21
Where is Vadim? What are they doing to him?
Why did they arrest him? Have they interrogated him for hours without letting him sleep, drink, or eat?
Did they throw him into a holding cell after taking everything he had?
His freedom, his phone… even his shoelaces?
Is he alone? Is he scared? Or is he fighting back, even if it makes things worse for him?
Who is reading the texts I send him, the ones he isn’t answering?
Does he have a lawyer? Who did he choose for the one phone call he’s allowed to make?
Keith? Felix? Who is taking care of him?
Do I watch too many cop movies?
I feel so alone without him, so powerless and helpless, that sometimes it’s almost as though I abandoned him myself.
For four days, I’ve thought of nothing else.
For four days—almost a hundred hours—it’s all I’ve done.
I wander around in a daze, my mind bursting with questions.
My heart is empty of everything, empty of Vadim Arcadi.
My world has been frozen at that moment on Monday morning when I watched him disappear, surrounded by four police officers.
Unable to bring myself to set foot on campus, I have been faking the flu so my parents let me stay home. Considering how little I’ve managed to sleep and eat, my physical weakness and pale complexion make this imaginary illness perfectly believable.
Is he doing okay?
For four interminable days, curled up in bed, I’ve replayed the scene over and over.
I’ve reread every one of the little notes we exchanged in class.
I treasure them, but they’ve grown more and more creased each time I unfold them—which I do mostly to remind myself that it had all been real.
That perhaps it still is. And then there’s Vadim’s last look, the one that haunts me, that I’m still trying to decode.
What did he do?
As if this ordeal wasn’t unbearable enough, I also have to deal with everyone else.
My mother’s concerned looks, the way she presses the back of her hand against my forehead every time she sees me.
Basile’s proud, smug look as he whispers gleefully, “I told you so,” or, “He’s getting what he deserves,” every chance he gets.
Lily’s forlorn look as she comes to sit at the end of my bed and tickles my feet to see if it will make me laugh, even though it never does.
Georgia’s compassionate gaze—having probably figured out what’s going on, she keeps trying to cheer me up by bringing me trays of hot chocolate.
Clémentine’s apologetic expression, which she wears when she stops by to give me the lesson notes I need to catch up on and pep me up as best she can with college gossip that I couldn’t care less about.
And my father’s stern look, because he’s decided that I’m better and that it’s time for me to go back to school before I drop out for good.
I won’t get better until I know how Vadim is doing.
Why don’t I know anything? Why haven’t I had any updates?
If Vadim still hasn’t contacted me, it’s because he hasn’t been released from wherever they’re holding him yet.
But where is that? The police station? Jail?
Is it really that serious? I can’t call Felix or Keith, because I don’t even have their contact details.
I have no way into Vadim’s world unless he’s the one opening the door for me. Do I really know so little about him?
It’s Friday. I’d asked Clémentine to come pick me up this morning.
I don’t feel up to arriving on campus alone and facing reality—by which I mean all those students who witnessed what happened and who must have gossiped about nothing else for almost a week now.
Clémentine loops her arm through mine and walks with her head held high, at a deliberate pace, ready to use her body as a shield against the first person who tries to approach me.
“Where have you been hiding, Lancaster? Did they arrest you too?” a male voice calls out behind me.
“Don’t stop. Just keep walking,” Clem whispers in my ear.
“Did you at least bring Arcadi a care package?” another dumb voice adds.
It comes from a group of basketball players gathered around Timothy a short distance away.
“Don’t take the bait. That’s exactly what Wallace wants!” Clem says.
“Do they allow conjugal visits in jail?” adds a lanky giant, making an obscene gesture.
“Hey, Wembanyama, go play ball if you need to blow off steam,” my friend shoots back as she keeps walking. Then, in a low voice directed at me, “See? I brushed up on my basketball trivia to impress Marcus!”
“I’m proud of you, Clem…”
“Come on, let’s get out of here, guys,” Tim says suddenly.
He looks away, resigned, as if there’s nothing more he can do for me.
That’s all I want from him…
When we reach our classroom, I hesitate, tempted to turn and run, but Clémentine still has a firm grip on me.
“You’ve gotten through the hardest part. You’ll be fine now.”
Despite Clem’s attempts to reassure me, I’m peppered with questions from my classmates, who don’t hold back with their opinions either. A little less idiotic, a little more well-meaning, but almost as painful to hear.
“So, is Arcadi out?”
“Did you see him? Did you talk to him?”
“What did the cops want with him?
“It must be serious for them to come and get him from school!”
“Is he coming back to class?” asks Phoebe McPherson, worried that she’s lost her project partner.
“I always knew that guy was sketchy,” Nicki Scott comments dramatically.
“You don’t know anything at all, Nicole!” Clem snaps.
“Want a piece of my Twix?” Andrew Clark offers, as if it could somehow solve all my problems.
Clémentine accepts on my behalf, always up for a little sugar boost.
“Tell Arcadi I’m on his side,” Andy continues.
He seems to have definitively taken our side since that back-and-forth with the little notes.
“Nobody is on anyone’s side, and everybody should mind their own business,” Mr. Abrams cuts in as he hurries over and ushers us into the classroom.
I sit in the front row, wanting things to stay exactly the same, and I’m soon joined by my new partner, Jude Lee, who gives me an apologetic smile.
I catch myself glancing toward the back of the classroom to check that Vadim isn’t there—or rather, that no one has dared to take his seat.
Tears well up in my eyes when I see the two front legs of the chair resting flat on the tiles.
No one is leaning back. No one is smirking at me.
No one smells like his cologne. No one is looking out the window as if another world exists out there, one of endless possibilities.
I miss the brazen way he flaunts his freedom more than anything else. And knowing he’s locked up kills me.
Does he at least have a window to look out of?
“Alma, were you able to catch up on this week’s classes?” asks Mr. Abrams kindly.
“Yes, Professor, Clémentine passed on the notes to me.”
“Oh, D’Aragon? Well, in that case, it would be better if I explain them to you myself,” he says.
“The rest of you, keep working on your storyboards. I want to be able to approve everything before the end of the morning. For those who still don’t have a final script, it’s time to get to it.
You have less than three months left for casting, shooting, and editing.
If you don’t chase your dream, the film world won’t wait for you! ”
“What am I supposed to do?” Jude asks in a whiny voice.
“You figure it out. Call a friend, complain to your mother, pretend you aren’t scared… It’s not my problem. Scott, close your mouth and get to work. Clark, breakfast is before class, not during. Fuel yourself with your passion rather than that junk. Lancaster, come over here.”
I slowly approach the professor’s desk, and he gets up, gesturing for me to sit in his chair.
Awkward. Then he heads to the back of the classroom and, under the surprised gaze of the other students, grabs Vadim’s empty chair, brings it over, and places it beside me.
Very awkward. He sits in it sideways, crosses his legs, and fixes his tired eyes on mine, letting out a long sigh.
“I know exactly what’s going on,” he informs me in a low voice. “You feel alone, helpless, and abandoned. Am I right?”
“No, I was sick, but I’m feeling better now.”
“You look awful. Poor Bruce Lee can’t even bring himself to look at you. He must be afraid of ghosts,” he says to make me smile. “You know I’m not being racist when I say that. I’ve just got a terrible sense of humor and a fondness for cheesy references.”
“It’s called casual racism, Professor. The innocent little phrases we say without thinking, even though they stigmatize someone and rank ethnicities.
They are the same kind of stereotypes that turned you into a failed filmmaker-turned-professor and me into a daddy’s girl who doesn’t need to succeed on her own because she already has his money and network.
The ones that mean Vadim Arcadi is automatically a delinquent because he has a Russian name and a different life path. ”
“You’re right, I should stop using Asian stereotypes with Jude Lee and stop treating Nicki Scott like an airhead.
But why are you avoiding the real issue?
Even when he’s absent, Arcadi is everywhere.
Did you see the reaction from the rest of the class when I took his chair?
I feel like I practically committed a crime against humanity. ”
“Yeah. They should come arrest you too,” I whisper, a sad smile on my lips.
“You’ve got your bite back. That’s a good start. Alma, look at the problem from the other angle: you’re not alone. You’re free now. You can exist, create. Why don’t you make a short film about what you’re going through? Film the emptiness, the loss, the void inside you.”
“What about Jude?”