The sixth sense

Chapter 5

Emma

It's been two weeks since Adam's unfortunate trip to Italy, but he doesn't say a word about it or the girl he met there. To be honest, I'm glad he left that topic in the past. I don't think I could stand more talks about it. But something about Adam has changed. It's like he's hiding in a shall, protecting his hurt feelings. An invisible wall is growing around him. He's sketching a lot, but nothing concrete. His sketches are abstract; sometimes they show different body parts but never faces. Every time he doesn't like a sketch, he tears it vigorously from the sketchbook and throws it away, unsatisfied with the result. When it comes to his art, he's a perfectionist. I can see how shattered he is. He can't draw what he wants to draw and it's tearing him apart. He doesn't say anything, refusing to share the details of what happened back in Italy. I feel as if thrown overboard but I don't want to push it. Even now, he's sitting on the floor right in the middle of the school hallway. He's holding a pencil in his hand but he can't draw anything. Our English teacher, Madame Ferrar, is being late and we're waiting for her in a small hallway.
"Miss She-Devil is never being late. Something must have happened," Pauline says, сhewing her bubblegum and then popping it.
"We need to go to Amar and ask him to open the classroom," Paul adds.
"No, no, no!" Pauline protests when one of our classmates burst out laughing. "What if they make us write an essay again like they did last time? We'd better crowd together for a while and wait some more."
"If we don't pipe down, Amar will hear us," I say, secretly hoping for it to happen. Amar is patrolling the halls, tracking down those who come late or miss classes. He opens the school gates in the morning and the afternoon and spends the rest of the day at the reception, waiting for another trouble from the pupils. If someone comes late or misses classes, he sends texts to our parents. He's the key keeper and the watchdog of the school who knows about everything happening around him. Sometimes I feel sorry for him but he's a very optimistic man. He always greets us, troublemakers, with a smile on his face.
"Shut up, idiots!" hisses my friend when the guys get really loud again. "Why are you shouting like kids?"
I look at Adam and I don't know what to do. It's so hard to break through the wall of his neglect. He refuses to let me in.
"Guys are less emotional," Pauline whispers as if reading my mind. "If you're waiting for him to shred tears and writhe in hysterics, you're wasting your time. He'll go through this without a word."
"How do you know that?"
"I have a brother, remember? He's like a walking textbook on men's physiology. His emotions are wordless and it's easier for them to let things go. Though it doesn't mean you need to stay away from him. Sit down next to him. He needs to know you're there for him no matter what."
I give her a thankful look. "What would I do without you?"
Then I follow her advice, go to the other end of the hall and sit down next to Adam, stretching my legs. His legs are bent at knees, mine bump into the bright yellow wall opposite from me.
"I just wanted to say that I'm here if you need me, Adam. You don't have to say anything, but I want you to know that I'm here for you." I lean in and rest my head on his shoulder.
"Thanks, Ems," my best friend says quietly. He wraps one arm around me and pulls me closer.
It's so good to be in his embrace. His scent envelops me like a blanket and I feel at home. He's the only person able to make me feel that way. When I'm with him, the rest of the world disappears and I feel free and needed.
"Everything's gonna be all right, Ems," his velvet voice whispers into my ear. I nod and bury my face in the curve of his neck. My cheeks feel the heat of his skin.
"It's gonna be better than all right, Adam," I say, feeling his palm smooth my hair.

***
Adam and I are on our way home. The weather is windy and most of the trees are leafless. We walk down the fallen leaves, enjoying the rustle beneath our feet. The sky is painted in gray with low heavy clouds, hanging above our heads. I can see the cupola of Dome church of Les Invalides in a distance. It's round, pompous, and beautiful.
"Remember we went there on an excursion when we were in the fifth grade?" I ask, nodding to the majestic building ahead of us.
"Of course, I do. It's the museum of the army. All the boys were excited to see so many weapons."
"And I remember Napoleon's tomb. A giant coffinite, made of red stone the name of which I can't remember."
"Crimson quartzite. It was brought from Russia."
"I can't believe you remember the name!" I say, surprised.
Adam shrugs. "The coffinite is giant and impressive. Which is why I remembered the name of the stone it was made of."
"I remember they copied the cupola from the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore that is in Florence."
Adan nods wordlessly and his face becomes thoughtful. I wonder if he met that Italian girl in Florence.
"I'm starving," he says, breaking the silence and changing the subject. "Do you think we can make it to Starbucks on St. Dominique Street before it starts pouring?"
"I doubt it, but let's speed up. Maybe we can make it there after all. We can grab something in the bakery near my house."
Adam gives me his best smile and takes my hand in his. He's holding his folder with the other hand. It's new and still looks good, polished, and beautiful. Though I know I will take him less than a month to make it looks old and worn off, like his previous folders were.
We walk to my house with my hand in his. It's warm and smooth. Pauline once asked why we sometimes walk, holding hands. She thinks it's a sign of the connection between us. But the truth is much more prosaic. I was in the fourth grade when I started going home on my own. I remember being so nervous to go home alone for the very first time. Adam said he was a year older than me and that he would accompany me home. He took my hand in his, walked me across the road, and made sure I got home safely. The next day, the story repeated, and then it became a habit. Since then, we've been holding hands on a daily basis. Sometimes he would take my hand and pull me somewhere. Touching each other is not a problem at all. I remember our first walk to my home and my heart warms up pleasantly. Adam has always been there when I needed him. He's my superhero, no matter how stupid and naive it sounds.
It starts pouring before we know it, rapidly and heavy.
"Run, Emma!" Adam shouts, tightening his grip on his folder, and we start running horse and foot.
Of course, we don't have an umbrella. I pull my jacket hood over my head, but it doesn't help much. We enter the bakery and the cashier gives us a disapproving look. The water drops fall from our clothes, landing on the floor and forming a puddle.
"Good afternoon!" Adam says, flashing her his bright smile. But she isn't affected by his charm.
Her response is gloomy. "It's a good evening actually."
"One French bread and four eclairs, two chocolate and two coffee-flavored, please," Adam says in his best polite manner.
"Is that all?" Madame asks coldly.
Adam's lips twist in another smile. "Yes, it is."
She takes a box for the eclairs, puts them in carefully, and then wraps the box with a golden band. Then she takes a French bread and quickly calculates the sum we owe her. "Fourteen euro and fifty cents."
"I'll pay with a credit card," Adam says, taking our purchase.
Then we walk to the door, I stop and say, "On the count of three?"
Adam gives me a weird look; his eyes are roaming around my face.
"I hate the rain," he says, cursing. I'm surprised to see his reaction to the weather.
"Since when?"
He takes my hand and pulls me to the exit. "Hurry up, Ems!" he shouts through the rain.
We run to my place, drenched and cold. He takes off his jeans jacket and throws it over a radiator; his wet sneakers go under it. I copy his moves and do the same things.
"I'll put the cattle on the stove," I say, heading for the kitchen.
He puts his folder on the kitchen table and wipes it with a small towel. He always does it to keep the folder clean. I make coffee and he takes out the eclairs and puts them on a plate, humming an unknown song.
I feel a little lost in this warm moment with him. The drops of rain roll down his forehead and he pushes his hair behind one ear. We sit at the table. I put my legs on my chair and he straightens his and puts them on a nearby chair. The cup with the steaming coffee warms up my palms. I take a deep breath, letting the amazing aroma fill me up from within; a hot liquid burns my mouth, but it feels good. Adam gives me a chocolate éclair. We clang our eclairs together—another childish tradition of ours—and then start eating them.
"Do you think eating éclairs daily will eventually make me sick?"
Adam shakes his head. "Never!"
I chuckle and take another éclair. "So good Pauline can't see me now. It's been less than a few hours since I swore to get back to my diet."
He rolls his eyes and caresses my cheek. "When are you going to stop saying that? Can't you see you don't need a diet?"
"But I do need it!"
"Stop killing my appetite with stupid talks. Let me eat first, okay?" he mumbles and I smiled, punching his side playfully. Then I sink my teeth into my éclair.
After we are done eating, we go to my room. Coffee made me feel much better. I take off my hoodie, revealing my top.
"I need to do my philosophy homework," I say, scattering the contents of my bag all over my bed.
"I've done mine. Do you need help?" Adam asks.
"No, no. I want to do it myself."
"As you wish."
I sit down on my bed, move a laptop closer to me and pull my hair in a high bun, pinning it with my pencil. The rebellious locks escape my hairdo and fall onto my face. I have to remove them behind my ears. I take a piece of paper into my hand and read what's written there, chewing on the end of my pen and thinking of what else to add to the text. Adam opens the window and the wind from the outside brings the smell of rain and the noise of raindrops falling onto the asphalt, along with the cars breaking the puddles with their wheels. I love fall, with its cloudy weather and rains that fit my mood perfectly. I feel the mattress bend under Adam's weight, but I ignore him, sinking into my thoughts.
'Man has a hole the size of God in his soul, and everyone fills it as he can.'
Our philosophy teacher told us to explain the meaning of Sartre's quote. It's not an easy task because everyone has their own passion, their own sins, their own secret wishes . . . we hide all of the above deep inside our souls, filling the emptiness within. I fill my emptiness with one-sided love and right now I want to write about it, and open up myself, and feel a pleasant relief my confessions will leave behind.
Sometime later, I feel Adam's intense gaze on my face. The wind blows my hair in different directions, the pencil falls off the bun, and my locks land on my shoulders in heavy waves.
"Don't move," Adam commands. I look up at him. He's sitting close to me; his eyes are scrutinizing me, every inch of me, from my skin covered with goosebumps to the pen I'm holding in between my lips. I feel his gaze fell onto my breasts and regret the moment I took off my hoodie. The elastic top is like a glove, highlighting every curve of my upper body. 
"Keep looking at me, Ems. I need a few more minutes," he says in a husky voice, drawing my portrait on a piece of paper.
I keep posing for him. Two hours . . . my body feels as if frozen. Adam's look is demanding. I'd rather let someone shoot me than move an inch.
"You're very beautiful, Ems," he says, leaning back. "I've made a sketch . . ." he pauses for a moment. "The first one since our fall break."
I stay quiet, letting his words sink into me. He shows me the sketch and I see myself there. I look so mysterious in it. My eyes are deep and sad. But there's something magnetic about me—full lips, holding a pen, the cut of my top, and the curves of my body. Another wave of goosebumps runs across my skin. I see myself through Adam's eyes and it's amazing.
"Thank you, Emma," he says.
I turn my head and give him a long look. His shirt slipped up a few inches, revealing part of his perfect torso. My palms burn from the desire to touch him, feel his skin beneath my touch, run my fingers down his happy trail and feel his muckles tighten. 
"You're welcome, Adam," I whisper, putting aside the sketch. Then I lie down next to him. He wraps his arms around my shoulders and I bury my face in his chest.
"You're always there for me, no matter what," he says, running his fingers through my hair. "So good we got to the same class ten years ago."
I smile, too happy to hold it back. Pure joy splashes inside me. It's such a good day. I've made Adam's inspiration return and I fall even deeper in love with him. Then again, whom am I trying to fool? It's impossible to love him even more.