19
“Alma, pick up the phone, dammit! I’ve called you ten times!
I’m at the gym. The game is about to start, and your fucking name has been spray-painted on the wall—along with your fucking boyfriend’s!
The whole college is here, and it’s all anyone is talking about.
I hope you’re proud of yourself! I can’t cover for you this time.
You know that, right? Seriously, how old are you?
Everyone in the bleachers is staring at me.
I’m so embarrassed. Anyway, some maintenance guys are trying to scrub it off before the players come out, but everyone’s already taken photos.
And Tim is so pissed! You have no idea. Are you crazy or what?
When Dad finds out, you’re dead! Anyway, call me back! ”
Basile’s voice comes blasting through my voicemail.
I listen to his message as I lie in bed, still half asleep.
Every ache in my body reminds me of my magical night with Vadim.
After that mad whirlwind in the gym, we gathered our clothes and ran off without looking back.
Without taking one last look at the graffiti.
Without giving a second thought to the consequences.
I got in late, slipped into my room quietly, and slept like a baby. Waking up is proving brutal, though.
I bury my head under the pillow, trying to make my brother’s voicemail disappear. But his words keep echoing in my ears. All I want is to go back to sleep so I can avoid thinking, avoid facing this day. I want to pretend that nothing exists—except last night.
“Alma!”
This time, it’s my mother’s panicked voice calling my name as she knocks on my bedroom door. My father doesn’t bother with such niceties, barging in like a man possessed. He yanks off my comforter and starts yelling.
“Get up now!”
“Easy, Edward,” my mother soothes, trying to calm him down.
“Guess who we had on the phone bright and early this morning!” My father barrels on as I struggle to sit up. “The dean! A friend of mine! The one who got you into UCLA! And do you know why he was calling?!”
“No…” I lie weakly, rubbing my eyes so I don’t have to look at him.
“Graffiti, Alma! Your name and that Arcadi boy’s. In big, red letters on the wall of the gym, where a basketball game is going on right now! Do you realize what this means?!”
“I know, there was already graffiti on campus yesterday morning. But I have nothing to do with it, Dad.”
“Enough! You can explain yourself to the dean. We’ve been called into his office in half an hour.”
“Go get dressed. We can’t be late,” my mother says, always pragmatic.
“I’m very disappointed, Alma. I hope you’re not going to make me regret uprooting us all to come to the United States for you.”
My father casts me a dark look, then turns on his heel and slams my bedroom door. Tears well up in my eyes. My mother hovers near me, a hand at her throat, as if she’s struggling to breathe.
“You know he doesn’t mean what he says. He’s just angry. Everyone was thrilled to move here, sweetheart. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation and that you’re not behind all this. That’s right, isn’t it, Alma?”
She’s trying to reassure me, but I can hear in her voice that she’s the one who needs reassurance as she nervously smooths my hair.
Her quiet, well-mannered daughter couldn’t possibly have committed an act of vandalism or decided to make a spectacle of herself in front of the entire university. It simply can’t be true.
My mother is on my side out of principle.
My father, out of pride, is on the side of the family reputation.
As I walk into the dean’s luxurious office, I keep my head down, eyes fixed on my feet.
Then Vadim’s shoes suddenly come into view.
I look up and find him standing there, arms crossed, next to his caseworker.
While my parents and the other adults exchange cordial handshakes, my father cracks a little joke to lighten the mood, and Vadim takes the opportunity to roll up his sleeve and discreetly show me his forearm.
Scrawled across his silky skin in shaky black block letters are the words:
Deny everything. Never happened. I love you.
He pulls down his sleeve and gives me a tiny, barely perceptible wink that makes my heart explode. Then he smiles, looking straight ahead. I can’t take my eyes off him, or that carefully crafted look of indifference. It’s pure perfection.
He loves me… it’s written there on his skin.
And I still can’t believe it.
The hour that follows feels like a scene from a play, improvised and chaotic, performed before an initially skeptical audience.
Vadim almost goes overboard in his role as a rebellious, solitary student, insisting that he hates me so much—me and all the other rich girls—that he could never have tagged something like that. It would be completely out of the question.
Keith Johnson glares at him and asks him to show a little more respect toward the Lancasters.
I confirm Vadim’s version of our relationship: one that was forced upon us during Mr. Abrams’s class, one that we both have to endure.
I take the opportunity to thank the dean for the chance I was given to join his prestigious school, laying it on thick about the valuable education provided at UCLA.
Vadim rolls his eyes and sighs at my flattery.
I keep going, reminding everyone there that a girl “like me”—I shoot Vadim a scornful look as I utter these words—has better things to do than go getting herself into trouble. Things like focusing on her studies.
Vadim drives the point home by bringing up the only thing we have in common—our passion for cinema—compared with our thousands of points of disagreement.
Then, he steers the conversation toward the possible authors of the graffiti: narrow-minded students, ignorant and racist jocks, disturbed by our mismatched working partnership and incapable of imagining relationships between human beings based on anything other than sex or ball games.
Keith cuts Vadim off once again, my mother snorts at his masterly presented argument, and the dean—probably embarrassed by his remarks—decides to cut the meeting short. We both get away with a warning and strict instructions to stay out of trouble until the end of the school year.
On the way home, I replay our lies in my mind and recall the feeling of getting lost in Vadim’s deep, searching gaze when we parted: a look that was defiant and detestable in the eyes of those who knew nothing of our game, but alluring and loving in mine.
It felt so good to hate him…
My father, who no doubt found the dean too lenient, grounds me for the weekend and forbids me from seeing Arcadi outside class.
So, I lock myself away in my room for two days, only coming out to grab a snack from the fridge or exchange a few words with Lily, who is upset by the tense atmosphere in the house.
I also plot with Georgia, my lifelong partner in crime, who agrees to help me deliver a gift in total secrecy, without even asking the identity of the recipient.
To thank him for saving our skins in that office, I send Vadim a bottle of Ciao Amore by Fendi, my favorite men’s cologne, with its notes of orange blossom, of course, but also fig tree and tonka bean.
Scents as wild, delicious, and intoxicating as he is. I can’t wait to smell it on his skin.
Arcadius: Thanks for the gift. Do you think I stink?
The message appears on my screen as I lie under the comforter watching a movie I’ve already seen three times, my laptop resting on my legs.
Alma_from_paris: No, I just miss your smell a bit too much… so I looked for the one that suited you best. Strangely enough, it’s my favorite cologne. What are you doing?
Arcadius: An English assignment.
Alma_from_paris: Who’s it for this time?
Arcadius: You don’t want to know. What are you doing in your cell? Did they at least let you out for yard time?
Alma_from_paris: Not even. But it’s a modern prison, so I get streaming platforms.
Arcadius: Pure luxury! Let me guess… You’re watching The Summer I Turned Pretty again. No, Call Me by Your Name? The Notebook? Maxton Hall? Wait, I know! Beating Hearts!
Alma_from_paris: You sure know a lot about romantic films and series. Are they a secret passion of yours? Anyway, it’s none of those. I’m watching something a little closer to how I’m feeling right now…
Arcadius: Hmm… The Shining? Are you feeling a murderous rage rising inside you that could end in you wiping out your whole family? If you need a hand, I’d be happy to take on your brother…
Alma_from_paris: Basile isn’t home. Obviously, he gets to do whatever he wants, while I spend the weekend atoning for my sins… I should be watching Seven, actually.
Arcadius: How about we do a remake of The Shawshank Redemption and you come see me?
Alma_from_paris: I’d love to. I’m pretty much in the same headspace as the guy in Into the Wild right now. Should we leave for Alaska in search of inner peace?
Arcadius: I’ve got a better idea. I’ll come to your place, and we can reenact a scene from Cruel Intentions in your pool!:)
Alma_from_paris: In your dreams, Arcadi!
Arcadius: You can’t see me, but I’m drowning in my tears. Alright, I give up, what are you watching?
Alma_from_paris: Cast Away. Pathetic, right?
Arcadius: What’s starting to become pathetic is your obsession with Tom Hanks!
Alma_from_paris: Philadelphia, Forrest Gump, Apollo 13, Saving Private Ryan, You’ve Got Mail, The Green Mile, Catch Me If You Can, The Terminal, Captain Phillips, The Post… How can anyone compete with that filmography?
Arcadius: I love it when you get all fired up like this… Damn it, I miss you even more, now!
Alma_from_paris: Sorry.:)
Arcadius: By the way, I was thinking, maybe next time You + Me instead of Vadim + Alma would be a bit more discreet. Just sayin’…
Alma_from_paris: Thanks for the support, really. Remind me not to mention you when I give my acceptance speech for my first Oscar.
Vadim starts to type a reply, but I cut short his three blinking dots.
Alma_from_paris: Did you just send me an email?
Arcadius: No, I was just writing to you here.
Alma_from_paris: Wait. Let me check something.
With a lurching feeling in the pit of my stomach, I open my inbox and find an unread message.
I don’t recognize the sender’s address. The email is empty, but a photo slowly begins to download.
It’s very dark. The soft sheen of skin appears.
My naked body, sitting, takes shape before my eyes.
Then Vadim’s, his back to the camera, kneeling in front of me.
My head thrown back. His face buried between my thighs.
My heart races. Pressure builds in my temples.
My eyes burn. My right hand trembles, then hesitates.
Should I delete the email? Smash the damn computer to pieces?
Destroy the photo that is going to ruin my life?
Again? In the end, I forward it to Vadim with a few clicks, tears streaming down my cheeks.
Arcadius: Alma, what the hell is this???
Alma_from_paris: I just received it.
Arcadius: Who the fuck took this?!
Alma_from_paris: No idea. Only Clémentine knew where I was. Who did you tell?
Arcadius: No one! Someone must have followed us!
Alma_from_paris: How is that possible, Vadim? Who hates us this much? What’s the point of these photos? Why can’t they just leave us alone?
Arcadius: I don’t know. I need to go out, or I’m going to kill someone.
Alma_from_paris: No, don’t go! We need to think about this!
Arcadius: No, delete the email. Don’t tell anyone. I’m going to find the sicko who’s doing this. I swear I’ll find them. See you tomorrow.
Alma_from_paris: Vadim, don’t go.
Arcadius: I know you’re scared, Alma, but I’m not gonna let you down. Whoever wants to hurt us is gonna regret it.