"No, I meanthere, with us." She spat, and I could see the resentment in her eyes.
"Gene!" Keomi gasped.
"What? I was just curious as to how she's already taken his place." Geneviève defended.
"I didn't know I was 'taking' anyone's place." I scoffed,
"No, you're not Armani, don't worry," Merilla said, placing her hand over mine.
"I don't think River would be happy about this." Geneviève retorted, folding her arms in disapproval.
"Well, River isn't here, is he?”Fabian retaliated, “You know he doesn't have lunch with us in the cafeteria."
"Wow, you're already throwing me under the bus for her, and you've known her for five minutes."
"Gene, I know you're hurting, okay. Weallare. But there's no reason for you to take all your anger out on Armani." Keomi warned just as Geneviève stood up abruptly.
"Listen…Armani is it? I have nothing against you. Personally, it's just strange to have someone else here unexpectedly." she muttered, heading for the door. “I’m going to go find River.”
"Listen, if I'm causing too much trouble by being here, it's okay. I can leave," I assured them, not knowing what the fuck was going on.
"No, it isn't like that, don't mind, Gene, she's just upset about something," Keomi told me, her eyes worried.
"About what?" I asked, and Merilla immediately shoots her a don't you dare stare.
"Listen, Armani, just trust us, okay—" Fabian begun, but I cut him short.
"Okay, I get it," I sighed as frustration bubbled inside of me. “There’s a lot I don’t know here at St Kathrine’s, and I’m still very new here. I’ll let you guys talk. I’ll go eat lunch somewhere else. It’s alright.”
“We’re so sorry, Armani. I promise it’s not always like this,” Keomi explained, looking down.
"It’s okay. I’ll give you some space. Then, when you're ready to talk, you know where to find me," I said, taking my lunch tray with me to find somewhere else to eat.
I wandered through the halls and remembered the old art classroom that Fabian had shown me on our tour. I raced upstairs to the second floor and pushed the door open ever so slowly. The second floor of the school creeped me out. It was much more antique and less modern than the first floor. Even the air up there was heavy, with untold secrets and promises struggling to be kept.
There in the far corner of the room was River with his back turned to me, he was tall, and the contrast of his fair skin to the black of his clothes made him appear almost shadowy. Like he was there, but at the same time, he wasn't. I got the idea he wanted it to be that way— he wasn't the kind of guy who craved the attention of others for personal reassurance. He was perfection, and he knew it. He was scratching out the plan for something, something so grand and important that he had to take refuge on the creepy second floor to work on it. The way he worked his hands was enthralling. He had so much skill and precision you'd think he was the love child of Michelangelo and DaVinci themselves. I couldn't risk taking another step to see exactly what it was that he was working on. He himself was frustrating yet fascinating enough.
"Les morts ne mordent pas." I said, quoting Treasure Island once more, just like the first time we saw each other at the bookstore.The dead don't bite. He turned around to face me, his eyes flames in water— if you could imagine such a thing.
"C'est là que vous avez tort, la morsure des morts est la plus venimeuse et la plus douloureuse." He spoke in the most fluent French I'd heard by far from the students at this school.That is where you are wrong. It is the bite of the dead that is the most venomous and the most painful.His voice was deep and strangely melodic, luring me closer to him, like what I'd imagined Eve had heard from the serpent in the Garden of Eden. His voice slithered up my spine. I placed my tray on one of the desks by the door as I stepped into the room. I felt like I was penetrating his personal space, puncturing his glass bubble.
"Do you read a lot?" I asked, stepping closer towards him but stopping once I felt his discomfort.
"What're you doing here?" He asked. On the other hand, his English wasn't perfect— just like mine. He still pronounced certain words with a heavy French accent, although he sounded slightly British. It was confusing, and I made a mental note to ask about that.
"I was looking for somewhere to eat." I clarified, and his eyes narrowed in irritation.
"Have you never heard of the canteen?" He taunted. There it was again— the canteen instead of the cafeteria.
"I don't think people really want me there," I said, looking down as the memory of Geneviève lashing out at me replayed in my mind.
"Well, I don't want youhere." He told me with his usual emotionless expression. It was a mask. I knew it was. Therefore, it didn't scare me or ward me off like everyone else.
I sighed, ignoring his attitude, "Are you a painter?"
"No, a sculptor." He clarified, almost as if it was an insult. “However, I do paint when necessary.”
"Can I see?" I asked, trying to look past him and see what he was working on, but he immediately mimicked my step and blocked my vision.
