Chapter 25 #2
Maybe it’s delusion talking, considering how strict he seems when it comes to school relations, or maybe I’m just a jealous bitch. I don’t know.
I just don’t want her to want him. Or vice versa.
My whole childhood was already spent in her shadow, where I so desperately craved to be like her or to be liked by her. I don’t want that pattern following me eternally in adulthood too.
“Faculty can’t have romantic or sexual connections,” she says after a moment.
“Oh.”
“And honestly, I barely know the guy. He was behind me in undergrad, and despite what you might believe, classics and theater majors don’t really cross over much. Plus, there’s the whole thing with that family curse, and his sister’s death—”
Something cold fills my chest. “His what?”
“His twin sister died when he was a sophomore, I think? I can’t remember the exact year anymore, but it really threw Avernia for a loop since it was the first on-campus death in decades.
I didn’t know who Sutton was until that point, and suddenly he was just everywhere, thrust into the spotlight.
” Quincy cocks her head, thinking. “Or maybe that’s just when I started paying attention. I don’t know.”
Guilt pricks at the surface of my skin. Is that why he feels such a deep connection to this place?
If my ghosts are faceless, I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to navigate life when you recognize the ones haunting you.
“Elle! Come on!” Lexington shouts again, earning dirty looks from a few people studying toward the front of the building.
Even though I want to probe Quincy about Sutton more, I leave her sitting there before Percy—whose face is a bright red, embarrassment clear on his cheeks—bursts a blood vessel.
I power walk across the floor, then follow the three of them to a glass room past the main staircase. They’ve pushed all the furniture back against the windows and have a circle of couch cushions set up in the center.
“Thank God,” Meg says as I enter, tossing my bag to the floor. She fixes the brakes on her chair, shaking her head. “These two know nothing about auditions. I’m starting to fear for their grades in Dupont’s class.”
“You’re just now worrying about that?” I snort, grateful for the distraction these three provide. “I could’ve told you ages ago that one’s failing for sure.” I point at Percy as he bends over, cuffing his loose-fitting jeans.
“Hey,” he says, frowning at me from upside down. “I’ve aced all my essays so far, thank you.”
“And the performance element?” Lexington questions.
“This is an elective beginner course, so I don’t see why we have to get judged on that ability,” Percy continues, unwrapping a green scarf from around his neck. “Shouldn’t grades be based on our improvements over the semester?”
“Good luck convincing Professor Hard-Ass of that. You know he thinks everyone should be great right off the bat. That’s why you have to audition for a seat anyway.” Meg wiggles her eyebrows at them, then looks to me. “Though I guess Elle kind of bypassed that requirement.”
Percy huffs, straightening. “Founders get all the favors.”
“Do you want pointers or not?” I ask, wagging a finger at him.
He drops to his knees at my feet, clasping his hands together in a gesture of prayer. “Yes, please.”
I giggle. “Men who beg rank high on my list, but I’m not sure how the professor will feel about it.”
“Word on the street is he likes to do the begging,” Meg notes. We all glance at her, and she pushes a braid off her shoulder, holding her phone up. “What? That’s what The Delphic Pages says. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
I snatch the phone from her, peering at the screen. A picture of Sutton standing behind a partially drawn red curtain, mouth open as he says something to the people onstage, populates beneath Pythia’s account.
My stomach grows heavy at the sight of him in directorial mode: Even from the still, it’s clear that he’s a firm, determined visionary. You can see it in his eyes and the hard set of his jaw—he loves what he does.
Beneath the photo in bold lettering, a caption states: Sutton Dupont pleads for more emotion from his actors during the fall production of Macbeth.
I make a face at Meg, passing her phone back. “That proves nothing.”
She smirks. “Yet you practically broke your neck looking for the evidence. You so have the hots for our teacher.”
“Are we going to start rehearsing soon or just spend our afternoon drooling over a robot?” Lexington quips, walking over with his hands on his hips.
“What, you don’t see the appeal?” Percy asks, throwing an arm over his shoulder.
Lexington rolls his eyes. “Of course I do. I’m not dead—the man’s gorgeous. But he also holds our fate in his hands, so I just think we should take that into consideration. We barely scraped by our auditions to get into the class, you know, P.”
“Not me,” Meg notes, lifting her chin with a grin. “My parents own a few community theaters from here to Concord, though, so I guess it’s sort of baked in.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re perfect,” Lexington says, grinning. He slides out from Percy’s grip, bending down to press a dramatic, sloppy kiss to her forehead. “But some of us aren’t, so…”
He gestures toward the circle, and she laughs, nodding. “First point of order: loosening your lips and limbs.”
“You should also be properly hydrated,” I say, turning toward the door. “Anyone want something to drink?”
They decline, so I head down the hall by myself to the vending machines tucked next to an emergency exit. On my way back, plastic bottle in hand, I pause in the partially open doorway of a private study room, drawn to a stop at the sound of a familiar voice.
Sutton stands at the front of the room, surrounded by a wall of students. Most of them have jackets with a torch emblem printed on the back, and they all seem enraptured by the discussion he’s leading.
“…once auditions have finished, we’ll only have a few short weeks to prep for the production,” he tells the students.
“Volunteering is optional, but keep in mind I’m more likely to write recommendation letters for prospective internships and employment opportunities when you help out.
We’ll need set designers, costume coordinators, and the like. ”
There at the front, a familiar blond ponytail sways. “What about refreshments and lighting crews?”
“I’ll let you handle refreshments this time, Sabrina,” Sutton tells her. “The bloody-heart cookies you made for Macbeth were inspired and went over really well with the cast. I trust your baking ability.”
Sabrina. Jesus, does she ever let the man breathe?
Though I guess I can’t really talk.
Even that first night at Lethe’s, there was this fine tether drawing me to him. As soon as I spotted him at the bar, I couldn’t look away.
It was as though I unconsciously thought that doing so would cause him to vanish, like water vapor into the air.
The sensation was unlike anything I’d ever felt before. A temptation so strong that resistance was instantly pointless, even when he was rejecting me.
My mind flickers to Quincy’s revelation about his sister, and I feel that familiar twinge in my chest.
Here I’ve been treating his employment as some throwaway thing, selfishly chasing my own gratification because he was lying about what he wanted. But what if the job is an excuse for him elsewhere?
Leaning on the doorframe, I lift my chin, scouring the heads of the students as they disperse, a few arguing about some canned-food drive. The room becomes obscured, and I search for the mess of dark brown hair or his sweater—
“Visio Aternae meetings are private.”