In Scientia, page 6
“What street is this?” I asked, though part of me didn’t need him to tell me. My heart pounded as if it were trying to break out of my ribs.
“Ah, it’s… A and twelfth or eleventh,” the driver said trying to find the sign.
“Avenue A?” I smiled.
“Yeah,” he said checking out the signage. “Eleventh. Avenue A and Eleventh.”
“A bookshop on Avenue A,” I thought aloud, shaking my head.
The light turned green, but before the driver could accelerate, I screeched, “Stop!”
Flinging the car door open, I leaped onto the sidewalk.
“I forgot something, keep the money.”
Like an insect in the dark of night, I felt myself gravitate toward the light. Thoughts of Dylan and the feelings I’d had just minutes before disintegrating with every step. I wanted to stop myself, to turn around and walk as fast as my legs would carry me, or better yet, get back into the taxi. But my logical mind wasn't in control anymore.
It felt like the kind of fate I couldn’t turn my back on.
I lied to myself that I had a choice. That I could leave, but my hand was already outstretched, about to push the door open.
If I went in, I reasoned, the third time would have to be the last. Any action past that point would be masochism. Or insanity. If he gave me nothing again, I had to forget about him for good and stop torturing myself. Literal (neon) sign, or not.
The shop was long and narrow, with new and used books crammed into every area of available space. I snaked my way through the shelves toward the counter, my temporary high evaporating, when I saw a raven-haired woman in her late 20s. She was wearing a cutoff T-shirt that read: ‘Jane Austin was a witch.’
I was about to leave when he entered the room with two boxes stacked high in his muscular arms. I must have caught him off-guard because I saw his expression change when he noticed me. I couldn’t be certain… but it might have been the start of a smile.
A song I couldn’t name played as he put the boxes on the counter.
Standing tall, he took me in.
His twinkling eyes made my knees unsteady.
Not only that, but I’d lost the ability to speak. Once more.
Six
Lover, You Should've Come Over
The moment I saw her standing there, I knew I was in trouble.
It was different from the first time, or even the second. She was wearing a tight black dress that clung to the curves of her body, her light brown hair pulled back from the sides of her face. It made her delicate features even more pronounced.
Her eyes, though, her sapphire blue eyes, were as intense as the first day I’d looked into them.
She was staring at me, as if studying my reaction. I hadn’t realized it, but I was smiling.
Instantly, I shook the thought from my mind. The last thing I needed was for this girl to think I was interested in her. Sure, she was attractive and intelligent — actually intelligent, in the way that matters. But if my life had proven anything, it was that any kind of attachment only leads to trouble.
“You,” I said.
“Me,” she replied. “I swear I was driving by and…”
She looked down to break contact, but it only made me want to find her eyes even more.
I could see Rachel pretending not to listen from behind the counter.
“Don’t you have a break you need to take?”
She feigned confusion. “Who me?”
I gave her a look I knew she understood.
“Guess I’ll be taking my break.”
“Pretty sure if the roles were reversed, this would be considered stalking,” I said.
“It’s messed up that it isn’t. I mean, obviously I don’t pose the same physical threat as you pose to me, but if you turned up where I was reading and then again where I work, I’d be pretty freaked out,” she said, speaking so fast I found it hard to keep up. “Except in the way that I probably wouldn’t be freaked out. If it was you… which I guess, is why I’m here.”
I couldn’t let her go on. If she did, I might catch feelings in a way that could hurt us both.
“It’s not a big deal,” I said, leaving no room for interpretation. “I don’t care if you’re here.” It was the furthest from the truth, which is why I had to say it.
I opened one of the boxes with a utility knife to unpack our latest order. I needed to occupy my hands, to distract my mind until she left. I knew I was being unkind, but in the long run, it was for the best. Resisting her was already hard enough; another minute longer, and I might snap.
“Wow,” she said. “Okay… message received. I won’t bother you again.”
I heard the door open slightly, then she doubled back.
“You know what?” she said. I didn’t want to know what, but it didn’t seem like she was going to give me a choice. “I think the lady doth protest too much.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, taken aback.
“It’s a saying. From Hamlet. It means you’re overselling it. Your… disinterest.”
“I know Hamlet,” I said, like it was an achievement.
“Well, I don’t buy it.” She looked at me with seriousness, her arms folded. “Are you married?”
Now I was confused. “No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Are you into women?” she asked like she’d discovered the reason.
“Yes,” I said, with a smirk.
“Then, what’s your problem? ‘Cause there’s no way you can dislike a stranger this much. I mean, spend some time with me, then hate me. It’s what everyone else does.”
Rachel returned, rocking on her heels before I acknowledged her. “I just remembered; I already took my break.”
“Then take another one,” I said.
“I’m good. I don’t need another—”
“Clock out early, then. It’s dead anyway.”
“But boss—”
“Said I was in charge.”
She analyzed her options. “Alright, but I better get paid ’til nine.” She left for the backroom and I returned my attention to Eva.
“You seem… I’m sure you’re…” I said, trying to find words that wouldn’t set her off.
“I am,” she said. “I’m all the superlatives, but we’re not talking about me.”
“Let him have it,” said Rachel with a sly expression as she put on her patchwork jacket.
“Appreciate the support,” I said, wishing she’d leave.
“Shouldn’t have sent me home then, idiot,” she said. “Woulda had all the support you could handle.”
I waited to hear the front door close before I continued, her departure aligning perfectly with the last bar of the music.
Piercing stillness filled the room, before a Jeff Buckley song crackled out of speakers decades past their expiration date.
“A bookshop,” she said. “Funny.”
“The owner thinks so.”
“Was I supposed to be able to find it? Or was that just part of the weird mind game you seem to be playing?”
Of course it wasn’t. The last thing I’d ever do is manipulate someone like that. But I couldn’t deny that on some subconscious level, maybe I did want her to find me. I’d moved onto unpacking the second box when I snuck a glance in her direction.
Her head was hung, despair on her face. It was an emotion I didn’t know how to handle.
“Would you like me to go?” she asked.
“No,” my mouth responded, a knee-jerk reaction. I tried to recover. “I don’t care if you’re here.”
“Yeah, we’ve established that,” she said. Her shoulders sank even lower.
I couldn’t bear it.
“I’m not looking to date anyone,” I said.
“Neither am I,” she responded. “I don’t think.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I don’t know.” She was looking away, as if trying to find the answer. “Maybe the same reason you don’t want me to leave.”
I let out an uncomfortable laugh because I knew it was the truth, and so did she.
“Relentless,” I said.
She picked up a pen from the counter, then reached for my hand. Instead of pulling away, I let her take it.
Her touch was soft, like expensive silk. I had to stop myself from thinking about how it would feel to press my lips against her skin. To kiss the back of her hand.
To kiss her face, in the spot just above where she was frowning.
To find her lips.
She turned my hand over and started writing on it. I could smell the sweetness of her breath as I forced my hand not to tremble.
“My number,” she said, placing the pen back in its place while still holding onto my hand. I felt a kick in my gut. “If you ever figure all this out, feel free to use it.”
She released her grip, as I scrambled to find words. What I wanted to say was: yes. Yes, you beautiful human. I want to use your number. I want to call you all the time just to hear your voice. But I knew against all hope that I couldn’t. That I wouldn’t ever allow myself to do that.
Instead, I stood there mute, as she turned and walked away.
If there were ever a moment frozen in my mind, it was that one. I wanted to run after her, chase her down and tell her all the things I have to carry. All the things I have to hide. How I thought I’d noticed her before she’d noticed me that day in the park. That I saw her standing by the fountain, writing in a notebook. Transcribing the world, flicking between her paper and reality, analyzing every detail. I’d wanted to approach her. Not to interact — I knew better than that — but to be in her vicinity. I reminded myself that life was a game of chess. Why play the queen if you know you’re going to lose it? That was a type of recklessness I couldn’t afford.
Everything would have been fine, had she not chased after me. I knew immediately it had to be her. The timbre of her voice a perfect match for her intense stare. I’d wanted to stop in my tracks, to take her in, but I kept marching forward, steered by the knowledge that I was saving us both. I only relented when she left me with no other choice.
The second time was entirely my fault. I’ll rightfully accept the blame. I knew she’d be in the park; that’s why I stayed away for a week. But I slipped, typing her name into my phone’s browser. Eva Nelson, 17, was from Spring City, Pennsylvania. She had a relatively sparse online profile. No social media and no retouched selfies, which only made me like her more. When I found her writing and couldn’t stop reading, blog after blog, I knew I was tiptoeing into fire just to see how hot it was. I’d had one conversation with her and I was already too interested in the prospect of her. Even if she did seem safe. I knew from experience that such a thing didn’t exist. Especially for me.
She’d written a profile on her grandparents, who couldn’t have seemed less threatening — good people who raised a good person. I wanted to believe that. None of the information I found online indicated she was a risk. I suppose that’s why I returned to the park that day. Not to see her or to interact, but because the threat didn’t seem imminent. I realize now I let a feeling I couldn’t even identify cloud my judgment. I’d succumbed to the most pathetic of emotions: lust.
I lied to myself that I had it under control, even when I saw her walking over to me, as I hoped she would. For a minute, maybe I did. I could tell I was upsetting her, frustrating her, which I thought would make her leave. When she didn’t, my curiosity got the better of me and I wanted to know why. I searched her eyes, looking for warning signs, and was temporarily lost. She caught me off-guard by asking about my home. A place I tried never to think about.
That’s why I surprised myself when not even five minutes after she’d left me in the shop with her number, I pulled out my phone to use it.
She picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” I exhaled.
Her gentle breath filled the earpiece.
“I was thinking,” I said, though the truth was, thinking was the last thing I was doing. “If you’re free tomorrow night…”
“I am,” she said.
“Cool. I’ll pick you up after work. Around eleven.”
“Sure. Eleven.” She laughed, but I didn’t get the joke. “Anderson Prep. I’ll meet you outside.”
“Good night.”
I’d almost hung up when I heard her say, “Wait!”
“Yeah?” I answered, scared that she’d changed her mind.
“I never got your name.”
“Max,” I said.
“Max…” she said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Goodnight, Eva Nelson,” I said, trying to wipe the smile off my face.
I’d never felt so truly torn between my head and my heart. I knew what I should be doing, but for reasons I couldn’t process, it felt so much better to run in the opposite direction. It was like glass breaking in slow motion — no matter what I did, I was bound to get cut. The conclusion was forgone, the bullet had left the barrel.
I was on the verge of breaking one of the two promises I’d made to myself after my parents were killed. I was falling for someone, and I didn’t know how to stop it. I just prayed I didn’t take her down with me.
Seven
If It Makes You Happy
I was on my way home in a taxi, somewhere between unconscious and catatonic as a result of what I’d just done. I couldn’t believe the words that had come out of my mouth. The only thing I could be proud of, the only hope I could cling to, was that I hadn’t cried.
I had a feeling I was about to, when my phone rang; the number withheld. My heart ached for it to be him, and for one of the first times in my life, it got what it wanted.
His name was Max and I was seeing him the following night. I was buzzing with anticipation, I wanted to run through the streets screaming until I lost my voice. Or at the very least, text everyone I’d ever met—
Then it hit me, as I arrived back at school.
Dylan.
I was thinking of how to let him down easily, when I turned to see his taxi pull up. He was stepping out of the car with tinfoil-wrapped packages, looking just as surprised to see me.
“Eva!” he exclaimed, shutting the taxi door with his foot. “Did they lock us out?”
“No,” I said, swiping my student ID against the after-hours card reader. “I actually just got back. I had to…”
I looked to my shoes as if they might have the words I was looking for written on them.
“Is everything okay?” he asked. “Are you okay?”
“Um… well.”
“Eva?” he asked, sounding worried.
“It’s not that I don’t like you,” I said. “But—”
“Oh.”
“Yeah… I’m really sorry. It’s just…”
“It was too soon to meet the parents?”
“I kinda met someone and it’s probably nothing, but that’s kinda where my head’s at.”
“Oh.” He nodded, in a way that made me want to cry.
Time lagged, as if the universe were dragging the moment out so I could feel every inch of his disappointment. It was a dagger to my little black heart.
“We’re still friends, though, right?” I asked meekly.
“Well, that depends… on how much pumpkin spiced banana bread you can eat,” he said, handing me two loaves.
“Eating has never been a problem for me.”
“Tell me you don’t wanna come home with me for the holidays after that.”
A smirk appeared across his face. Then on mine.
Delilah must have heard the haphazard clanking of my beginner heels down the dorm room corridor because I could hear her chanting “Kiss and tell, kiss and tell,” before I’d even opened the door.
She was sitting on her bed cross-legged, scrolling through a website on her laptop. Papers and books scattered all around.
“Need me to send up search and rescue?” I asked, as I collapsed on the floor like a sack of sand.
“If you’re referring to all this?” She gestured with dramatic flair. “It’s just all my hopes and dreams crashing down around me.”
“Seriously?”
“No, but yes. The head of Drama, Mr. Jenkins, emailed to say that all the roles in both the winter and summer plays were already assigned. Last year. Can you believe that? What school auditions for both plays at the end of junior year?”
“Maybe it’s a rich people thing? They do the same with the paper.”
“If I’m not in the play, Yale Drama’s out. I was counting on their scout seeing me. It’s the whole reason I came here.”
“They won’t even let you audition as a substitute?”
“An understudy,” she corrected me. “And no, apparently all those are taken, too.”
“Well, that’s kinda suspect.”
“Right? It’ll mean I’ll be the only drama major who didn’t get to audition. Hence, this mess. I’m trying to find a way to argue that I should be given a chance to at least audition. I’ve been through the school’s bylaws back and forth, and even looked up what’s left of Affirmative Action laws.”
I walked over to look at her research.
“Maybe you need to come at it from a different angle?” I wondered aloud. “Can I?” I reached for the laptop, which she pushed toward me without hesitation.
“What do you know about Mr. Jenkins?” I asked, while searching his name in the browser. “It’s ultimately his decision, right?”
“Yeah. He’s a lifer. Been here longer than the limestone.”
I browsed through web results that showed Peter Jenkins had been at the school since the early ‘80s. There were only a handful of sites that mentioned any real information about him, but there was no shortage of photos.
“He loves any chance to jump in front of a camera, doesn’t he?” I said. Clicking through images of him at various events.
“Yep, total showpony. He can’t get through a single lesson without dropping at least one famous alumni’s name.” Then her voice changed into that of a showy New Yorker: “As my good friend and former pupil, Kelly Prescott, once said to me… Yes, yes. That chair. Declan Bancroft sat in that chair.”
