20
I’m happy to have my freedom back this Monday morning, and I’m thrilled to finally see Vadim again, but other feelings creep back in, poisoning my thoughts, knotting my stomach, and squeezing my heart.
Fighting the urge to tell Clem about the latest anonymous photo, I scan the other students’ faces, trying to figure out who might know.
The first class fills me with dread. I’m worried about Mr. Abrams’s outbursts and whether he’ll attempt to kidnap me for another day of tedious work as his assistant, tethered to the smelly Basset Hound.
As I take my usual seat in the front row, my partner slumps into the chair beside me, wearing a white T-shirt that makes his gray eyes look even clearer.
He gives off the intoxicating scent of Ciao Amore by Fendi, and I know I wasn’t mistaken: Vadim and his new cologne are a perfect match.
I fall for him a little harder. But between the stale tobacco smell lingering on the professor, the looks directed at us, and the tension in the room, I’m also not far from passing out.
Mr. Abrams, with his perpetually knitted eyebrows, fixes his gaze on us. His expression is troubled, clouded… disappointed. His voice is even gruffer than usual.
“Lancaster and Arcadi, your memorable collaboration ends today. You’re switching with the Lee-McPherson duo, and since you haven’t produced a damn thing yet, you’ll obviously be working on their short film ideas. Arcadi, get moving, Sophie is waiting for you.”
“My name is Phoebe, sir,” the student corrects him.
“And how is that relevant?” the professor snaps, annoyed. “You, Lee, do you have a first name you’d like to announce to the whole world too? Guy, perhaps?”
Everyone laughs.
“No, it’s not Guy. It’s Jude, Professor. Jude Lee. But you can call me whatever you want.”
“That’s too kind of you. Come on, change seats. We’re wasting time! Bruce Lee, don’t forget your sense of humor if you manage to find it somewhere. And, Arcadi, stop dragging your feet. Get a move on!”
“Mr. Abrams, that’s racist,” I mutter.
“Just let it go, Alma,” whispers the Asian student who’s just slipped into the seat next to me.
Halfway to his chair, Vadim turns around and walks directly toward me.
With one hand on the back of my neck, he kisses me in front of the entire class.
An endless, slow, passionate kiss that draws whistles and applause from the other students, who are more than happy to finally release some of the tension.
Abrams shouts at us to stop and threatens us with a trip to the dean’s office. That threat finally makes us pull apart. Vadim sits down next to his new partner, a triumphant smile on his face, while I flop back down into my chair, cheeks flushed, my lips still damp, and my legs trembling.
Class resumes, and I make myself as small as possible, trying to gather my thoughts and get my pulse back to normal. I try to focus on my notes, occasionally stealing glances at my new partner’s neatly-filled pages, but all I can think about is Vadim and that incredible kiss.
A small ball of scrunched-up paper rolls onto my desk; I didn’t see where it came from. I discreetly smooth it out on my thigh and decipher the messy handwriting:
They can try to keep us apart,
but no one will ever stop me from talking to you. Or from kissing you. V.
I grin goofily, turn the crumpled little piece of paper over, and scribble a reply under the table, hidden from prying eyes.
I miss you already. And I’ve got a confession to make:
I love you more than Tom Hanks. A.
I look around, trying to figure out how to get my little note to the back of the classroom. To my left, Andrew leans over and pretends to hand me a pen. But instead, he opens his hand to receive my bit of paper, then passes it behind him.
Suddenly, the entire class is swept up in the same act of solidarity. Vadim’s dramatic kiss, my attempt at rebellion, and Abrams’s awkward blundering have brought the others over to our side. Secretly, I revel in it.
In no time at all, a new crumpled wad of paper reaches me.
You’re beautiful when you rebel. You drive me crazy, Alma Lancaster. So proud of you.
Thousands of butterflies swirl in my stomach, and a fierce happiness sends my heart bursting out of my chest. I write back, telling Vadim that I love him and that he still doesn’t know exactly how much I’d be willing to do for him.
His reply comes flying back at me like a boomerang. Andrew, Phoebe, and the others have become masters at passing around these fiery little notes. They are having almost as much fun with it as we are. The machine is well-oiled. The mutiny is brewing.
I unfold the paper, smooth it out, and decipher:
Bet you won’t raise your hand and say it out loud. To the professor. In front of the whole class. I dare you. If you love me, you’ll do it.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and faint traces of Ciao Amore tease my nostrils. I fill my lungs with it. I’m brimming with confidence and boldness, overcome by an urge to scream. After clearing my throat, I shoot my arm up in the air as if to ask a question.
“Mr. Abrams?”
“What is it, Lancaster?”
His nose is still out of joint because I accused him of racism, even though it was probably just an offhand remark that didn’t reflect his true thoughts—which is technically the definition of casual racism, so I actually don’t regret it.
Every face in the room turns toward me, then toward the door when the sound of someone knocking on it interrupts class.
And right at that moment, four uniformed police officers burst into the room.
“Vadim Arcadi, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, a public defender will be appointed for you. Do you understand what I have just told you?”
The police officers, their voices calm and their movements assured, handcuff him and lead him away, gripping him under the arms. Vadim lets them, unshaken, almost resigned, and the world crumbles beneath my feet.
Panic takes hold of me. Suddenly, I can’t breathe, and my chest tightens. A buzz builds in the classroom, but I find myself unable to move or speak.
At the doorway, Vadim turns his head and gives me one last look. A steady, unwavering gaze that tells me not to worry. But in it, I catch an almost invisible flicker of that rarely acknowledged vulnerability that twists my insides. So, my lips silently form the words I was about to scream.