Chapter 27
World of Possibilities
Yin-Yang Effect
Dono Marcelo leads us to a shower area with two waiting attendants and instructs them to clean every inch of our skin.
The two of us are confused by his instructions.
Instead of explaining himself, Dono Marcelo commands, “You are to do everything they ask—flawlessly.”
“But…” Nash sputters.
“Flawlessly,” he stresses before leaving the room.
A young woman walks up to me. “Please sit…” she says, pointing to a bench.
She helps me out of my clothes, then leads me to a bath full of warm water.
I sink into it cautiously, and not only does she scrub my entire body, but she also shaves my armpits and my legs.
Helping me out of the tub, she takes me to a shower stall and thoroughly scrubs me a second time.
When she determines I’m clean enough, she grabs a towel and dries me off. Feeling decidedly fresh and clean, I follow her as she leads me over to where Nash is waiting.
I notice that his pits and legs have been shaved as well, and I snicker.
“Fuck off!” he growls.
Both attendants put their hands to their lips.
Not wanting to earn a reprimand from Dono Marcelo, I don’t make another peep.
We’re led down the hallway naked. But instead of taking us to see Dono Marcelo, they take us to the lounge.
I notice that a new table has been set out and covered in a pristine white cloth.
The two of us are led to the low-lying table and directed to lie down on our backs, with my head in line with his feet.
I lay there staring up at the ceiling, understanding now why they were so meticulous.
I recall a picture Mr. Onassis shared during one of our classes of a practice called Nyotaimori.
It’s a Japanese practice that means “body sushi” and involves serving fresh sushi on the body of a naked person.
I remember that the presentation was beautiful and sounded kind of sexy. But not when I’m lying next to Nash!
When the two attendants leave us, another staff member enters the room and stands at the entrance, though I find it difficult in my position to see them clearly.
Still, grateful for their presence, I lie beside Nash in this yin-yang pose in silence.
I swear I can feel his anger radiating off him like a firecracker about to explode.
Normally, I would let something like this get to me, but I find this whole situation both concerning and humorous. I’m convinced this is some kind of torture technique the trainers have come up with.
As time ticks by, I prepare for my role as a naked people platter and close my eyes, replaying the piece I composed in my head over and over. Nothing can break my zen.
Out of the blue, Nash’s stomach lets out a loud grumble, and I have to bite my lip to stop from laughing.
When it happens again a few minutes later, and it’s embarrassingly long, I can’t help but snort.
I can feel him glaring at me. In retaliation, I let out a loud yawn and grin when he instinctively yawns in response. Then I hear him take several gulps of air. I assume he’s struggling not to yawn a second time—until I hear an obnoxiously prolonged burp.
I hear the attendant quietly chuckle.
As much as I resent Nash, I have to admit that his passive-aggressive humor is funny.
A new set of attendants enters the lounge carrying baskets of flowers. They spend considerable time carefully arranging our bodies with large leaves and flower blossoms. My attendant even decorates my hair with tiny flowers and finishes by placing a thin ceramic bowl on my stomach.
With the considerable time it’s taken to set up this scene, the trainers must have changed the schedule tonight, and we have not only missed the first practicum, but the second must already be in progress.
Which can only mean that this is my practicum for the night. I feel cheated.
When the culinary crew walks in with a multitude of covered trays, my stomach rumbles at the mouthwatering aromas that waft through the air. Nash chuckles dryly in response.
When one of them lifts their hand to shoo a wayward fly from Nash’s face, he automatically flinches and upends some of the carefully placed food. He reacts by muttering several times, “Stupid…” before making a joke and attempting to laugh it off.
I’m left wondering if I was right about the abuse.
While a few members of the staff quickly replace the food, the others turn their attention to me, filling the ceramic bowl on my stomach with ice.
I gasp in response to the cold seeping through the ceramic and into my skin, but watch with interest as they set a glass bowl of caviar on top to keep it chilled.
After they’ve gone, an uncomfortable silence settles between us. To distract us both, I look Nash over without moving my head and start listing the foods I see. “There are mini street tacos lined up on your legs, and small bratwurst sausages on your pelvic region—which seems appropriate.”
He snorts.
“And…” I have to squint to make them out without lifting my head. “…it looks like you have steamed bao buns balanced on both of your arms.”
He huffs as if disinterested.
“Bratwurst is definitely German,” I mutter. “Street tacos make me think of Mexico, and bao buns are Asian, right?”
No response.
“Russians are known for their caviar, but I can’t see what else they’ve covered me with.”
Nash jeers. “Your chest and arms are covered in tiny Nipples of Venus. It’s giving a creepy alien vibe.”
I ignore his unsolicited commentary and ask, “What else?”
When he ignores me, I let curiosity get the better of me and lift my head to see that my legs are covered in sushi. Well, that makes sense considering Japan created Nyotaimori, but I’m confused by the Nipples of Venus since it’s Italian. “This doesn’t make any sense. None of the foods are related.”
“Maybe that’s the point, Sherlock.”
I roll my eyes but realize he’s probably right. They’ve presented us with a world of possibilities…
We both become silent when we hear our classmates walking down the hall as they chatter to each other.
I sigh nervously, wondering how they are going to react when they see the two of us as glorified platters.
As soon as the group enters, the prattling immediately stops.
“What the heck?” Carlisle laughs.
“Well, don’t you make quite the pair,” Pixie Girl giggles. Grabbing a plate right away, she leans over Nash and delicately takes one of the bratwurst. “This little weenie looks good enough to eat.”
The tiny nipples bounce on my chest as I struggle not to laugh. Not to be outdone, Russo takes two of the nipples off my chest. “Looks like Lane is a little excited, wouldn’t you say?”
I roll my eyes again because my nipples are hard from the chill of the ice.
Tamara walks up with a bemused smile on her face as she helps herself to the sushi. And I notice Michelle can’t stop grinning as she takes several spoonfuls of caviar from the bowl and leans down to whisper, “I’ve always wanted to try expensive fish eggs.”
Amethyst is the only one who looks at me with sympathy. “You sure got dealt a rough hand tonight. Hang tough, Lane.”
Nash and I are left lying there, listening to our classmates go on and on about how much they enjoyed the practicums tonight, which seems particularly cruel to me.
When Dono Marcelo arrives to dismiss the group, I hold my breath as he walks to the table. “Overall, your performance as a team was…adequate.”
He snaps his fingers, and all of the attendants return at once. “Make them presentable and bring them to me.”
In less than fifteen minutes, they have the two of us standing in front of the panel.
“Miss Lane, how would you rate Nash’s performance tonight?” Dono Marcelo asks.
I glance at Nash, thinking back on the moment he flinched. For some reason, I feel the uncontrollable desire to protect him. “I’d give him an eight.”
Dono Marcelo raises an eyebrow.
Turning to Nash, he asks, “How would you rate Miss Lane?”
Nash shifts uncomfortably before answering. “She talks too much. I’d give her a four.”
I look at him in shock. “I’m not the one who burped loudly on purpose.”
He just smirks.
Headmaster Wallace follows up by asking me, “How would you rate yourself, Miss Lane?”
Considering that I did talk a lot and even lifted my head when I knew I wasn’t allowed to after the extensive notes I took in Mr. Onassis’s class, I let out a sigh when I answer truthfully, “A four.”
Nash snickers.
Headmaster Wallace turns to address him next. “And you, Mr. Nash?”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “I’d give myself a solid eight. It would have been a ten, but she kept distracting me.”
“It’s interesting that you would blame her for your lower score,” Lord Murray comments.
All four trainers write something on their electronic pads.
Does Nash realize he just made a fool of himself in front of the panel?
“Miss Lane, we appreciate your honesty tonight,” Mistress Kim states. “You may leave.”
I bow my head before turning to walk away. I can’t help but wonder what the trainers have in store for Nash.
When I arrive back home, I check my mailbox on a whim and am surprised to find a large envelope from my mother. I hesitate to open it and set it on the counter as soon as I enter the apartment.
But I keep looking at the envelope. I can’t resist the temptation. I need to know what’s inside.
I find a note from her that reads:
While cleaning out the attic, I came across this.
I figured it would be easiest if I just mailed it.
I understand that means she didn’t want me to come to her house to get it.
Fortunately, I was able to get your address from your brothers.
That’s just another hit to my heart. I only live a half-hour away, but she’s never asked for my address.
I pull out a pink envelope next, and my heart catches when I see my name written in my father’s handwriting. Tears prick my eyes as I gently tear open the envelope and take out the card. It has a picture of a pink unicorn holding a cake with seven candles.
I frown, realizing I was so traumatized by his death that I’d forgotten he died three weeks before my birthday. I’m unable to keep my hands from trembling as I open the card and stare at the handwritten message inside.
Happy birthday, Sophie girl!
Watching you dance is my greatest joy.
Never lose your love of the music,
my beautiful seven-year-old.
Love, Dad
I burst into tears, pressing his card against my chest. It feels like he’s reaching across time and space to give me this message.
I close my eyes and smile. “Thank you, Daddy!”
Later, as I’m tossing my mother’s note in the trash, it flutters to the floor, and I notice there’s something written on the back of it.
Picking the note up, my heart skips a beat.
The truth is you remind me of him.
And I loved him so much that it still hurts me to look at you.
Even though her words cut deep, I finally have my answer.