Hey, Mister Marshall (St. Mary's Rebels 4)

“Yes.”

I frown, my fists clenched. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

His jaw pulses at my confused words; his eyes flash. Then, “You have them because you’re stuck here, yeah?”

I jerk out a short nod. “Yes.”

“And before, it was because you were stuck in a strange mansion.”

“Yes.”

Another pulse runs through his jaw. “And all of those things are because of me. I’m responsible for that.”

I look into his intense eyes. “You are.”

They grow even more penetrating than before. “So I want to know. All the things I’m responsible for.”

I don’t know what’s happening.

I really don’t.

I gather words to say, “But you didn’t before. It was always Mo. She came to me. She talked to me.”

We study each other in silence for a few seconds before he says, “She’s not here. So all you have is me. Which means you’ll come to me when you have a nightmare.”

“And what will you do? If I come to you.”

A slight frown appears on his brows, as if he thinks my question is asinine. Well, tough luck.

I think this whole situation is asinine.

“Calm you down. Talk to you,” he says.

“But you never talk to me.”

He breathes out a sharp breath. “So I’ll just listen to you then. And make you tea.”

My eyes go wide. “You’ll make me tea?”

“Yes. Chamomile.”

My heart races. “But Mo used to make me chamomile tea.”

“She used to make you chamomile tea because it’s good for relaxation.”

“And you know how to make it?”

“Yes.” Another sharp breath. “I know how to boil water and put tea bags in it.”

My heart races harder. “And what about curfew?”

“Fuck curfew.”

“But you said that I’m not supposed to be out of bed, sneaking out in the middle of the night.”

“Fuck what I said.”

“So you’re not gonna punish me for sneaking out tonight?”

“You promise to come to me and I won’t.”

“Even though you’re here to make this hellhole even more hellish. And you think every student should follow all the rules.”

“You’re also my ward.”

My belly tightens. “So this is special treatment?”

“Yes.”

Again, I’m not sure what’s happening right now.

How we went from where we were only a few minutes before to this.

This whole bizarre exchange where he looks concerned about my nightmares.

And even though I’m not sure if this is real or if I’m dreaming, I find myself nodding and whispering, “Okay. I promise.”

I look away from my computer when I hear my phone ring.

It’s Mo.

Saving the latest draft of my paper on the Spanish Inquisition and its severity against Jews and Muslims, I settle back into my chair and pick up the call. “Mo. Hey.”

The line crackles at the other end. “I was just calling to ask if you’re planning to come home this weekend.”

I frown, rubbing out the kinks in my neck after working on my computer for the whole afternoon. “What’s this weekend?”

“Your birthday.”

Right.

Forgot about that.

Even though Cynthia came to the cottage to remind me of that. And she’s been blowing up my phone all morning. Something that I knew she would do despite what happened last night. She’s a fucking piranha with a one-track mind and apparently, her next target is me. Something about making a big mistake and ignoring me in high school. And no matter what I do and how much I push her away, she doesn’t get deterred. And since she’s on the board of St. Mary’s — newly appointed because her dad chose to retire — she has excuses to come find me.

Pushing thoughts of her away and resting my head against the backrest, I look out the window of my office into the summer afternoon. “Well, you can have the day off, if you like.”

“Actually, the whole staff is getting the day off.”

“Are they?”

“Yes. It’s your gift to them.”

“My gift.”

“Yes, and they’re all very happy about it.”

“I should hope so,” I drawl, watching a group of students sitting on the concrete benches with their textbooks open. “Given how generous I am. Giving gifts on the day I should be getting them.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you’re a dick the rest of the year,” she quips.

A surprised chuckle escapes me. “That’s because I sign everyone’s paychecks.”

“And that’s the tragedy, isn’t it?” she murmurs. Then, “So are you sure you’re not coming?”

I rub my forehead as I reply, “No. I’ve got deadlines. I’ve got two papers due next week and I’m guest lecturing at Columbia this Friday.”

“Fine. As you wish,” she says pleasantly.

Almost a little too pleasantly.

Which makes me frown with suspicion.

Mo has been a constant presence in my life for as long as I can remember.

She was with me when I was a boy, singing me lullabies at night when I couldn’t sleep, feeding me dinner when I was too weak or too sick to eat, looking for me when I’d hide – she knew all about my hiding places. She’s also bandaged up a lot of my scrapes, growing up. And she was there when I left Middlemarch as a sixteen-year-old boy, and came back after completing my studies and travels at the age of twenty-eight.