He eyes the Italians for a moment longer and then, with a sigh, turns back to his chair. Lucille gives me a look: well done. I roll my eyes. I need to sort this out once and for all. I return to my chair and, thankfully, the Italians let Max finish his speech. But by the time it’s Lucille’s turn, they’re laughing and joking again.
They’re wearing me the hell out.
If the camel’s back was broken before, it’s absolutely ruined now. And it’s not a straw that does it. It’s a sledgehammer and about a hundred blows. By the end of the class, I’m barely resisting the urge to grab a chair and toss it at the cackling Italians. They swagger from the classroom before I get the chance, Johnny and Max leaving soon after.
“This is not good,” Lucille says, shaking her head. “Men take and take and take, huh? All they good for.”
“Yep,” I sigh. “This needs to stop. I thought Johnny was going to stab one of them with that pen.”
Lucille tsks. “He’d deserve it, too.”
“Yes. Yes, he would.”
She gives me a hug, whispering in my ear, “You’re strong. You’re real strong. You can make this right.”
I nod, squeezing her just a little tighter for a moment. Is this what having a sister would have been like?
“Hey, you good?” She leans back, studying me with her liner-framed eyes. For a second I think about telling her everything. The whole fucked-up string of events that led me here. “Hazel?”
The temptation to open up is strong, but then what? Danger would come calling. Lucille wouldn’t be so keen on offering me help after that. No, I have to keep my mouth shut. I have to remember who I am.
Most of all, I have to remember what Father would do to this beautiful, innocent woman if he found out I had revealed everything.
“I’m fine.” I smile, stepping back. “Now don’t you keep that man of yours waiting.”
She eyes me suspiciously, but she seems to be able to tell I’ve put up a barrier between us. A big brick wall of emotional bluntness, one that no amount of battering is going to get through.
“If you ever wanna talk …” she says, shouldering her bag.
I nod. “Uh-huh,” I mutter. Stop being so damn nice to me!
I finish my after-class notes and then clean up the classroom. I’m still pretty pissed off about the Italians when I walk into the night, so spotting Carlo sitting across the lot in his limousine drives me over the edge. The windows are tinted, but who else would it be?
I think about just walking away. If he wants to play the stalker freak, that’s his problem. But then a hard-edged memory hits me with the force of a punch. I see it clearly, playing out in a show in the moonlight that dapples the parking lot.
“You’re nothing,” the raging, drunken man slurs, his meaty fist aimed at me. “You’re a fucking plant, y’hear me? A houseplant. And you sit there and you keep that mouth shut or I’ll shut it for you. You’re lucky I put up with you, girl, damn lucky. Go on, say somethin’!” His face close to mine, I can smell the whiskey and acid tinge of his cigars. “Say something!”
I’m ashamed that I didn’t say anything. I bowed my head, defeated, and skulked away like I was the one in the wrong. I ran, but not really, not like I’m running now. I half-ran. I didn’t even have the courage to do it properly.
But I’m not that woman anymore, I reassure myself as I stare across the lot at the limo. Not by a long shot.
I don’t give myself time to think. I just stride over to the limo and pound my fist against the glass. For a second, I wonder what I’ll do if some local celebrity is getting a blowjob back there, or if a bunch of high schoolers on their way to prom are about to bitch me out for harshing their vibe.
But then the window rolls down an inch.
The artist inside me notes that his blue-green eyes are cyan, or teal, or turquoise. They never seem to settle. He’s like a silhouette glimpsed through stained glass, always shifting, and yet his gaze solidifies as the window rolls down the rest of the way and he offers me his arrogant smirk.