” I asked him impulsively. But to my own ears, the question sounded aggressive.

  His smile widened. “Seventeen...and you?” He sent the question right back to me. “I know it’s discourteous to ask the age of a young lady, but in view of your curiosity, I feel authorized to ask you too.”

  Are you serious?

  “I have no problem telling you my age. I just recently turned eighteen.

  “Wow! You’re an old woman, eh?”

  “Ha ha!” I laughed wryly. I recognized that I deserved his comment.

  “Don’t worry, miss. I’m an excellent teacher, if that’s what worries you...”

  “I’m not worried...just intrigued.” And bewildered to tell you the truth. “Yes, I thought that you were too young to be my instructor, but I found your behavior too mature for someone so young.”

  I stopped short in front of my door, turned the knob, and motioned for him to enter.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable,” I said, behaving like Miss Manners would expect of me in this situation. Once inside he quickly glanced around and then set his bag on the floor, leaned it against the leg of the bed, and removed a laptop, a booklet, two books, and a worn-looking pencil case.

  I pulled out the cushions that I’d found inside the trunk and laid them on the carpet. While he was arranging the material on the foot of my bed, I sat down. Then Walter sat down beside me on the other pad and supported the laptop on the legs.

  “Sorry I don’t have a more suitable location,” I said. “I just moved in, so I’m not familiar with place, so that I could have chosen a better place to meet, but perhaps there’s an office, a study room, or something else...”

  He shook his head gently. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Suddenly I figured out exactly what intrigued me about the way Walter expresses himself. Walter looked like Adrian—not in physical appearance. What I mean is, they both seem much older than their age.

  “Where do you want start? The PDA’s functions or the aptitude test?”

  My eyes widened.

  “Test? I thought you’d help me with the PDA,” I said, pointing to the electronic device on the bed.

  “I’ll also help you study for the test,” he said gently.

  “Please, start where you think best,” I replied, thoroughly confused.

  He looked at his wristwatch before making a brief introduction on the subject. He showed me the revisions that the test had undergone in the last two years and created some basic exercises for me “to get it.” After a variety of exercises, corrections, and suggestions, he outlined a list of activities and contents that we’d be studying, as well as providing me with website addresses that could help resolve my questions.

  He mentioned that the school library where he studies contains all the exercises for the last five years. However, he was thinking that the most difficult part of the test would be the essay portion because it required concentration and ability to express my thoughts. Therefore, the electronic organizer could be very useful in this regard.

  “How?” I asked, not understanding.

  “You’ll see when I explain how it works.”

  In the end, we worked out a schedule of days and times that we would meet to study. Throughout the conversation, I learned that he had taken the test and obtained a score that seemed to me stratospheric. I was dying of envy. I could see that he’d mastered the contents and could explain patiently, using examples that were easy for me to memorize. The way Walter spoke, the test did not seem as complicated as the last time that I took it.

  “You’ll be an excellent teacher,” I complimented him.

  Walter smiled and looked down at the booklet. Was he feeling embarrassed?

  “Do you already have some idea about what you want to do after college?” he asked with interest.

  “I want to major in art.”

  He raised his eyebrows, genuinely surprised.

  “Really? Do you have a portfolio with you?”

  “I’m working on it...” I replied defensively.

  Even against my will, I felt an inexplicable urge to show him my work. I pulled the suitcase from underneath the bed, took some things out and threw them on the bed so that I could remove the package containing my sketches. Walter handled the drawings very carefully, remarking that I should get a multiple rod case to store them better.

  I nodded to the drawing board bag that Adrian gave me, resting on the other side of the bed.

  “Cool!” He looked at the bag quickly. “I personally think it’s better than a multiple rod case because you don’t need to roll and unroll your work all the time and risk breaking or crushing the sheets.”

  Moreover, the multiple rod case is more practical to transport, I thought, but I didn’t
say it.

  He was quiet and focused on the drawings. For a few minutes, his usually decipherable face remained expressionless. An uneasy feeling came over me. I definitely didn’t like seeing my work being analyzed; however, if I wanted to major in art, I needed to know how to deal with that. Many teachers would evaluate my work and even criticize it. I’d just have to get over it!

  “Wow!” He finally said, smiling. “They’re fantastic!” Walter seemed surprised.

  “Looking at you, I wouldn’t have guessed that you’re a drawing artist.” Before I could say anything, he added, “I thought you would be studying something like medicine or pedagogy.”

  He thought I looked like a future doctor or teacher? Why?

  “You know, I also draw,” Walter confessed humbly. “But I’m not as good as you are! Your outline is fantastic!”

  I was amazed and embarrassed at the same time. I looked down, comparing our hands. Even with gloves, I could imagine him as a draftsman or painter because of the long fingers. Suddenly, I noticed that Walter was wearing a bracelet with a tiny bright spot below his wrist. It was pulsing.

  “I love manga,” he said, giving me a shy smile.

  “Ah, then you are an otaku.” With effort, I looked away from the strange bracelet.

  He laughed and nodded.

  “Yes, you could say that, but not in the literal meaning of the term.”

  Literal meaning of the term... In what dictionary from which century did he find that expression? Walter was actually full of surprises, speaking a mixture of slang from various eras with scholarly jargon.

  “Can I see? I also do a bit of manga, but unfortunately I lost those drawings. Long story short there was a heavy rain and the place where I kept them wasn’t waterproof. So all that remains are what you see here.”