3. Lilah #2
My mom had never had money for many extras. And when she got sick, I survived on free lunch and ramen noodles most nights…or toward the end, hospice food.
After my mom died, I’d gone to live with my dad, and he wasn’t exactly a pack-your-lunch and sign-your-permission-slip kind of parent, so I’d never even asked for anything. Not being shipped off to foster care had been gift enough.
But Mason’s family had more than enough money to put him in any and every activity he’d ever dreamed of.
“One of my first memories was being on skates with my mom recording me,” he said.
“She would send videos to my father. No matter what was going on, hockey was always there. And after my mom was gone.” His voice took a strange dip there.
“And I came to live with my dad, that’s all it was. Eat, sleep, breathe hockey.”
I squeezed his hand at the loss of his mom and his whole life turning upside down. “You’ve never even wanted to try anything else?”
“Why would I? Hockey’s in my blood. My dad went pro. I’ll go pro. Nothing else matters.”
“What about fun?”
He grinned at me in his way that made me forget what I was even talking about. A tuck-your-hair-behind-your-ear, stupid-giggle, face-flushing type of grin he’d somehow perfected, but I still felt like it was only for me. “Winning’s fun.”
“Maybe someday you’ll try something new.”
He rested his palm against my cheek, thumb skimming my lips. “Someday soon, I will.”
My words from this summer revisited me like a ghost.
What had I done to make him hate me this much?
Every attempt at a conversation had been met with scorn, so I’d given up. But the questions burrowed and burned their way through my head.
I’d wanted to believe the Mason sitting in front of me wasn’t who he truly was, that this Mason had body-snatched Summer Mason. If only I could find the off switch, he’d look at me with hunger-tinged tenderness again.
But the days crawled on into bloody, broken-glass-covered weeks, and I’d learned this was the real Mason. Summer Mason was a chlorine-induced delusion better forgotten for my own sanity.
A thick knot formed in my throat. I squeezed my hands at my sides. Giving him the satisfaction would only play into his hands. Stay strong, don’t engage became a mantra in my mind.
I glanced at the door, longing for escape.
Arms folded over my chest, I turned back to him. “What will you be working on?”
He shrugged. “You’re the tutor.” The way he said the word, it rang a lot closer to “servant.”
I kept my face stony, hopefully unfazed. “Prof. Palmer has a few different options for independent study students. You can find them over there.” I pointed to the wall of patterns, all categorized by experience and difficulty level.
He stood and followed me. Was it possible for someone to follow you mockingly? If so, he could run a seminar.
Mason’s painfully smug cloud choked the air, but I unclenched my teeth, determined not to let him wreck one more thing in my life.
“You choose one from each level to complete by the end of the year for your credit. If you have any questions, you know where I am.” I didn’t wait for a response.
I sat at my machine and assessed the damage.
Fingers jittery, I refolded the fabric and finished the rough edge hem, hiding the small hole he’d made by pulling on the skirt.
It was the last order I’d gotten for any alteration work.
The orders had slowly dried up by the end of my first week under the Mason treatment.
That little bit of cash and the free-flowing feelings I got whenever I worked with fabric had dried up right along with them.
I wouldn’t let him force me out of this tutoring job too.
The others in the room were back to their work, with not-so-covert glances between me and Mason. Natalie shot me a blink-and-you-missed-it thumbs-up like she didn’t want Mason to know I had a friendly face in there. Not that I blamed her, and I didn’t want anyone else incurring his wrath.
Next, I went to the drafting table to cut out pieces for Prof. Palmer’s next class. The hefty fabric scissors were cool against my palm. Focus on the work.
I spread out my fabric, chalk and pins.
Three pattern folders slid across my work area and knocked the magnetic pin holder and tailor’s chalk to the floor. “Here.”
“Here what?” I set the three shiny folders on top of each other, swallowed every needled barb of my pride and bent to pick up the spilled tools.
“I’ll do those.”
“Okay, pick the fabric.”
Mason folded his arms across his chest. “Not very helpful, Little Byrd.”
An ugly, weird vibe chewed at my soul every time he said it.
And our audience was back to watching their favorite show with fingers poised on their phones. A flare of anger rushed under my skin. Why record someone treating someone else like crap?
How far was he willing to go? Was the next mission to get me fired from this job? Everyone in the whole school seemed to bow to him and the rest of the hockey players. Whatever they wanted. Whenever they wanted. No one ever stood in their way.
One word from him and I’d probably be banned from this room—hell, kicked out of school.
I set down what he’d knocked over and walked to the wall of fabric rolls.
“Any of these will work with these two patterns. A pillowcase and boxers. For the t-shirt, this jersey fabric will be best.”
Mason stood close, so close my elbow brushed against the front of his arm.
I jerked away and put a little more space between us.
“Once you’ve picked your color, arrange the pattern pieces on the fabric. The patterns have been used before, so you don’t have to cut them out. Pin them down, chalk the outlines and cut it all out.” I chanced a glance behind me.
His gaze probed mine, searching for I had no idea what. And I didn’t want to know.
“I can help you with laying everything out, if you’re stuck. Okay?”
He cleared his throat. “Okay.”
No smug response, so I took the opening to escape and finish the last of my work.
Minutes ticked by until it was finally time for me to give the five-minute clean-up warning, and I felt relieved that the trapped feeling would be over soon. The fresh air and sunlight of the end of the day were a little closer.
I forced myself not to glance in Mason’s direction.
These might be the only minutes of peace I got for the rest of the day, and I wasn’t going to invite more trouble.
But I could feel his heated stare, arms folded across his chest. Then he got up from his desk, leaving everything behind. The bell rang to end the period.
He lingered outside the doorway.
I tidied up very slowly. I’d rather be late to my next class if it meant not walking the halls with him.
Steeling my face, I wrote Mason’s name on an empty bin to store his supplies. I was grateful for the stalling excuse and picked up stray bits of fabric and pins, trying to put as much distance between him and me as possible.
At the bell signaling the start of the next period, I logged my time on my timesheet, grabbed my bag and left the classroom.
Why were so many people up here in this forgotten hallway? This place was usually deserted, but the hallway was still half full as if no one actually cared about getting to class on time. Guilty.
I froze ten feet outside the door. Mason stood leaned up against the lockers, talking to Calder.