16. Petra
PETRA
Crickets and cicadas sing in the tall grass as we walk to his car, a black Porsche Panamera.
He opens the passenger door for me, a gentlemanly gesture completely in line with his persona of the knight in football uniform, and I slide into the plush leather seat.
As we drive away from the school grounds, I keep glancing at Sin, searching for any signs of tension on his face. But he looks utterly relaxed, even whistling a few bars as he lightly steers the car down the paved roads lined with looming oaks and pines.
Finally, Sin clears his throat.
“So, did you have any plans for dinner?”
I shrug, looking out the window. “Not really. What do you have in mind?”
“You’ll see,” he responds with a small, mysterious smile.
Soon, we pull up to a smartly designed restaurant just a few blocks from St. Anselm Hall.
It’s a popular spot called L’Avion and was supposedly built by a retired World War II pilot who had dropped tons of bombs on the Nazis, at least according to local legends.
The well-stocked bar and spacious seating, not to mention the bartender’s lazy disregard for the fact that many of the patrons are below the drinking age, make sure that the place is always bustling.
Sin parks, and we step into the vibrant space.
Instantly, I can smell freshly baked bread and garlic frying in butter. My stomach growls, and I realize how scattered my eating habits have become.
While I try to banish intrusive thoughts about how I should be extra careful about my diet given my . . . condition, I look admiringly at the antebellum décor, an eclectic mix of rustic wooden beams and modern art pieces, cozy yet chic.
The hostess greets us, and Sin smoothly arranges a table.
We’re led to a semi-private corner with a perfect view of the kitchen, where chefs are moving in perfect symphony, sautéing, stirring, and stewing.
Sounds of clinking cutlery, soft laughter, and murmured conversations float around me, and I feel much less discomforted than I do at school.
Meanwhile, Sin is studying the menu. “How about some lasagna? Or maybe some shellfish risotto?” he asks warmly. “Wait, you’re not allergic, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” I reply with a smile. “I actually love shellfish. The risotto sounds great.”
As we chat so casually, so effortlessly, I notice how he fits so well into this world. The tension between us seems to have dissipated. I might even say that we are chilling at the moment.
We order some risotto and chicken cacciatore. Over a truly delicious amuse bouche of Parmesan arancini balls, we lapse into the friendly banter that had instantly sprung up between us the first time we met.
“Never pegged you for someone who likes fish,” Sin says jokingly.
“Why? That’s some next-level profiling, Arnoult!” I shoot back.
“Not profiling! Just, you seem like an expensive-cuts-of-wagyu-beef kinda girl, you know?”
“That is so random, Sin!” I roll my eyes and take a long sip of my berry lemonade. And then he smiles at me with the same kind of intensity as he had shown the night we . . . the night I—
“Actually, I did some research today,” I say abruptly, pulling out my notebook and moving my thoughts away from dangerous territory.
“I think we can consider working on artists like M. C. Escher and Serafini to-to show how art can blur . . .” I try to fashion a topic from the roiling cauldron of my thoughts, but Sin is staring at me in that silent, broody way that makes my heart beat faster and my mouth stumble over my words.
Nevertheless, I persist, determined to remain unfazed by his obvious attempt (and success) at smoldering.
“How art can-can warp the ways in which we physically interact with the world—”
“Petra,” Sin says at this point, gently, reassuringly, as if trying to calm me.
But why? I am calm already, the hysterical voice in my head cuts in.
“I’m really glad you agreed to this. The dinner, I mean.” He looks so earnest that I am momentarily stunned.
“That’s okay, I-I’m enjoying myself.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Petra.” Sin moves his hand closer to mine over the table, and our fingers almost brush.
It’s an electrifying feeling, as if my skin is suddenly hypersensitive to the lightest of touches.
“I was really sad about how we left things off at the shed.”
“Oh, that whole thing?” I sputter in mock surprise. “Water under the bridge, Sin. Don’t worry about it.”
“But I want to worry about it. In fact, I can’t stop thinking about it, about what you said.” Sin’s voice drops lower as his palm strokes the back of mine. His hand feels warm and soft and all things nice, and his features are suffused with the glow of a man set on courting the lady before him.
“That’s-that’s not what we came here to discuss, Sin,” I begin in a cautioning tone, though a part of me wants to take him up on the offer—indulge in some sweet nothings in this cozy, warm restaurant where we can be away from prying eyes.
Yet I’m acutely aware of the secret growing inside me, and I need to keep myself grounded.
“We really need to outline our approach for the project,” I insist. “We haven’t even decided on the topic.”
Sin waves a hand dismissively, still smiling. “We’ll get to it. With your brains and my looks, and also with your looks,” he adds teasingly, and I can’t help but laugh, “this project is gonna be a breeze. But let’s not stress about it tonight. I want you to enjoy yourself.”
There’s a sincerity in his voice that’s hard to ignore, but my mind is restless.
“But this is important, Sin. Fifty percent of our grade is on the line.”
“And we’ll ace it,” he says confidently. “But right now, let’s talk about us, Petra. If there can even be an ‘us’ . . .” Alluring words that I long to sink into, but a sense of discomfort has settled over me now.
I’m not used to this kind of attention, especially from someone like Sin.
But just as I’m about to respond, the waiter arrives with the main course. The buttery risotto looks divine—but I know something’s wrong the instant I smell the shellfish.
My stomach turns, and a wave of nausea washes over me, chilling my limbs and making me dizzy. Panic sets in as I realize I might be sick.
“Excuse me,” I mutter and get up, nearly knocking over my chair as I rush toward the restroom.
I completely ignore Sin when he says, “Petra, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
As the bile gushes to my throat, his words are drowned out and distorted, eventually fading away when I step into the women’s room.
Luckily, I make it to the toilet just in time. The walls around me spin briefly, but I take deep breaths and splash cold water on my face to suppress whatever vile effluvium my hormone-racked body wants to keep spewing out.
Like that possessed girl from The Exorcist.
Humor doesn’t really help my situation as the room keeps shifting around me.
I just huddle down and bury my head in my knees like I do during the intermittent episodes of morning sickness that have marked my days as of late.
Minutes trickle by, or maybe millennia, before my head and stomach seem to settle down. I fix my hair and face again before plastering on a fake smile and stepping out of the washroom.
But when I return to our table, the sight unfolding before me halts me in my tracks.
Sin is surrounded by a group of his school friends, and loud bouts of laughter and raucous conversation have engulfed the table. And just like that, I feel alienated again, standing on the outside and looking in at the scene of casual camaraderie before me.
“Petra!” Sin calls out the minute he sees me. “What happened? Are you all right?” He strides over to where I am standing, and I can feel the group’s attention shifting to me.
“I’m fine,” I manage to say with a forced smile. “Just stress and bad sleep catching up to me, I think.”
Sin continues to look worried as he guides me to our table, which is now occupied by boys and girls who are surveying me with the same interest as a pack of lions would show on sighting a lone deer.
One of the girls, her hair perfectly styled and her makeup flawless, eyes me curiously.
“Hi, Petra,” she says in the same tone in which one might say, “Die, Petra.”
“I didn’t know you were friends with Sin,” she continues, though her tone suggests she’s more surprised than impressed.
“We’re partners for the Art History project,” I clarify.
But Sin adds, “She’s the brains of the operation, of course. She knows everything about art.” His voice is proud and encouraging, and I smile weakly, grateful for his attempt to include me.
His friends glance at me for a moment more before resuming their conversation. I sit quietly on the side, trying and miserably failing to not feel too excluded.
After a while, Sin turns to me, his expression softening.
“You okay?” he repeats his earlier question in a more covert tone that is only intended for my ears.
“Yeah,” I lie, forcing another smile. “Just . . . a little overwhelmed.”
“We can leave anytime. Just say the word.”
I glance at the cheerful faces around us and then back at Sin. Maybe I was too quick to judge him. Maybe, just maybe, he actually did want to wine and dine and romance me before his stupid friend group showed up.
“We’ll see how it goes,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. I don’t want to be a Yoko to his band. “But about the project—”
“You’re relentless, aren’t you?” Sin laughs and squeezes my hand. Be still, my heart. And belly! “Okay, how about this? We finish dinner, say goodbye to these guys, and then go somewhere quieter to talk about our plans. Deal?”
“Deal,” I reply with a tentative smile. Maybe tonight can be salvaged after all.
But soon I’m feeling restless and ignored again, as Sin gets busy with some long-standing argument with his friends. When they start dropping inside jokes and shared anecdotes, I feel even more disengaged and bored.
But I don’t want to appear bitter and lonely, so I smile placidly and pretend to show interest in the most pedestrian stories.
“So, remember that time we snuck out to the roof of the gym during Mr. Wallace’s class?” Sin is saying.