First Meeting, Vadim’S Perspective
FIRST MEETING, VADIM’S PERSPECTIVE
Nine months earlier
“Alma Lancaster and Vadim Arcadi.” Abrams’s spiteful yet weary voice practically spits out our names.
He looks very proud of himself. He must think that coming up with incendiary pairings makes him a revolutionary professor.
All the other students hang on his every word, as if he were some kind of messiah, the mentor they’ve always dreamed of having.
I think he enjoys messing with us because it helps him forget how tragic his life really is.
As tragic as his weathered, aging-playboy face.
As miserable as his shitty, drab jacket, which he insists on wearing, even though he could clearly afford to buy a better one with his university salary.
It was obvious he was going to pair me with the girl in the front row.
The Franco-British girl newly arrived in the U.S.
—with her wealthy family, polished upbringing, and dreams of becoming a filmmaker—teamed up with the son of immigrants, a wild, ill-mannered scholarship kid.
Abrams must think it’s a stroke of genius.
But he couldn’t be more wrong: she can’t even bring herself to look at me.
Alma Lancaster turns her anxious gaze toward the back of the classroom, but quickly looks away when they meet mine. Wanting to make her uncomfortable, I look her straight in the eye. For a long time. On purpose.
She must think I’m some kind of troublemaker, or even a dangerous criminal, judging by the rumors that are going around campus. Either that, or a ladies’ man who is after her money as well as her body.
Screw them all.
All the people who think they know me. The ones who judge me without ever having spoken to me.
The ones who think they know all about life because their parents tell them they are amazing and that they are capable of anything.
They don’t dare speak to me so they can make up their own minds.
It’s so much easier to put me in a pigeonhole.
A cramped, little box where they can lock me up to better protect themselves.
Fine by me if I scare them off.
“Arcadi, Lancaster, do I have to hold your hands? Are you both going to wait for the other one to make the first move? Come on, Romeo and Juliet, get moving. One hour! Time is money!”
Abrams is convinced he’s insulting me by comparing me to one of Shakespeare’s heroes. He probably thinks I’m illiterate. He would never believe that I know that play by heart.
I tip my chair forward, slamming the metal legs as hard as I can onto the tile floor. As I slowly make my way toward the front row, I stare the teacher down. I’m not the type who looks away. I’m not like Alma Lancaster.
I don’t care if I end up looking like an idiot. Abrams shouldn’t have tried to get smart with me. He backs down first though, and I slump into the chair next to my new partner.
She doesn’t say anything, and neither do I, but I know she’s looking at me. Studying me. Maybe she likes me. Or maybe she just wants to see what a scumbag looks like up close.
Still, I’ve got to admit it—there’s something a little special about her.
I don’t need to check her out to know she’s a pretty girl.
More than pretty: there’s something almost graceful about her.
Long, shiny, chestnut hair, barely styled at all.
A slim, lithe figure, but one that has curves, which she neither hides nor shows off.
Clothes that are neither trashy nor classy; put together with just the right amount of effort to ensure she doesn’t look like she’s trying too hard.
A delicate, slightly childlike face. Fair skin, and cheeks which flush easily.
And eyes a shade of green I’ve never seen before.
There’s something pure and innocent in her gaze, but also something raw about her, an uncalculated quality, a somewhat tragic side that I quite like. I’m sure she’s smart.
Too bad she’s such a pain in the ass.
“I made the first move, Chanel. It’s your turn,” I say, hoping to rattle her.
“My name’s Alma.”
“I know what your name is, Alma Lancaster.”
“Then I’d prefer you use my first name, Vadim Arcadi. My real one.”
“And I’d prefer to work alone. But we don’t always get what we want in life. Oh, sorry, unless we’re like you, Lancaster.” I purse my lips and exaggerate her English accent just to piss her off.
She smiles and gives me a thumbs up, unimpressed.
I think she’s torn between laughing and taking offense.
At least she can hold her own. And she hasn’t started crying yet.
I guess I intrigue her. Maybe she actually likes being teased.
That’s fortunate, because it’s the only way I know how to communicate.
There are, in my opinion, three types of girl on campus: the hopeless romantics who start whining when you haven’t proposed marriage by the third date; the brainless leeches who would sell their souls just to get invited out for a drink, but have nothing interesting to say; and finally, the well-bred girls who think they’re too good for me but can’t resist flirting with the campus bad boy.
Yes, I know, I shouldn’t put them in pigeonholes like that; I hate it when people do it to me.
But for the moment, I can’t manage to fit Alma Lancaster into any of them. And that bugs me.
I’m going to need to dig further.
“You don’t like being judged, but that’s exactly what you’re doing to me right now, isn’t it?” she says. “You don’t know me.”
It’s a little aggressive, but she’s got a point.
She locks eyes with me for the first time, and I can clearly see that it’s difficult for her.
“Who says I want to know you?”
“Well, you’re going to have to work with me, whether you like it or not.”
“I might like working with you, Lancaster. That depends on you.”
My smirk clearly exasperates her. Or maybe it does something else to her.
“Like I said, my name is Alma. What is it you want me to do, anyway?”
“We could start by getting out of here. I can’t work with all this noise. Look at them, all excited about making movies like the grown-ups. They just want to suck up to Abrams. And what’s the deal with your French friend staring at us like we’re a pair of freaks?”
“You always do things differently from everyone else, and you expect people not to stare? Seriously… how do you get through life with so many contradictions?”
I wasn’t expecting that. I tilt my head and observe her for a second, in silence.
“We only have forty-five minutes left. Alma, are you coming or not?”
I leave without waiting for an answer. We’ll soon see what she’s capable of, this well-behaved little girl trying to act like an adult.
I bet she’ll never agree to walk out of this classroom when we’re supposed to be in class.
I bet she’s wondering what people will think of her if she’s seen hanging out with me.
She’s already asking her best friend what she thinks—the friend who seems a little sassier than her and who still hasn’t stopped looking at us.
At the doorway, I look back at the French-British girl as she hesitates. Our eyes meet, and in the end, she follows me outside.
Hmm, maybe she isn’t as uptight as she seems.
Less dull than I thought.
Damn, she is really beautiful.
“Uh, is anyone there?” I wave my hand in front of her vacant stare.
“Huh, what?”
“I don’t know where you are, Lancaster, but you’re not with me.”
“Sorry. What were you saying?”
“Go back to class if you don’t want to be here.”
“Stop being such a grouch… I’m here, aren’t I? What’s the matter, you think that I’m going to start crying because we’re sitting on the grass instead of in class? Working here or there, it’s all the same to me.”
“Then maybe you can tell your hand to stop ripping up all the grass.”
She starts putting the little tufts of grass she just pulled out back into the bare spots in the lawn. I can’t help smiling. A born gardener, apparently.
She stretches out her legs, props herself up on one elbow in an attempt to look comfortable and nearly falls backward, then straightens up and decides to sit cross-legged instead.
She doesn’t know what to do with her body; it’s kind of endearing.
But the way she keeps fiddling with her shoelaces is seriously annoying, like she’s just swapped one nervous habit for another.
“Your hand is at it again. You never stop fidgeting, do you? What’s wrong?” I tease her a little, just to try to get her to open up.
“Nothing, I told you!”
“Yes, there is. You’re tense, distracted. I don’t like it. I’m worried you’re going to start crying and I’ll have to comfort you.”
She doesn’t know if she should take me seriously or not. And I love that.
“I have a boyfriend, you know. Timothy.”
“I know. Tim Wallace, captain of the basketball team. It’s crazy how someone can be so tall and yet so insignificant. But you two go very well together.”
I smile at her, and she holds my gaze for a little too long.
“You’re right, he is tall. At least a head taller than you. And he wouldn’t be on the varsity team if he was as dumb as you claim. But you and your stereotypes go very well together.”
Her comebacks are starting to grow on me.
Or piss me off. Maybe she’s one of those girls who has everything she ever wanted and feels invincible.
Like her jock boyfriend—handsome, muscular, and loaded, with teeth too white to be real and designer polo shirts ironed to perfection.
By his mother, obviously. Or by the sweet little housekeeper.