Friday. The day I could relax a bit. Last day of tutoring, as next week was the last week to buckle down for finals. And last day of tutoring meant a party for mentors and the students, meaning pizza and group babysitting, keeping calm within the rowdy jubilation.
And these kids didn't realize how good they had it, getting pizza for free and playing on a playground. Sure, I lived in a townhouse, but that's the thing: I lived in that townhouse. There was no "go outside and ride your bike," no "let's take a walk around the development," no "let's go to the neighbors so you can socialize." Because outside is where the monsters were, the sun sank while you were walking, and who says the stars give testimonies for the crimes of the dark? Neighbors gave false smiles, and once you closed that door, they schemed against you, and apparently, I already had a sibling as well as a parent watching over me, and that was enough one person more than I needed.
A kid goes by screaming, and an image of Marisol whirls by. My first friend, my Irish twin. Born the same year but nine months apart, winter's alpha and omega, March and December. Sometimes, I wonder if Mamá thought the same thing, all born from suffering into suffering. But whatever the case, whatever stories she keeps hiding, I do know that Marisol was my confidant. All the blood-splattered walls, deep down as I child I understood talking to Mamá was unsafe. If memory serves me well, I think that's what Marisol did once, but never again.
I pull out my phone. It was a long-shot, but maybe one day, she will finally respond.
I miss you.
Putting my phone back in my pocket, I take another glance at the kids. It's amazing how the jungle gym was turned into a burning building. There was Ryan, running through, jumping over and ducking under invisible falling walls and ceilings and wooden beams, running to Olivia, who was holding onto her doll-baby.
And it scared me, not that they were acting out a possible tragedy, but that even at a young age, Ryan had an idea of what he wanted to do. He had something to work for, something to keep his eyes on, something he can choose to become.
"Sueña después conquistar la realidad," I can hear Mamá saying. Dream after conquering reality. Childhood creativity was a thing I could only read about, something frivolous and impractical. No matter my arguments against how inventors needed to explore and take risks or how authors created the classics we know today or how painters decorated our minds, I would always get brushed off, saying how the wheel was necessary, how Gone with the Wind time-stamps an era in history using ordinary people, and how art is a gateway to and from the illiterate, deaf, and mute. And she would always find something else to do, some other chore to get me started on before I could combat her with the unneeded light-bulb (because we had candles and oil lamps), the dragged-out Green Eggs and Ham (because you can get to the point directly and say "try new things everywhere" without the need for a book), and the millions of paintings that are literally just busts of chickens or ordinary objects you can see anywhere.
And even after four years of college, I had yet to decide what I wanted to do. Wasn't college still part of the reality I needed to conquer? Or did I have to choose before then, and if so, I hadn't got much time.
It hard to know exactly what to do when you're being pulled at two different ends. Kind of like trying to figure out who you are.
At the end of the last tutoring day, the school van drives us back to the main building. But knowing Mamá, she would want me to do a million things as soon as I got home and then still yell at me for having poor time management for studying. So I head to Romeo's.
It wasn't ironic that the name of the local coffee shop was the name of a Shakespeare character. After all, the university was prominent in the language arts. But they took it over the top with dimmed lighting, as if the wall lamps were illuminated with candles. The furniture could use a bit of a modern update, but maybe that was the reason why it felt comfortable here, as if you were back at grandma's house. The walls were beige and cream, reflecting the sweet coffee the café served both in color and in smell. When you walk in, you felt like you had just stepped into a fresh, brewed cup, warm to the touch and wanting more.
I go to the counter and order, but as I go to wait at the counter, I see a familiar face, head stuck in a familiar-looking stack of papers.
Why is he here?
Well, I didn't mean to be mentally rude. As a teacher, I thought he would rather be home than here, doing...well, whatever he was doing. After all, it was the weekend: why stick around a place that you were forced to be at 5 days a week?
Well, then again, I could say the same thing about myself. And I'm pretty sure he only actually taught Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Thank goodness my order was ready quickly. I retrieve it and head for the door, not wanting a conversation, not wanting to know why he was so persistent or how he got my cell number, and maybe if I moved fast, he wouldn't even know I was there. But as I was halfway to the door, it all came crashing down with one word, two syllables.
"Constance!"
I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath and inwardly groaning. Out of all times, Chase had to call for me, had to raise his voice just slightly. I felt my arm being pulled as he glided back to the counter, not caring that skateboarding in the shop was dangerous and not caring that he had just put me on edge.
"Chase--"
"We need to talk."
I groan. "No, I don't want to t--"
"What do you mean you're not going to the play?!"
As I'm about to answer, I can see Mr. Hiddleston's eyes shift ever so slightly, and I knew he was now listening intently.
"Chase, we will talk about this tomorrow."
He sighs as he grabs his order of chai tea, his guilty pleasure. "Fine, tomorrow."
He skates back out the café and I let out the breath I was holding. At least I wouldn't have to deal with him until tomorrow.
"You're still not going?"
Thanks, Martin.
I look at Mr. Hiddleston, and he still hasn't completely looked up at me. In fact, it still looks like he's reading the papers he has, even flipping the page. It's only until then I see many blue pen marks, from the pen I didn't realize he was holding; he's grading papers.
"I'll try to if that will ease your conscience."
He smiles, adding another mark on the paper. "Maybe it will, Miss Decuevas."
I'm probably not off the hook that easy. I take a seat next to him, waiting for the speech and the counsel, the ones I've learned to tune out if it got too repetitive in the same spiel.
But he doesn't. He sits there in silence, working away as I watch, as if challenging my former ignorance with some of his own. In the five minutes of still and quiet, he never once spoke to me, questioned why I was still there, nor even looked at me; it was like I was invisible, a ghost of something forgotten. And in his silence, I found some peace, and I wonder if that was the real point instead.
I looked at his hands. Strange things hands are. It's like a tree, the veins like ivy taking over and fingerprints unique like the the patterns with the bark. The darker lines that band the palm and knuckles is like tree sap dripping down within or along the outside. The fingers are like branches, some crooked, some straight, and able to reach in all directions, and the nails are like the leaves, in different colors and shapes and breaking off.
And his were so beautiful, like the cover of an ancient book, decorated like the fantasy and fairy tales that lay within. There was an ivy branch starting from his left index knuckle that was snaking down to his wrist. Another thicker piece came from his ring finger, the branch split around the finger but coming together a little bit down the back of the hand, and it met the first branch briefly at the wrist, then separated a bit once more. But the bark was sprinkled with paradoxes: ivy roots, denoting time, but still ever so soft; firmly grip, as if rooted in the ground, but still ever so gentle with each turn of the page as if it were an art.
It reminded me a lot of his eyes, how they can transform to whatever they needed to be to command the room, whether to let the reigns loose or hold them tight; whether to see the class in front of him or the worlds Shakespeare allowed us to imagine. He was dynamic, never static, never a stone but always a river.
After those five minutes, he starts to open his mouth, and I brace myself for the lecture.
"What do you think of an essay that's free from grammatical and spelling errors?"
I hesitated. "I'm sorry?"
"A term paper, consisting of twelve pages of text, and not one mistake, not even so much as a quotation mark or comma out of place. What do you think?"
I had absolutely no idea what he was going for. "I would go for quality and see if that was perfect as well."
In on fluid motion, he takes his cell phone from the counter and starts typing words into the search bar. Within seconds, he places it on the stack and slide it to me. I see what he means; word for word, the entire paper was forged, except for a few edited mistakes.
"Now which is worth more: robotic perfection or meaningful effort?"
"Of course the latter, but why are you showing me this?"
"You're not perfect, Constance. And I see the stress written all over your face. I know and understand you better than you think. Appearances are not always what they seem."
Mr. Hiddleston flips the paper over to the front, and my eyes widened, a gasp almost leaving my nostrils and mouth as I read the name. Lucienne Morganstein.
"There's a reason for everything, even if you don't understand it at the time."
I looked up at him into his eyes, and they looked kinder than usual, matching his ease of tone. With a smile, Mr. Hiddleston gathers his papers and stands up.
"Besides, how else do you think Mr. Martin got the play tickets? You really think he just bought them?"
My head snapped around to him as he walked, receiving a to-go cup. As he walks out, he takes a sip from the lid.
Screw it.
Holding onto the strap of my purse, I follow him out, trying to catch up with his long strides.