14. Petra
PETRA
PRESENT DAY
The following days bring no respite from my condition, nor from the eerie dreams. They are all centered around the same character—the other me that lived in a time long since past.
Stranger still is the way the relationship between dream-Petra and dream man develops. He reminds me of Sin far too much at times, even bearing his name.
I have to wonder if this is not my brain telling me something: that he’s no good for me, that he is as dangerous as I am morbid for conjuring up dreams of bloodied flesh and forbidden encounters.
I stop myself just as I’m about to go into a Freudian analysis.
I’m sure it’s just my pregnancy brain acting out because he is the father of my child.
Ugh.
Waves of morning sickness make me spend a good hour slumped next to the toilet as I will myself to get ready for school.
Yet my mind manages to stray, recalling Sin’s chimerical personality shifts from yesterday. How chilly his voice had sounded when he demanded the names of my previous (imaginary) sexual partners.
How he had instantly shifted to Prince Charming mode while saying, “Whatever makes you happy.”
Washing my face and taking a warm shower helps dispel some of these troubling recollections.
Although the physical toll is manageable right now, this . . . addition to my body seems to have warped my way of thinking.
I can’t shake off a nagging suspicion that there’s something I know but haven’t understood clearly yet.
My SAH-monogrammed skirt and blazers still fit, thank fuck, but my face is an accurate depiction of the chaos swirling through my head.
Enough is enough, I decide, and carefully prepare myself for the day.
Thankfully, a touch of concealer and blush make me look human again. I round out the look with a light mauve line over my upper eyelids to match the school uniform.
Hair pulled back in a muted ponytail, a few dabs of my favorite Dior perfume that makes me smell of oud and warm spices, and I am ready.
Well, as ready as I can be under the circumstances.
The drive to school is spent oscillating between warm, positive memories of Sin and my anxiety about facing him again.
Today, I’m more preoccupied, so I pay less attention to any whispers or pointed glances directed at me. Or perhaps I ignore any sly gossipers because, in my absent-mindedness, my feet have brought me to the registration office.
There still remains the matter of finalizing my schedule for this semester.
I wait for a few minutes before entering.
The loss of a coveted seat in the art history class has left me feeling even more raw, so I need to gather myself before facing the impassive woman at the desk. I don’t want to start sobbing before her like a big pile of mush, so I steel myself before stepping inside.
“Hello,” I say briefly, offering a small smile to Ms. Stoneface (her name is written on her desk, but I don’t want to learn it).
“Yes, how can I help you today?” she responds with the sunny disposition of a prison warden.
“Just checking if there’s any update on my schedule,” I ask, trying my hardest to steady my voice and look unfazed while she clicks around on her computer with a perfunctory nod.
My air of forced nonchalance vanishes when her eyes widen.
“Looks like you’re in luck,” she says, and for once, the monotone of her voice is flecked with notes of surprise. “That art history class you wanted? A spot just opened up.”
“Really?” is all I can gasp out at first.
When she keeps looking at me without any response, I manage to stammer something more. “Ho-how did that happen?”
She shrugs. “What always happens: Some other kid dropped out. Now I have to reenter their files.”
Even if I actually liked her, I would have thanked the gods in heaven for putting more work on her plate if it meant I got a seat in Art History!
No other words occur to me on the spot, so I mumble a weak, “Thank you,” before filling up my forms, handing them over, and exiting the office with my updated schedule.
For the first time in months, my heart sings with joy as I almost glide through the buzzing corridors of St. Anselm Hall.
The art history classes are typically scheduled for the afternoon, and I can barely pay attention in English, Economics, and Biology before the lunch bell rings.
I think of stealing away to the gardener’s shed and catching up on my portfolio. But the memory of my encounter with Sin yesterday is still too fresh; that place could not possibly help me relax today.
Besides, the cafeteria is usually too packed for me to be a discernible target for any lowlife trolls.
. . . So that last assumption was incorrect, I think when I catch sight of Daphne and Francois just as I turn around after collecting my lunch tray.
“Cute eyeliner, Petra!” Daphne calls out while I can muster nothing more than a sigh. “Let me guess, you had ‘wannabe Euphoria extra’ on your Pinterest vision board when you put that look together?”
“Ugh, Daphne, just get a life,” I respond, unwilling to even dignify such a cheap jab with anything more eloquent.
“You almost lost yours in that pool, didn’t you?” Francois chimes in next, and I stop in my tracks. “You know you literally don’t have to kill yourself for Sin’s attention.”
“What did you say?” My voice could have chilled hot tea in a second.
“Not that we are sorry to see you unhurt,” Daphne says hurriedly. “We were really shocked when that happened, you know.”
“So sorry,” Francois repeats with a smirk.
“Daphne, I swear to God I couldn’t care less about your pedestrian, everyday taunts,” I begin, not caring a rat’s ass about who can hear me. “But if I find out that it was you lot who pushed me into that pool, I will destroy you. I will make you terribly, horribly sorry you ever crossed my path.”
Thankfully, my voice doesn’t flinch as the heat of the sun seems to power the rage coursing through my veins.
“Ladies, ladies! Relax!” Francois exclaims in an annoying, piping tone, and both of us take a step back. “We didn’t push you into the pool, Petra. We would never do that.”
“Yeah, right!” I snap back at him, though my eyes never leave Daphne’s face. C’mon, you little moron, slip up and admit it was you! Give me something to pummel with my bare hands!
“Really, Petra,” Daphne says with an emphatic nod. “It wasn’t us.”
“Then who was it?”
Just then, the bell rings, and the sounds of people putting away their plates and gathering up their things fill up the tense space between us three.
“I will find out one day, Daphne.” I almost hiss out the words at her. “And you will regret that you didn’t confess sooner. You will regret everything you’ve ever done.”
Daphne and Francois look too stunned at the relentless fury coloring my face and stiffening my limbs. But they don’t know how that unceremonious dive into the pool had triggered an avalanche of life-changing moments, how I’m still dealing with the fallout from that night.
Without waiting for more mediocre jabs from the duo, I walk out of the lunchroom, feeling lighter. Confronting those two makes me feel stronger, more in charge, and less helpless. What compounds my joy further is realizing that it’s time for my first art history class.
Ms. Matthews is one of the most sought-after classes at St. Anselm Hall. Having gotten her MA and PhD from Yale and Stanford, respectively, she is an outright genius when it comes to the subject.
Her office is decked out with photos of her chatting and chumming it up with famous artists like Louise Bourgeois and Olafur Eliasson. She’s a rockstar, and I want to be like her when I grow up.
By now, I have reached her classroom, so I stop to smooth my skirt and adjust my hair before entering. Despite my efforts to contain myself, a wide smile settles on my lips when I step in.
And just like that, the grin slips right off my face when I see that Sin is here.
He’s lounging against a desk, his blazer draped rather precariously over his chair, and his sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms.
As usual, a cluster of girls and guys surrounds him. Laughter punctuates their conversation, and his light blue eyes glimmer when he tells—or retells, by the look of it—some inside joke I’m not part of.
He’s a magnet, drawing everyone in.
But did he have to take this class, too? I would never have pegged him as someone interested in the evolution of art through the ages, but what do I know?
Just as I am stewing in a complicated mix of bitterness and excitement, he catches my eye and nods ever so slightly.
As if he were hitting pause on the pretense of “popular guy” to be “Petra’s friend.”
Once again, I’m amazed at the ease with which he steps in and out of the many roles people expect him to fill.
I nod back clumsily as my heart pounds harder. I don’t want to think about the shed, about his smile, or what I’m keeping from him. I just want to get through this class.
Why couldn’t I have just this one thing for myself?
Further hand-wringing and lamenting will get me nowhere, so I start looking for a vacant seat, moving toward the front of the classroom almost instinctively.
Still, I can feel the weight of his gaze pinned to my body—without even looking directly at him. Of course, I don’t want to keep looking at him, so I don’t turn around to confirm my suspicions.
In the end, I slide into an empty seat somewhere in the middle row, dropping my bag onto the floor beside my chair. My hands are shaky as I pull out my iPad to take notes.
I don’t dare steal a glance back at him. All I can do is focus on the clock on the wall, willing Ms. Matthews to arrive and completely claim my attention. For the moment, I am content to let the murmur of conversations around me seep into my awareness.
“Anyone see the new art installation in the lobby?” a girl near the window is saying to her small group. “I can’t believe the school actually invested in something so modern.”
It’s an original Damien Hirst, I want to add but don’t.
“I know, right?” one of the guys in her group replies. “It’s like, finally, they’re catching up with the times.”