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She’ll leave now. At least that’s what I’m hoping she’ll do.
And then I’m focusing.
I have to.
On top of my own lectures and a paper that’s due next week, I have a talk to prepare. Plus a department meeting about the budget proposal for the next year. Followed by another meeting with the city council. I don’t have time to waste and I’ve already lost an hour.
But she doesn’t leave. She hovers at the door, forcing me to look up and ask in a clipped voice, “Is there anything else?”
Looking hesitant, she says, “I just… I was wondering.”
I frown, my patience spreading thin. “About.”
Her hesitance grows. “She, uh… She looks like Charlie.”
My fingers tighten further.
In fact, I’m almost crumpling the paper between my fingers.
“Not in the obvious sense, of course,” Mo goes on. “Not the hair color or even the eyes. But the way she carries herself. Her mannerisms and this effortless beauty and grace.”
Mo isn’t wrong.
She does look like Charlie, and no, not in the obvious sense. Charlie’s hair was blonde and her eyes a dark brown, whereas her hair’s black as midnight and her eyes are crisp blue. Charlie never wore glasses; I guess they were too unbecoming for her, so she had contacts, while her glasses are thick and black-rimmed. And Charlie would never let herself be caught in the rain like her. From the looks of it, she would’ve stood there all night had I not gone up to bring her back; I saw her through this office window.
And neither would Charlie be so free with her emotions and thoughts. There’s a reason why Charlie was able to make a career out of acting; she was good at it.
Not her though.
Not Charlie’s fourteen-year-old, rebellious, troublemaking daughter.
I look to the wall where she spray-painted her message.
It’s gone now. Mo and the staff took care of it, but I can still see it, stark, bright red.
I force myself to relax my grip on the paper as I reply, “I hadn’t noticed.”
Her eyes grow concerned and I clench my teeth. “I just want to make sure that you’re okay. That —”
“You should go to sleep.”
But she’s persistent. “But Alaric, I really think that you should —”
“Good night.”
For a second it looks like Mo won’t listen to me, but she backs down. Nodding, she says, “Good night then.”
But as she’s leaving, I call out, “Can you,” and she turns back to face me, “make sure that,” I breathe in sharply, “she’s okay? From now on, I mean. Just look out for her. Just… You’re in charge of her.”
So I don’t have to be.
So I don’t have to look at her or talk to her or think about her.
So I don’t have to think about the past.
I have already made the mistake of giving her permission to call me by my first name when no one — absolutely no one, except for Mo — has the right to call me anything other than Mr. Marshall or Dr. Marshall. Due to this insane and irrational urge to make her feel more comfortable.
Fuck that.
I don’t care if she’s comfortable.
All I care about is that she doesn’t fucking bother me for as long as she’s here.
When Mo nods dutifully, I release a sigh of relief, thinking that now I can focus.
But for a long, long time after she’s gone, I can’t.
For a long, long time I stare at the wall where she spray-painted her message.
Poe.
It’s time.
And everything is ready. Everyone is ready.
Everyone is gathered around in a huddle, their eyes on the far horizon, pinned on the target.
Everyone is holding their breath, their hands either pressed on their chests or pushing back their hair, smoothing their skirts, pulling up their socks, making sure they all look perfect and pretty in their school uniforms: white blouse, mustard-colored skirt and knee-high socks with black Mary Janes.
Someone breathes out then, “Holy shit, I can’t wait.”
Followed by someone else going, “I know.”
“This is like, the best part of my day,” a third someone says.
Which prompts yet another person, the fourth speaker, to reply, “I know. It’s only been a week but God, how did we live before this?”
I want to correct her and say that it’s been eight days.
So longer than a week, but I keep quiet.
“Do you think today’s the day he’s going to look over here?” a fifth voice says.
“Maybe. I’m keeping my fingers crossed though,” yet another voice replies.
She should uncross them, her fingers.
He’s not going to.
He has no interest in looking over here. He’s never had much interest in people. People are beneath him.
Now books, however, are a different story.
He’s more interested in what a book has to say than what a bunch of teenagers are giggling about.
At least, this is how I remember it.
But again, I don’t tell them that.
“What color do you think his jacket is going to be?” someone asks, probably the very first girl who spoke.
