Then, “Or they might… they might sneak out of their rooms and walk the midnight streets, hoping that they’d run into you. Hoping that you’d help them find their way back home. Like it’s a Disney movie and they’re damsels in distress and you’re their knight in shining armor.”
I did that.
Several times.
After that night, I did walk the midnight streets, looking for him. That summer before I was sent to St. Mary’s, I’d sneak out of my house and go to the same spot, sometimes wearing that same dress, buttercup yellow.
It was silly, I know.
Going to that same street, wearing that same dress.
But I wanted to do all the right things. I wanted to appease the Fates, line up the stars just right.
Just so I’d run into my Mystery Man again.
“Because I think…”
“You think what?”
“I think every girl here is obsessed with you,” I say while his eyes bore into mine.
And as soon as I do, his silver watch — the biggest and the brightest that I’ve ever seen — glares at me.
Reminding me that even though he looks all lazy and casual right now, approachable with his bright eyes and deep voice, he’s still a teacher here.
This is still his office and I’m still a student.
And then he reminds me with his words. “Well then, you should tell those girls that they’re wasting their time. I’m not interested in damsels and their teenage distress. Something about having a little sister who wouldn’t watch anything but Disney movies growing up. Thereby torturing the ever-loving shit out of me. So now I prefer to stay away from situations that would force me to swoop in and save the day.”
With that he straightens up from the door, losing his relaxed and approachable demeanor and going back to his aloof self.
Silently mourning the loss of it all, I watch him walk to his desk and pull out his chair. He takes a seat, spanning the back of it like he did the door. In fact, he even partially blocks the window, throwing his office into shadow.
Then in the most professional, coach-ly voice that I’ve ever heard from him, he says, “I read your file.”
“M-my file.”
He stares at me from his perch as he continues, “As I said this morning, my sister was correct. About your stellar record. It’s all in your file. Top of your class, great privileges, never causes trouble, never gets involved in a fight.”
I don’t know where he’s going with this so all I do is simply nod. “Yeah. That’s correct.”
Resting his elbows on the arms of his chair and rubbing his lips with his thumb, he asks, “So what is a good, quiet, artistic girl like you doing at St. Mary’s?”
I swallow.
I also press my thighs together. Because his name on my skin has started to buzz.
The thorns on my thighs that I’ve made in his honor have come alive and they now prick my pale skin.
They sting.
Because he’s the reason.
He is why I’m at St. Mary’s. Because he inspired me. He told me to live my life as I wanted to and I did. And that in turn, led me to my wonderful freedom.
I know other girls hate this place but I don’t.
How can I when I get to be myself here? When I get to draw all day long. When I have such great friends here as well.
But I can’t tell him how wonderful he is, can I?
Because he doesn’t remember.
“Because I drew graffiti on my dad’s car,” I say, telling him the basics like I tell everyone.
“Why?”
I grab the back of the chair in front of me and press my thighs together even harder. “Because my parents hated my art. They always have. They wanted me to give it up. But I didn’t.”
“And now?”
“I still don’t want to give it up,” I tell him. “Actually I want to… I want to go to art school.”
I do.
Even though I know my parents will hate the idea of it.
That’s why I haven’t told them yet.
According to them, that graffiti incident was a one-time thing. They think that it was me pulling a stunt, throwing a tantrum. And now that I’m at St. Mary’s, I have been reformed. Meaning I’m not thinking about art anymore.
But that’s not true of course.
I am thinking about it. More than that, I want to go to art school. So much so that I’ve even been applying for them. Well, in addition to all the schools my parents want me to apply to. Or rather, school.
My dad has a preference, of course – his alma mater. And since I’m his daughter, I’m sort of already in, so.
“And they know that?” he asks.
“Uh…” I press my lips together. “Not exactly.”
That gets his attention and a frown emerges between his eyebrows. “Not exactly how?”
I’m not sure how we got here but I don’t know how to refuse him.