Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
OPHELIA
“Let me see.” Damien leans across me, grabbing hold of my notations, then his body stays there, breathing against the sensitive shell of my ear until every nerve is wide awake, only then slouching back in his seat, reading my scribbles.
Meanwhile my body is in chaos, caught between wanting to punch him and curl into his lap, purring.
Whatever sick part of my brain he activated on Wednesday, he got me good. I close my eyes and concrete grit scrapes my tongue, the salty, smoky taste of his release overshadowed.
He’s depraved… which shouldn’t explain why I’m eagerly anticipating the coming weekend.
“Well…?” I say, like being critiqued is the only reason I’m nervous.
I’m not looking directly at him, but still feel his gaze land on my face, hear his smile. “Just playing it through in my head.”
I shove my chair back, tilting my ear towards the keyboards playing in the next room. A Dylan-esque melody hums through the wall, another student struggling to produce something original.
Ballad in Plain D, my phone confirms.
“What is it?”
I show Damien the phone screen, then wheel my chair back under the desk, bumping his knee, then holding the contact.
“You’d think they’d copy something more popular.”
“It’s not like the plagiarism is intentional.”
After my first few dozen attempts at original songwriting, I managed to ‘accidentally recreate’ so many existing refrains, I now routinely check everything online before submitting my assignments.
Damien’s still focused on the sheet, and I can’t ask him again, not without seeming desperate. I grab the acoustic guitar and begin plucking out notes, not playing a tune, just picking at random. Playing away my jitters.
Finally, his verdict. “It’s not bad.”
I strum a bum chord. “Why did I think I could write?”
“You didn’t. Whoever planned this curriculum did.”
My lips press together as I play more notes, tilting back and staring blankly at the ceiling. Sometimes Damien’s empathy gap is freeing and other times…?
His shoulder brushes my calf as he dives under the table, plugging in the keyboard. “Listen to this.”
A slow melody fills the room, haunting. The ancient Yamaha’s reverberation echoes like a warning.
On the second time through, it gets better, my internal ear anticipating the notes, adding new melodics, strengthening the harmony.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “We’ve found another thing you excel in.”
His mouth is near my shoulder. His chuckle vibrates in my skin. “This wasn’t me.”
“You must be playing it wrong then because this”—I show him the app—“has nothing.”
Damien taps on his phone, and after a few seconds, my guitar picking floods the room. “You should record yourself not writing songs more often. I doubt this is the only goldmine you’ve uncovered.”
“Give me that.”
I grab his phone and play it back again, holding the speaker against my ear, eyes closed.
It’s true. The tune came out of me without even knowing.
“Thank you.” The words can’t match the relief pouring out of me. Ever since we received the assignment back in term one, I’ve been stressing over this original piece. Now in five minutes with Damien, it’s practically done. All I have to do is write it down.
“Just getting it out of the way, so you can do mine.”
“Fuck off,” I say, laughing. “You’ve already got people doing the rest of your coursework. Complete at least one class on your own.”
He laughs but his eyes are unfocused, staring past my shoulder, before they sharpen on my face. “You’re worried about this project, right? You want to do well?”
I nod.
“And you still dream of being a music producer.” His grin reappears. “And managing my career…”
“That’s your fantasy, not mine.”
“But you’re also stockpiling pills. How does that work?”
My shoulders hunch, but the question is like all the things Damien asks, curious, abrupt, invasive but strangely impersonal. An alien landing on planet earth and figuring out how things work.
“Lots of people have a plan B.”
He looks both sceptical and unsatisfied. I sigh, fiddling with the guitar again, seeking inspiration.
“It’s like having two train tracks in my head, and right now I’m straddling both lines. One heads into a future with university and jobs and a potential career, and the other…”
“Derails and everyone dies?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I lower my head, not wanting his scrutiny. “Or maybe it’s nothing like that and I’m bad at analogies.”
“Have you tried before?”
I nod and a wave of exhaustion washes over me.
“Have you tried swallowing those pills you’re prescribed every day instead of all at once?”
Tension coils in my jaw. “Fuck you.”
“That’s my weekend plan, yes.” He grabs my chair either side and pulls me close, trapping me in place. “It’s a reasonable question.”
“The medication treats depression not suicide. Do I strike you as fucking depressed?”
His eyes look up like he’s genuinely thinking. “Not really, but I wouldn’t know. I’ve never paid much attention to people before. How about I add lyrics, and we submit a joint project?”
“What?”
Damien plays my piece again, adding a few embellishments. I guess the interrogation’s over as suddenly as it began, and I’m too relieved to protest. His attention is overwhelming.
It reminds me of my mother’s erratic conversations, and I take a few seconds more to reroute my thoughts.
When I do, the idea of creating something memorable together doesn’t sound bad. “Write them first, then we’ll see.”
He brushes away a hair caught near my mouth, then grabs my collar, pulling me in for a kiss that leaves my lips buzzing, feeling swollen.
Not asking, just taking, but this strange arrangement has shown me it’s what I prefer.
“Let’s go record this tune, then. Give me something to work with.”
We traipse back into the main music room where Van der Valk has set up a makeshift recording studio in his office. We listen as another student sings their heart out, joining the queue.
When it’s our turn, Damien ushers me into the smaller room, palm warming my lower back.
“You look happier,” Van der Valk comments when we emerge, just minutes before the lunchtime bell. “I’m glad you’re making progress.”
Rather than find another room, we both take our chairs, eavesdropping through the wall as the next student makes their recording.
“Careful,” Damien says, tapping the top of my head. “Keep smiling like that, and anyone might think you’re falling for me.”
“Then anyone should rethink because those assumptions come straight from their massive ego.”
“Damien!”
Chelsea’s sharp voice slices through the air, snapping me out of the fragile bubble we’ve been sitting in.
His head tilts and for a second, I think he’ll wave her off, then the mask clicks into place. He strides across, leaving a cold space beside me, even more chilling because it follows so quickly on the heels of our shared warmth.
“Hey, doll.” He’s no longer the boy who had been sitting next to me, close enough for our shoulders to brush. This is a projection, smooth and untouchable. “You ready for lunch?”
“Yeah.” Chelsea sounds just the tiniest bit unsure, and the part of me not reeling from his abrupt rejection gloats. Then there’s a rustle of clothing as Damien puts his arm around her, the soft smack of a kiss, and it’s like an ulcer is bubbling in my stomach.
“What’re you doing with the resident freak?”
She doesn’t modulate her voice. Doesn’t care who among the other students in the room hears her.
An infinitesimal pause, then, “Studying.” Not correcting her, not defending me, no trace of remorse in his voice at all.
They leave and I sit, stunned… then ashamed for imagining anything different. I might be a good secret fuck, but Damien’s using me for his own ends. And although he’s using Chelsea too, the difference between us is stark.
“Ophelia?”
I turn towards Van der Valk’s voice, numb, belatedly standing since the lunch bell’s already gone.
In a compassionate tone, he asks, “Would you like to record anything else? I can keep the equipment here though lunch.”
His kindness sharpens the sting in my throat, and I can’t even speak, just shaking my head before I flee the room.
I skulk in the back room of the library during lunch break, hiding beside shelves of unborrowed Pacific history just as unloved as me. My phone’s in my hand and I keep playing back a recording, but not of music class like I should.
It’s from yesterday, the one I spent last night editing before Damien’s call interrupted.
Last Thursday, this idea felt dangerous, collecting the recording as ammunition against him, ready to unleash on Chelsea any time I wanted, invoking his father’s wrath.
Now I’m not even sure it would get that far.
Watching myself onscreen is almost unbearable. What was hot last night, now seems desperate. A ploy from an outcast, fishing for attention the only way she knows how.
An internal comment board lights up in my head.
Slut, whore, slag.
My earphones are in, facing the doorway so no one can sneak up behind me. Yet I keep glancing up, startling at shadows from the high windows, almost convinced someone else is watching.
Finally, the clamour of internal condemnation grows too loud and I exit the file, shoving the phone away as I rip the earphones from my head.
An incoming message vibrates the phone in my hand, startling me back to the present.
DAMIEN
Meet me after school. I’ll drop you home on Sunday.
No apology. Not even a trace of embarrassment at how eagerly he ditched me for Chelsea, but why would there be?
I’m the idiot who let her feelings get involved, mistaking his sexual hunger for affection, believing words he probably didn’t know he was saying.
And sure, I’m a fool, but damned if I’ll be at his beck and call when his rejection has filled my thoughts with broken glass. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I leave the shelter of the library and ignore the fact there are still two lessons left in the day.
I head straight for the bus stop, typing my reply while I wait.
OPHELIA
Okay
The lie gives me a grim sense of satisfaction. Probably the only satisfaction I’ll ever get from Damien.
Once it’s sent, I click back into the recording, the delete button big and red and tempting. My thumb hovers, then I exit and tuck my phone away.
I’ll keep the file. Just in case.