Page 61 of You + Me – Against the World

He seems to have definitively taken our side since that back-and-forth with the little notes.

“Nobody is on anyone’s side, and everybody should mind their own business,” Mr. Abrams cuts in as he hurries over and ushers us into the classroom.

I sit in the front row, wanting things to stay exactly the same, and I’m soon joined by my new partner, Jude Lee, who gives me an apologetic smile. I catch myself glancing toward the back of the classroom to check that Vadim isn’t there—or rather, that no one has dared to take his seat. Tears well up in my eyes when I see the two front legs of the chair resting flat on the tiles. No one is leaning back. No one is smirking at me. No one smells like his cologne. No one is looking out the window as if another world exists out there, one of endless possibilities. I miss the brazen way he flaunts his freedom more than anything else. And knowing he’s locked up kills me.

Does he at least have a window to look out of?

“Alma, were you able to catch up on this week’s classes?” asks Mr. Abrams kindly.

“Yes, Professor, Clémentine passed on the notes to me.”

“Oh, D’Aragon? Well, in that case, it would be better if I explain them to you myself,” he says. “The rest of you, keep working on your storyboards. I want to be able to approve everything before the end of the morning. For those who still don’t have a final script, it’s time to get to it. You have less than three months left for casting, shooting, and editing. If you don’t chase your dream, the film world won’t wait for you!”

“What am I supposed to do?” Jude asks in a whiny voice.

“You figure it out. Call a friend, complain to your mother, pretend you aren’t scared… It’s not my problem. Scott, close your mouth and get to work. Clark, breakfast is before class, not during. Fuel yourself with your passion rather than that junk. Lancaster, come over here.”

I slowly approach the professor’s desk, and he gets up, gesturing for me to sit in his chair. Awkward. Then he heads to the back of the classroom and, under the surprised gaze of the other students, grabs Vadim’s empty chair, brings it over, and places it beside me. Very awkward. He sits in it sideways, crosses his legs, and fixes his tired eyes on mine, letting out a long sigh.

“I know exactly what’s going on,” he informs me in a low voice. “You feel alone, helpless, and abandoned. Am I right?”

“No, I was sick, but I’m feeling better now.”

“You look awful. Poor Bruce Lee can’t even bring himself to look at you. He must be afraid of ghosts,” he says to make me smile. “You know I’m not being racist when I say that. I’ve just got a terrible sense of humor and a fondness for cheesy references.”

“It’s called casual racism, Professor. The innocent little phrases we say without thinking, even though they stigmatize someone and rank ethnicities. They are the same kind of stereotypes that turned you into a failed filmmaker-turned-professor and me into a daddy’s girl who doesn’t need to succeed on her own because she already has his money and network. The ones that mean Vadim Arcadi is automatically a delinquent because he has a Russian name and a different life path.”

“You’re right, I should stop using Asian stereotypes with Jude Lee and stop treating Nicki Scott like an airhead. But why are you avoiding the real issue? Even when he’s absent, Arcadi is everywhere. Did you see the reaction from the rest of the class when I took his chair? I feel like I practically committed a crime against humanity.”

“Yeah. They should come arrest you too,” I whisper, a sad smile on my lips.

“You’ve got your bite back. That’s a good start. Alma, look at the problem from the other angle: you’re not alone. You’re free now. You can exist, create. Why don’t you make a short film about what you’re going through? Film the emptiness, the loss, the void inside you.”

“What about Jude?”

“Lee already has his subject. It’s his, and you haven’t put anything of yourself into it. I want you to create something that reflects who you are. I’ll help you catch up. During the time you spend working as my assistant, from now on, we’ll work on your film. In the meantime, every time you don’t know what to do with your pain, use it. Describe it, convert it into images, into music, make something bigger out of it. It will be wonderful. I’m sure of it.”

“I guess I don’t have a choice,” I murmur, wiping the tears from my cheeks.

“You guess right. Now get to work!”

Abrams stands abruptly and goes to put Vadim’s chair back in its place.

The other classes follow one after the other throughout the day: film history, lighting and sound techniques, cinematography workshop, logistics and production. I take notes mechanically and find ways to avoid participating in anything. There is only one thing on my mind: Vadim. And the film I could make about him. Or rather, about his absence. About my loneliness, my memories, my fears, my hopes…

A short film project: that’s all I have left. All that connects me to him.

When I leave the campus, Clémentine is deep in conversation with Hannah Goldberg, her assigned partner, and Hannah’s older brother, who regularly comes to pick her up. Clem shoots me a questioning look, wondering if I need her, but I realize she’s in the middle of a mission to seduce a new unattainable conquest. The text she sends me a little while later confirms that she is done with rowdy basketball players and is moving on to a new era: “tortured intellectuals.”

Heading off, I decide to take a detour past Vadim’s apartment, partly to make sure he’s still not there and partly to hurt myself even more. But also to start scouting the area for the ghostly images I’d like to shoot.

Pathetic. Damn Abrams and his grand ideas. Vadim will come home eventually…

When I get to his street, the sight of a lit window on the first floor almost makes me jump out of my skin. Frozen on the sidewalk, I observe the building for a long time, trying to overcome my disbelief and convince myself that, yes, the light is indeed coming from the apartment I’m familiar with—the place where we kissed for the first time, where we made love for the first time, and where we were photographed without our knowledge, probably from the exact spot where I’m standing right now.

Stunned, I don’t even think to move. An avalanche of questions tumbles through my shocked mind. When did Vadim get back? If he’s back home, free again, why hasn’t he called me yet? Why didn’t he rush to my place, to the campus, anywhere, to find me? My brain refuses to consider the possible answers. But it doesn’t order my body to move either—to walk, to run up the stairs, ring his doorbell. Instead, I stand there like a statue, my eyes glued to the glowing window where everything is still.

I watch for a movement, a shadow, a sign of life. Nothing. Instead, the light suddenly goes out.