Art's Conduct

Art's Conduct: Mist =3=

= 3 =

"Le toilette,"

I nodded my head in approval and jotted down some notes before proceeding to say, "Le toi-"

"Hey, Dian!"

I jumped in surprise, nearly hitting my head against the headboard. Thankfully, I missed it by a centimeter, though I couldn't help but dart my eyes in fear. A fear made possible by a probable mass murderer in my parents' apartment, more specifically, my childhood room!

It seemed like Rosetta wasn't doing her job after all. I was supposed to have my spare time with the perfect teacher because, apparently, I was too deficient when it came to learning a new language. This was the only way to aid my grade from its evident fall to failure, and honestly, I needed all the help I could get, yet this was a complete disaster!

A mere voice managed to nail me out of my brief lapse of mental deprivation, and being in New York at a time like this, was not the best case scenario!

I was flipping out. I really was, and I was not the type of person to have panic attacks, but I found myself puffing in agitation before the same noise erupted from my desk drawer. "Dian Martin Hickerton,"

That did it.

I gathered the notes in my hands and scrambled off the bed as my eyes gazed scornfully at the rectangular shaped furniture of murderous intent!

Oh no, what if it was Jordan's ghost, and it sought for redemption? If it was, what had I done wrong to deserve this! I only mentioned him last night because it was at the heat of the moment sort of situation, and father needed to wrap the concept around his fickle head that his precious son wasn't alive anymore! Not that I was complaining. Psh...I totally wasn't-

"Dian Martin Hickerton," it said again. This time with a hint of abrasion.

I mentally screamed, and nearly jumped fifteen feet in the air.

Yeah, I definitely wasn't panicking.

All I wanted was a day to myself. A day where I'd be able to learn French with Rosetta, not a freak show where a possible murderer, or his accomplice, was in my closet.

"Come out," I said in a shaky voice. "I know you're here, so come out you slimy, foul git!"

I braced myself for the worst, but was answered with a blunt, "Dian, you're worse than a tortoise preying on fish."

My jaw hung ajar as my brain clumsily connected the pieces together, albeit before I lost myself in the pantomime of cars on display in an array of reds, blues, grays, blacks, and the occasional, pink. "Mioun?"

"No, it's toh-mato," said he, pronunciating it as if I were a toddler wanting a sip from a milk bottle, not from a twenty-three year old, stumbling over French consonants and vowels like a wild hippo on the loose. "Of course, it's Mioun!"

Yup, definitely Mioun.

"Do you not realize what you've done to me just then?"

His deep laughter reverberated through the wood which made me wonder: How could I hear him?

And, as if reading my thoughts, he said, "Well, considering I haven't hung up yet, and you must have assumed I had, since your poor excuse of a phone is-  shall we say, acting up poorly...again,"

I slapped a hand across my forehead, cursing myself for allowing this to happen.

"You left your phone on speaker, so I decided to pull you into a little surprise when you went into your short escapade of: 'Où sont les toilettes'," he said rather fluently.