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“Darling, this way,” she hums.
She takes me by the elbow and guides me across the quad via a side path that’s so narrow I have to stand really close to her to avoid falling off it. I’m wearing wedges and I just know I’ll stumble if I have to walk in the grass.
But her skirt (if that’s the right word for all this black fabric at the bottom?) keeps whipping itself around my left ankle. And I keep brushing her hip with my hip. I can’t just pull away to walk in front of her, and I wouldn’t want to walk behind her (though I bet she wouldn’t mind). I just keep doggedly lurching along, looking like an awkward adopted pet.
The people who walk toward us just step off the path, smiling at Seattle like she’s a celebrity. A couple of them even take pictures. I don’t know why. You can’t even see her face. But people always seem to know who she is.
“Um… so what are we doing? Are we going to dinner?” I finally ask.
“OoooooOOOOOooooh good idea,” she purrs, squeezing my elbow. “I’m famished. Could really go for a bit of tapas, don’t you think? Some sangria?”
“Oh,” I answer uncertainly, mentally calculating my ability to pay for a hundred-dollar dinner. “You know what, I think it’s meatloaf in the cafeteria tonight. It can’t always be terrible. I’m going to chance it!”
“Absolutely not,” she chides me. “Tapas is animperative. It’s my treat.”
“Really?” I breathe, noting how my mouth is starting to water already. “Well that’s… thank you, Seattle. That’s really nice.”
“MmmmmmMMMMMmmmmm,” she hums. “Don’t mention it, darling. Ansel practicallygoredme about you. He’ll be delighted.”
“Wait, what?” I blurt out, before I check myself.
“Yes yessss,” she says, squeezing my elbow tighter so I can’t slip away. “He’llsteamwhen he sees you.”
Issteamgood or bad? I don’t know. Seattle likes to use words in the wrong way, and make people figure out what she means. I won’t ever ask her what she means, though—I don’t want to play around with her theatrics. I know that makes me a bad sport, but whatever.
We are both transfer students, so we got pushed together as roommates in the dorm. At first, it seemed like a great arrangement. Two art majors, convenient, yes? I have a two-year degree, but that is not really necessary. Most people just skate through their second year without actually getting the degree.
Seattle did a couple of years at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. She is well trained, though I haven’t really seen her use her skills. It’s one of the best art schools in the country. Maybe the world.
But something at PAFA went kind of sideways. I don’t know the whole story. She comes from money, and lots of it. Just a quick glance in her crowded closet at all the designer dresses and shoes, with handbags for every style and color, demonstrates that she has had money for a long time. She has acollection. You can only build that up piece by piece. It’s not something you can do instantly. It takes a lifetime of money.
So how did she end up at Bellman? That’s a good question. From what I gather, one of her projects pissed off the wrong people. Her dad was the one who ultimately pulled her out of school and sent her here. This is her punishment. Having to finish school with the likes of me.
But Seattle is not the kind of person to just shatter into a million pieces. Everything is part of her performance art. Everything, and everybody. Her dad may have succeeded in limiting the radius of destruction, maybe by limiting the number of other famous people she had access to, but he didn’t change Seattle. She’s still the same person, just in a smaller box now.
And sometimes, she hasn’t said it directly, but I get the impression that she is up to something. Something like revenge. Something like… Well, something that is probably not very nice.
I tried to get close to her when we first met, but much like the outfit she is wearing now, there are layers and layers and layers and layers. Veils of smoke. Deflections and deceptions. She is impossible to know, and I assume that is on purpose.
I would ask her a question, and she would give me an answer but with a weird little smirk like she wasn’t really telling me something. She was only trying to see how I would react to the words. Whether or not I finished the conversation with more information was not the point.
The point was my reaction.
Well, where I come from, we have a phrase for that. It is called “being jerked around.” I don’t like it. Even for art, I don’t like it one bit.
So I stopped asking questions, but stayed polite. I have good manners. And maybe somewhere deep down, Seattle is actually hurting or something. I don’t want to be the kind of person who makes her life worse.
That is, assuming she has feelings. I have to admit that I have no direct evidence of that. I assume people work that way, but she could be one of a kind and have no feelings at all.
People are still staring at us as we officially leave campus and head for Lake Street, which is dotted with bars and restaurants of various themes. It’s the kind of place people go when their parents come to visit. Not the fast food burrito places meant for college kids. The better stuff.
“Seattle, I still have my portfolio…” I mutter awkwardly as I try to keep it close to my body in the breeze.
Gratefully, the sidewalks are wider here. I don’t have to be quite as wrapped up in her skirts, but she still keeps a firm grip on my elbow.
“Nobody’s going to steal your portfolio, turtle!”
What is turtle supposed to mean? I refuse to ask.
