To put it lightly.
Getting into the tunnel system that stretches for three uninterrupted miles beneath U of E’s buildings has been my singular goal since my mother’s prediction that I was destined to study here came true. The memories of her reading my palm are like a faded photograph now, passed between too many hands. Maybe we had been sitting at the kitchen table in our apartment in Flatbush—or perhaps it was when we had, briefly, moved to Delaware and had a yard. A horrible year, though the grass was nice.
Now, when I see my mother, it’s always at the kitchen table in the last apartment we ever lived in together—the third-storywalk-up on Ocean Ave. Each time, she sets a cup of coffee down in front of me onto the shiny plastic tablecloth.
“Occult?” The voice beside me snaps me out of the daydream. I look up, forgetting myself, and find that this…thisOrfeois looking right at me. Heavy brows drawn down into a frown, lips puckered into an inquisitive pout. When his mouth relaxes, I see his cupid’s bow, the dimple above his lip so deep I immediately imagine pressing my pinky into it.
He’s delicious, I think. And the thought feels as embarrassing as any involuntary bodily function.
Jesus.
“Like, uh—” My cheeks are heating rapidly. He’s watching me with a gentle curiosity, light brown eyes reflecting every flicker of light from overhead. They look like honey—sticky, sweet honey. “Tarot cards, crystal balls?—”
“Broomsticks,” Bowen interrupts me, marking something down on the paper in front of him with a freshly sharpened number two pencil. “Big pointy hats. Eye of newt. Dung of bat.”
I want to grab that pencil and shove it through his voice box.
“Well…” A microsecond internal debate happens inside me and I decide I’m not going to get into an argument with Bowen on the first day of class. “Sure. I’m hoping to better understand Southern European rituals,” I conclude. Orfeo’s brows twitch and I swear he inches forward in the old seat, leaning toward me.
“Thank you, Diantha. Orfeo, you made quite the impression already, but go on, tell us what you’re here to do—other than interrupt Diantha and stun Laila.”
“Of course,” he says with a good-natured laugh, indulging Bowen. “My name is Orfeo. I just transferred this semester. I am also a master’s student—receiving my MFA with a focus on sculpture and painting. I’m beginning my final project this semester, but I’m always studying the greats. To maybe pick upa thing or two.” His eyes crinkle at the corners and his lips pull into a coy sideways smile. “Through osmosis.”
“Yes! Exactly.Lovethat European mentality. It is only by studying the greats that we too may become one of them!”
I hold back an eye roll. I can imagine how the rest of this class is will go. Every time Orfeo opens his gorgeous lips and delivers a witticism with that soft, rolling accent, Bowen is going to do a victory lap around the room, declaring the absolute unbelievable superiority of Europe. As if what happens in Italy has any-fucking-thing to do with Professor Cormac Bowen in Echidna, Pennsylvania.
Enthused and revitalized, Bowen shuts off the lights and begins clicking through his droll slides. I finish ripping off my rain jacket and settle in to listen.This is why I’m here.
Taking notes is not totally necessary, but I don’t have internet in my apartment and I want to make sure I know what books I’ll need and when readings are due. I scribble out the reading schedule and try not to panic. Bowen has us reading almost a book a week.
“Hey.” Orfeo’s voice pulls at me. I ignore him. “Hey, Diantha.” His tongue stalls on thethsound in my name and a lump jumps in my throat.
“Hm?”
He’s leaning forward in his chair, arms pressing into the desk. He pulls his teeth over his bottom lip. “Do you…have a pen?”
Of course.Instantly, I’m transported back to high school. I narrow my eyes at him. “No.”
He points at the one in my hand. “But you do.”
“I’m using it.”
“Can I borrow it? Just for a moment.” He lifts his fingers in an illustrative pinch moment. Like I might be confused about how small a moment is.
“No,” I hiss back. “You cannot borrow my pen that I am using.”
He blinks slowly, long lashes flashing. I’m reminded of peacocks and their immense plumage. “Please?” Does he think he can charm me?Please.
“No.”
He pouts. Heliterallypouts, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Vabbene.”
“Use your phone.” I can’t believe I’m offering a solution. Bowen is going on and on about the 11th century illuminated manuscripts and here I amwhispering. As if this class isn’t costing me north of five thousand US dollars! I point my pen at the rectangle straining against his front pocket. “Take notes on your phone.”
Orfeo doesn’t like this. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. No, baby boy wants a pen.
The lecture hall is becoming almost unbearably hot. I slouch off my sweater so I’m in only my soft cotton tank top and twist my (unmanageably curly, altogether too long) hair up into a clip. As my hands move, I can feel his eyes on me—on my body. Hot on the side of my neck, tracing down over the swell of my chest. I can even feel when his eyes land, finally, on my waist. He shifts in his chair. Sits up straight again. I want to ignore him—ignore that drag of his gaze over me—but there’s a pressure low in my belly, behind the zipper of my jeans.
