Page 59 of You + Me – Against the World

Class resumes, and I make myself as small as possible, trying to gather my thoughts and get my pulse back to normal. I try to focus on my notes, occasionally stealing glances at my new partner’s neatly-filled pages, but all I can think about is Vadim and that incredible kiss.

A small ball of scrunched-up paper rolls onto my desk; I didn’t see where it came from. I discreetly smooth it out on my thigh and decipher the messy handwriting:

They can try to keep us apart,

but no one will ever stop me from talking to you. Or from kissing you. V.

I grin goofily, turn the crumpled little piece of paper over, and scribble a reply under the table, hidden from prying eyes.

I miss you already. And I’ve got a confession to make:

I love you more than Tom Hanks. A.

I look around, trying to figure out how to get my little note to the back of the classroom. To my left, Andrew leans over and pretends to hand me a pen. But instead, he opens his hand to receive my bit of paper, then passes it behind him.

Suddenly, the entire class is swept up in the same act of solidarity. Vadim’s dramatic kiss, my attempt at rebellion, and Abrams’s awkward blundering have brought the others over to our side. Secretly, I revel in it.

In no time at all, a new crumpled wad of paper reaches me.

You’re beautiful when you rebel. You drive me crazy, Alma Lancaster. So proud of you.

Thousands of butterflies swirl in my stomach, and a fierce happiness sends my heart bursting out of my chest. I write back, telling Vadim that I love him and that he still doesn’t know exactly how much I’d be willing to do for him.

His reply comes flying back at me like a boomerang. Andrew, Phoebe, and the others have become masters at passing around these fiery little notes. They are having almost as much fun with it as we are. The machine is well-oiled. The mutiny is brewing.

I unfold the paper, smooth it out, and decipher:

Bet you won’t raise your hand and say it out loud. To the professor. In front of the whole class. I dare you. If you love me, you’ll do it.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and faint traces of Ciao Amore tease my nostrils. I fill my lungs with it. I’m brimming with confidence and boldness, overcome by an urge to scream. After clearing my throat, I shoot my arm up in the air as if to ask a question.

“Mr. Abrams?”

“What is it, Lancaster?”

His nose is still out of joint because I accused him of racism, even though it was probably just an offhand remark that didn’t reflect his true thoughts—which is technically the definition of casual racism, so I actually don’t regret it. Every face in the room turns toward me, then toward the door when the sound of someone knocking on it interrupts class.

And right at that moment, four uniformed police officers burst into the room.

“Vadim Arcadi, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, a public defender will be appointed for you. Do you understand what I have just told you?”

The police officers, their voices calm and their movements assured, handcuff him and lead him away, gripping him under the arms. Vadim lets them, unshaken, almost resigned, and the world crumbles beneath my feet.

Panic takes hold of me. Suddenly, I can’t breathe, and my chest tightens. A buzz builds in the classroom, but I find myself unable to move or speak.

At the doorway, Vadim turns his head and gives me one last look. A steady, unwavering gaze that tells me not to worry. But in it, I catch an almost invisible flicker of that rarely acknowledged vulnerability that twists my insides. So, my lips silently form the words I was about to scream.

21

Where is Vadim? What are they doing to him? Why did they arrest him? Have they interrogated him for hours without letting him sleep, drink, or eat? Did they throw him into a holding cell after taking everything he had? His freedom, his phone… even his shoelaces? Is he alone? Is he scared? Or is he fighting back, even if it makes things worse for him? Who is reading the texts I send him, the ones he isn’t answering? Does he have a lawyer? Who did he choose for the one phone call he’s allowed to make? Keith? Felix? Who is taking care of him?

Do I watch too many cop movies?

I feel so alone without him, so powerless and helpless, that sometimes it’s almost as though I abandoned him myself. For four days, I’ve thought of nothing else. For four days—almost a hundred hours—it’s all I’ve done. I wander around in a daze, my mind bursting with questions. My heart is empty of everything, empty of Vadim Arcadi. My world has been frozen at that moment on Monday morning when I watched him disappear, surrounded by four police officers.

Unable to bring myself to set foot on campus, I have been faking the flu so my parents let me stay home. Considering how little I’ve managed to sleep and eat, my physical weakness and pale complexion make this imaginary illness perfectly believable.

Is he doing okay?