PETRA
This charming, idyllic scene is not unfolding at a park or a classroom or even a classy restaurant a la L’Avion. Surrounding us are the rough stone walls of the crypt where an occult secret society allegedly met—and is perhaps still meeting—to summon demons and sacrifice humans.
“Okay, your turn,” Sin says with a mischievous smirk. When I raise my eyebrows quizzically, he hands me a card from our impromptu trivia game.
I only have to glance at the note before a smile starts dancing on my lips. “Okay, this one’s so easy! Who painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?”
“I don’t know, Bernini?” Sin replies with a goofy grin, and I punch him playfully on the arm.
“Come on! Be serious,” I say in the tone of a long-suffering teacher. “And Bernini wasn’t even a painter, was he?”
“Okay, okay, the answer’s . . .” Sin puts on a serious face and places his hands on his temple, in a hyperbolic imitation of a psychic, before exclaiming, “Michelangelo! The answer is Michelangelo.”
I am guffawing by now, so he gives me puppy eyes and says, “Did I get it right?”
“Yes, you did,” I reply in a wry tone, “Anyone would, Sin.”
Mary Shelley would actually find this all very romantic, I think, while Sin shuffles the remaining cards of our little game.
It’s been a few weeks since we first explored the crypt together. In a surprising turn of events, we have entered a tacit understanding: The partnership in Ms. Matthews’s class can be further explored, safely, in the dreadful confines of this ancient (and alleged) slaughterhouse.
Here we can enjoy each other’s . . . company away from prying, petty eyes and snide remarks. Over the last few weeks, we’ve been meeting regularly for what we’ve started calling “study dates.”
Corny, I know. But my life has been stranger than fiction for a while now. Some commonplace corniness is just what I need.
Tonight, Sin has outdone himself, having procured some choice Camembert, juicy red grapes, and butter crackers.
When I praise his charcuterie skills, he says, “Oh, this is nothing! You should see the spreads my dad arranges for our famous literary soirées.”
“Ooh, they sound fun.” I dip another cracker into the melting cheese and bite into it with apparent relish.
“Yeah, they’re all right,” Sin says with a self-effacing gesture. “They’ll really like you, Petra.”
The food almost catches in my throat at the last sentence, and I cough for a few seconds. “No, it’s fine. I’m good,” I say when Sin looks alarmed.
Why would he just say something like that? Now he wants me to meet his parents?
Well, you are the mother of their grandchild, so it’s not that off base. My annoying inner voice never takes a day off, so my anxiety surges back and perhaps shows on my face, because Sin hurries to add, “Because you’re so well read and clever. They love meeting my friends.”
“Sure, that sounds . . . nice,” I reply with a reassuring smile.
A cozy silence ensues. Only a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have even imagined that such a scene would be possible between me and Sin, but here we are. And he’s been such a gentleman, almost too much of a gentleman.
Perhaps this is how a body changes while growing another, smaller one inside it. Perhaps my hormones were such a raging mess that every now and then, I catch myself wishing Sin would just . . . lean in and kiss me. And maybe do more than that.
There’s an undeniable tension building between us. But he hasn’t made a move since that night.
And now I’m more charmed by him, and even hornier.
Sigh.
“All right,” Sin says loudly, jolting me from my daydream. “Next question: Who painted The Starry Night?”
“Vincent van Gogh. That’s like, the easiest one!” I chime back.
“Fair enough,” he concedes with a chuckle. “You’re getting too good at this.”
“And you’re not working hard enough!” I offer a delighted smile. “Come on, Arnoult, hit me with your best shot.”
“Fine, how about this: Petra Valentine, will you go to the fall ball with me?” he asks with all the somber anticipation of a guy proposing marriage.
But here’s the catch: Sin’s been asking me to the fall ball for weeks now. And every time, I have refused.
“Oh my God, you’re like a dog with a bone!” I toss a grape at him, and he smoothly catches it with his mouth. The sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows the fruit sends a tingle down my spine. “Seriously, what is with you and this fall ball?”
“It’s not just another school dance, Petra. It’s an exclusive St. Anselm Hall tradition. And the food at these things is to die for, trust me.”
I roll my eyes playfully and shake my head.
He adds, “Besides, I want to hold you in my arms and dance to a nice song.”
The way his voice cracks over the last words affects me more than the words themselves and their yearning for intimacy. I blush and laugh softly.
“You’re really not going to give up, are you?”
“Not a chance,” he says, sitting back with a coy grin. “So what’s your answer?”
His persistence is obviously very endearing, and I find myself considering the offer more seriously than ever before. Honestly, I don’t mind getting dolled up and dancing the night away. God knows I need to let down my hair.
But something else is nagging at the back of my mind: a reminder of another guy who had asked me to the ball.
Just last Friday, Harry had shuffled up to me in the library: incidentally, in the art history section where we had first met.
“How’s the project going, Petra?” he’d asked, looking over the books I had in my hand with genuine interest.
“Hey, Harry, it’s going good!” I had brightly replied. “What have you been up to?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Classwork and homework and all the many hours of leisure in between,” he said with a nervous laugh.
“Of course! How can I forget all this free time we get?” I joked back before realizing that Harry had a sheepish look on his face. “What is it? Something wrong?” I had asked.
“Nothing’s wrong . . . I-I was wondering if you’d come to the fall ball with me?” He had sprinted through the words so fast that for a moment, I was confused.
Then it dawned on me. Ah, this is going to be awkward.
“That’s really sweet, Harry, but umm, I don’t really do school dances.
Tacky costumes, mediocre food and beverages, even more mediocre music,” I was rambling away, internally praying for the earth to open up and swallow me whole.
“It’s just not for me. Thank you for asking, though, I just-I hope you understand . . .”
“Of course, Petra, no pressure!” Harry had sputtered when I had finally paused for breath. “And no hard feelings at all.”
He’d smiled warmly at me.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Or anyone.”
It had been a bittersweet proposal and a graceful declining (at least I hope so), but now, when Sin asks me to the fall ball for the umpteenth time, I can suddenly not find any of my usual qualms about these dances.
Caught in the moment’s erotic drift, I find myself responding to Sin without thinking. “You know what, Arnoult? All right. I’ll go to the fall ball with you.”
Sin’s eyes light up with genuine surprise. “Really? You mean it?”
“Yup, you’ve convinced me. Let’s go. What the hell, right? Let’s make it a night to remember.”
The days leading up to the fall ball whirl by in a blaze of coursework for Ms. Matthews and putting the final touches on the first draft of my creative portfolio for college applications.
But they are also marked by long sessions of costume selections, styling vision boards, and micro photo shoots, as I fully indulge my guilty pleasure of dressing up to the nines.
Thankfully, it’s been a relatively quiet period when it comes to my odd dreams; perhaps it’s because I’ve been spending more time with Sin, and therefore, my mind does not have to make up more absurd scenarios anymore.
Maybe.
I have just put on a demure white and gold Karl Lagerfeld ensemble when my phone pings with a message from Amelia.
Hey, girl! Tell me tell me tell me that you found THE dress?
I’m still trying to decide. My closet feels like a battlefield right now.
And I’m not even exaggerating. My room is now littered with half of my wardrobe. Dresses, skirts, heels, and accessories are strewn across every surface.
Show me! I help!
I snap a few pictures of potential ensembles that I have laid out across the room and send them over to Amelia.
What will it be, Petra? LV or Dior? Or are you going with something new and edgy?
Decisions, decisions.
I don’t know yet, Ames!
I text back.
Hopefully I won’t go crazy and end up in a boring Chanel two-piece.
Anything but Chanel.
All my homies hate Chanel!
She texts back, making me chuckle.
Mama wants more shots, so keep them coming, baby girl.
I try on a Burberry dress from the 2012 collection and take a few selfies. I haven’t had this much fun in ages.
Next, I put on a red and blue dress with an ombre effect, a sleek silhouette from Armani Privé that highlights my collarbone and plunges quite low in the back. I take a mirror selfie and send it to Amelia for approval.
O.M.G. You look hawt!
She texts back immediately, following that up with a string of heart-eye emojis.
But her effusive praise doesn’t distract me from the fact that, though the clothes fall over my body in just the right way, I can see and feel a bump forming over my panty line.
Well, fuck, I think. Amelia is sending more messages telling me how ravishing I look, but I have suddenly lost all interest in the whole charade.
My thoughts are again consumed by the fearful realization that it’s been almost four months since I found out . . . and neither have I told Sin, nor Amelia, nor any other adult for that matter, nor have I made the much-needed trip to the Planned Parenthood center in New Haven.
Why have I been dragging my feet on this, you ask?
Partly because I’m being courted by the dreamiest, most popular guy in school, and it’s a heady feeling that’s left me ill-disposed to negative rumination.
And partly because I don’t have the nerve to make a full-fledged final decision just when my life has started to get interesting.
So, determined to enjoy whatever time I had left to be a “normal teenage girl,” I dress myself carefully on the night of the fall ball.
I have chosen a baby-blue tulle slip dress that softly cascades to my ankles and is loosely belted at the waist with pearls. A thin band of flowers and small pearls sits on my head, and my hair falls to my shoulders in waves.
My parents aren’t home, which is both a relief and a bit disheartening. They’re always so busy with their own lives, and tonight is no different. The house feels oddly quiet, save for the ticking of the clock and my own racing heartbeat.
A knock comes at the door.
Sin’s here.