by Jane Charles
She so had me fooled. How many guys does she have stashed around the city? The country? Though in fairness, there was never a discussion of being exclusive, but for me, that’s always a given. If I’m sleeping with one girl, I sure as hell am not fucking anyone else and assumed it was the same for her, though I should never take that for granted. And, we haven’t even known each other a week. Still, why the hell was she so skittish and nervous? What the hell is she hiding from me?
The campus is crowded with students everywhere and it’s easy to hide among the bodies, not that Ellen has bothered to look behind her.
She approaches a large building with columns and I look up. She’s meeting this dude at the library? Then again, the stacks, the ones in the far back, dark corners where nobody goes, are great places to get laid. I found that out early on in college.
Instead, she stops in front of a statue. A guy’s there who is probably about forty, maybe fifty, wearing a dark suit. I guess he’s handsome enough, and built fairly well. Shit! My gut tightens when he hugs her and kisses her on the cheek.
Who is he? A sugar daddy? The man’s old enough to be her father. He’s got at least twenty years on her.
What am I then? A plaything. Just a young cock that rises to the occasion at the sight of a smile. One that isn’t approaching an age in need of Viagra. Does she fuck the rich dude when he calls and he pays for toys, like her Audi, and she intends to keep me around for fun? Too bad I’m not rich or she could have it all.
I know I’m jumping to ugly conclusions but those two are certainly cozy. I can’t see Ellen’s face, but this Scott has hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, pulled her close, rubbed her arms, put an arm around her shoulders, kissed the top of her head, speaks close to her face and then he takes something from his pocket and hands it to her before leaving. Ellen walks to the steps and sinks down. She isn’t even looking around, but she doesn’t seem very happy.
Maybe it’s a guilty conscience.
Do I go to her or wait?
“I’d rather wait,” I mutter to myself, and head back to the street.
Instead of going back to the apartment, since I really don’t want to have the confrontation in the place where I nearly lost my heart to her, and because I figure she’ll catch up to me, I sit on a bench. If she exits the way she came in, she’ll see me.
It’s about another fifteen minutes before I see her and her eyes widen when she spots me.
After her initial shock, she walks over and a number of emotions cross her face: concern, worry, suspicion. It’s like she working it out in her head and wondering if this is just a coincidence or did I know where she was?
I stand when she gets closer. “Who was that?”
“Did you follow me?” She seems affronted. Hell, she’s the one that left the bed to go see another guy. I’m the one who should be pissed. I just stare at her, waiting for an answer.
“A lawyer.”
“Do you always meet him outside? Doesn’t he have an office?
“It’s too far away and he needed to meet with me.”
She’s lying to me. Her pupils dilated just slightly and she glanced away.
“Okay, so what was so urgent?”
“Just unexpected issues came up because of my grandparent’s estate. It’s been a problem since the beginning.” She stomps away from me, stopping only because there isn’t a walk signal.
“Can’t your parents deal with it?”
“Yeah, if they hadn’t been written out of it.” She glances at me from the corner of her eye. “Not exactly written out. They were each left one dollar.”
“They cut your parents out?” That’s cold and harsh.
“It’s a long story.” She blows out a breath.
“So, tell me.”
“No. I don’t want to talk about it.” She wheels around, facing me, piercing me with a glare. “Why did you follow me?”
“I heard you on the phone and then you were all jittery in the kitchen. After last night, I thought we had something. But hell, you couldn’t stand for me to kiss you this morning.”
And, thinking back, that’s what did it. You don’t fuck someone all night and then hardly be able to meet their eyes the next day and not let them kiss you. The woman I thought I was falling in love with is a fucking liar. I should have known she was too perfect to be true.
“You don’t trust me?” She nearly screeches.
“How can I when you’re clearly holding something back?”
“It’s nothing,” she insists.
“Are you sleeping with him?”
Her eyes go wide and before I can react she slaps me across the face. “You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?”
I’d take offense to being slapped, and being called names, but she just showed me how defensive she really is. “I’ve been called worse.”
The walk signal comes on and she starts crossing the street and I hurry after her.
“You’re not who I thought you were,” she says when we reach the other side.
“Apparently, neither are you,” I counter.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
I grab her arms and turn her toward me, not caring that people are walking past us on either side, hurrying to get to wherever they need to be and we’re blocking their path. I lean in until Ellen and I are practically nose to nose. “I know how to make you come over and over, make you scream, and I know what art you love and hate, and that you like ballet. But otherwise, I know very fucking little.”
“And I’m not about to tell you anymore.”
That’s it then. Three days. A great three days, but that’s all. “Why did you leave New York? Why did you even come to my town, get an apartment, saying you needed to get out of the city only but turn around and go back within less than a week of moving in?”
I should have questioned it earlier, but I was in the early crush phase and enjoying my good fortune of having met her. I sure as hell won’t make that mistake. Ever again.
“That’s none of your damn business.” She glares at me.
“Fine.” I step back. “Just let me get my stuff and then you can carry on with your life as if you never met me.” I turn and walk away, my heart shredding in my chest.
Shit, I fell for her, in what was probably a world record, and she crushed me in a millisecond. I don’t bother to see if she’s following and head back to the apartment building. Once upstairs, I throw my new clothes into my backpack. Others have to go in a big shopping bag because I have too many. After leaving the key on the kitchen counter, I let myself out. Ellen never came back, and it’s probably for the best.
Ellen
The empty pint of chocolate ice cream is in the middle of the coffee table, surrounded by various containers from delivery places near the building. I haven’t showered since Friday morning. Hell, I haven’t had he energy to get off the fucking couch.
By the time I got back to the apartment after giving Gabe a chance to calm down, I thought I had my emotions under control. But, he was already gone and the place seemed so quiet and empty, and once again I was reminded of how very alone I am.
The tremors started almost immediately and the rooms started closing in on me. The anxiety escalated when I looked into the medicine cabinet and my prescriptions weren’t there, and then I remembered I hid them in the hamper.
Gabe leaving, and probably hating me, is for the best. I know that. I can’t put him in danger. I know what the Krestyanov family can do if you piss them off, or if they want you out of the way, or to control what you say or do. Pictures were shown to me when I was only seventeen. I was already scared enough and didn’t need to see photos of mutilated bodies.
I shiver and pull the blanket tight around me.
I can’t stay like this. There’s no guarantee the judge will grant Krestyanov’s petition and I could be panicking for nothing. Why did Scott have to tell me anything? Why couldn’t he have waited until after the judge made a decision?
B
ecause, I needed to be prepared. Mentally I know that, but the timing sucks balls.
“Get it together, Ellen,” I order myself, but it doesn’t do any good. I’ve barely moved from this spot in forty-eight hours, but I can’t continue to stay here. I do have a life and somewhat of a job.
Shit, I have an appointment tomorrow morning at Baxter. I have to show. It took me forever to get that interview and I can’t blow it now.
Yes, that’s what I need to do. Forget about Gabe. Forget about Scott. Forget about Krestyanov, and do my job.
Except, Gabe is at Baxter. Can I face him so soon?
I have to. I don’t have a choice. He’ll just have to get over it and I’ll pretend I don’t care. My heart’s shattered anyway. I should have never let it come out in the first place. I knew better, but I got weak, and it will never, ever happen again.
Pulling myself from the couch, I toss all the garbage away, clean up the place, check the train schedule. If I take the 7:15 train, I should be able to make it to Baxter for my ten o’clock appointment. And, I’ll need to rent a car, since Gabe drove us to the train station and I doubt he’s waiting for my arrival.
After taking a quick shower, I open my laptop. Work! That’s what I need to do. I have a story to write on Baxter and truthfully, I’ve not researched it enough yet.
Besides what I overheard the girl say, and more emergency calls than most places experience, I haven’t really found the proof I need. I know it isn’t a normal private high school, but I’m usually more prepared when going in.
I click on the page and stop. There’s a photo of Gabe, standing in front of a classroom, holding a book. Shit!
I close the computer. I’ll research more thoroughly later. I can’t right now. Besides, I can’t even read the fucking words on the screen because I’m crying again.
I’ve got to get it together, or tomorrow will be shit.
The prescriptions are on the table. I hate taking them, but I couldn’t have gotten through without them these last two days. All the coping devices that I’ve used in the past are no good. For the first time in years they didn’t work so it appears I’m going to need the meds for a couple of more days. At least until I’m calm enough to get through the day or find out how the judge ruled, because the last place I want to have a panic attack is at Baxter. They’d never let me back on campus. It’s a private school that probably thrives on perfection, and I’m so far from perfect right now it isn’t even funny. But, I can pretend I have it together. I have before.
Gabe – 16
“A fucking reporter,” I mutter to myself after overhearing two secretaries talking by the copy machine. I’ve had enough of reporters to last me a lifetime, especially after last week. Not that Ellen was interviewing me or anything like that. What she did was worse and I don’t care if I ever meet another reporter again and hope the hell I don’t.
What the hell is Baxter thinking by allowing a reporter onto their grounds? They’ll bring a world of hurt to everyone if they’re allowed to waltz around the place asking questions and then blast what they knows to the rest of the world. Hopefully they won’t get any further than the reception room.
I grab the papers from my mail slot and duck out a back door, the way I came in. I’ve tried not to think about Ellen since Friday, but that’s impossible. I half expected her to show up sometime this past weekend, but she never did. She rented the apartment upstairs, is she just going to let it sit now? It’d be best if she never came back. Maybe I should offer to pack up her stuff and ship it to Paige’s apartment, then I won’t have to see her again.
I’m torn between being really pissed off and hurt, but I have to bury all of that now. School is back in session and students await.
It’s not going to be a good day and I dread facing the kids in my fourth hour class. Is it too much to hope that they didn’t do their homework?
I’m the one who asked permission from the school for these kids to have access to all news outlets and sources. I’m the one who insisted these kids didn’t need to remain isolated and sheltered from what was happening in the world. They’ll graduate in almost a year and need to know what’s going on behind the confines of the ten foot stone walls. It took time, but the Administration finally agreed.
Now it’s about to bite me in the ass.
How the hell was I supposed to know what was going to happen to Jesse? Not that Baxter Academy or Jesse were ever mentioned, but these kids are smart enough to read between the lines. Hell, I taught them how and it didn’t take much imagination to figure out that the “art teacher” who also owns a “gallery” in town was accused of improper relations with an unnamed sixteen-year-old, who babysat for him is our former art instructors, Jesse Tinley. Especially since he won’t be returning to Baxter. I get why the administration felt it best to terminate Jesse, which I also learned about this morning, but it still pisses me off.
The only thing the news did do right was not name Jesse anywhere because charges were “pending” and he was being “investigated.” I guess I should be thankful for small miracles.
If the journalists would have been responsible, they would have gathered facts before rushing to publication and ruining a guy’s life. But, the journalists couldn’t be bothered to wait with such a scintillating story and ruined a guy’s future in the process. Her accusations were in the headlines on Sunday. Her recanting was buried on page seven on Wednesday.
Responsibility in reporting took a vacation last week.
Is that why the reporter is here now? Did they figure out the connection and are they going to try and drag Baxter and Jesse through the mud? I sure as hell hope not or they’ll be sorry they ever drove into the parking lot. I’ve been itching to punch something or somebody since Friday, and a fucking reporter might just be the perfect outlet for my anger.
Ellen
“We have specific rules you must follow, Miss West,” Mag Bradley begins after making me wait well over an hour for our appointment. I know it’s on purpose, hoping I’ll go away. I’m experienced at being in places where I’m not wanted and have all the patience in the world to wait on what I want.
“No pictures and you may not interview the students.”
She is tying my hands before I’ve even gotten started. “How am I going to do a story if I can’t speak to the students?” They are the ones who are going to tell me the truth. Not the administrators, that’s for sure.
“They are minors and you do not have their parents’ or guardian’s permission. They’re under our protection while inside these walls and we take that very seriously.”
This makes me believe even more that Baxter is hiding something. When I asked around town those first few days after I moved in, people just shrugged and remained mum. Usually when you ask about a school anywhere, someone fills you in on the specifics, or rumors, or it’s a good school, bad school, great sports, etc. But as far as Baxter is concerned, nobody really wants to talk about it. Why exclusive and why so private? What the hell are they hiding?
“So, I’m just to wander the campus and observe? How can I write an accurate story without speaking to anyone?”
“You may speak to the teachers. You can visit the gallery. We have a concert coming up in a few days which you might enjoy. There is also a play that will open at the end of the week.” Mag smiles at me. “And, you won’t be wandering alone. An employee will be with you at all times.”
“Why did you even agree to let me do the story if I’m going to be so limited?”
“I didn’t agree, Miss West.” She smiles tightly. This Mag does not like me. “The Board of Directors thought it was a good idea if Baxter got some publicity. I prefer not to have the school disrupted.”
Fine. I’ll do it her way. I didn’t graduate at the top of my class in investigative journalism for nothing. “What is the schedule and when is a good time to speak with the adults?”
“There isn’t a good time,” she reminds me. “We have academic classes from seven-thirty
a.m. until twelve-fifteen. An hour for lunch. Art studies are from one-fifteen until four-thirty.”
I quickly do the math in my head. These kids are in school for nine hours? I think I was only there for seven when I was in high school. Okay, I was there hours beyond that because of computer club or drama, when I didn’t have ballet. But, if I wouldn’t have been into computers and theatre, I would have been out of the school at two-thirty. “You mentioned a concert and play. What about sports?”
“We don’t have sports at Baxter, yet.”
“Why not?”
“There wasn’t an interest until recently.”
“As the students live here, what are their evenings like?”
Miss Bradley sighs. “Dinner is at six. Then homework. Lights out at nine-thirty.”
Nine-thirty? I can’t remember if I was ever even in bed by ten in high school, unless I was sick. Maybe this is more like a military school than an exclusive kids’ art school. “It’s very structured.”
“It’s necessary for success and our kids are extremely successful.”
This perks my interest. “Give an example. Who has left here to go on a do something great?”
She simply smiles at me. “We also protect the privacy of our former students.”
“Surely you have a list of your alumni. There isn’t a school around who doesn’t advertise when someone successful or famous attended their school.”
“I have a list, but I won’t be sharing it with you.” She leans forward. “You’re all over social media. Ask the question on your blog, Twitter or your Facebook page, maybe someone will answer.” With that, she stands. “I’m going to introduce you to Jenna Ferguson. She’s a counselor and will be showing you around.”
I swallow my growing frustration and follow her from the office. Frustration is good though. It covers my nerves about running into Gabe. I want to see him, but I don’t. What are the chances I won’t encounter him?
Well, it’s going to happen eventually since I have an apartment in the same house as his.