Livvy

by Lori L. Otto

  “You knew about him already.”

  “I didn’t know you were talking.”

  “We weren’t. He came to see me Saturday afternoon, and we both wanted the same thing.”

  “You said I had a chance, though, and I intend to still get it.”

  “What is that supposed to mean? Is that a threat?”

  “How is going out with me threatening?” he asks.

  “Emmanuel, even if Jon and I hadn’t started to work things out, what you called my uncle is inexcusable. Had I known you were a bigot, I would never have gone out with you in the first place.”

  “A bigot? I was pissed because he was under-pouring. I was just kidding.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have said it. You’re lucky he didn’t hear it, because he can defend himself.”

  “I’m not scared of that candy ass–”

  I stop walking. “You know what, Emmanuel? I don’t really care if I fail this assignment. It’s not fair that I have to work with you today, and I don’t have to tolerate your ignorance.”

  “Take a joke already!”

  “I don’t find it funny at all.”

  “You’re just some prissy little goodie-two-shoes who has no idea what she wants and will use guys until she figures it out. You think you’re in love with Jon? You’re barely eighteen. You don’t have any idea what love even is,” he says, laughing. “I thought I was in love with someone when I was your age, too–”

  “Yes, because you’re so much older, Mr. Four Girlfriends and Nineteen Lovers–”

  “Twenty,” he corrects me. I shake my head in disgust and start to walk away from him. “Don’t judge me, you little bitch. You had your chance with me, honey, and believe me, if you had taken me up on what I have to offer, you’d never even think about that elitist asshole you’re with–”

  “Elitist?” I ask him. “You know nothing about him. Or me. If you think I want that–”

  “Yeah, this,” he says, grabbing his crotch vulgarly and ranting wildly. “It would blow your mind–” He stops suddenly when he hears the click of my shutter. “Give me your camera,” he says, his voice now slow and low.

  “No,” I tell him as I turn my back to him. “This was the assignment. Capture your partner in their element.” I look over my shoulder and speed up toward a common area as his pace quickens. “I mean, if you’re so proud of that, you won’t mind this picture being hung in the gallery, right? Think of the dates you’ll–” His hand clamps hard on my shoulder.

  “Give me the camera!” He pulls the neck strap hard against my throat.

  “No!” I elbow him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. “Get away from me!” I keep my eyes on him as I walk away, noting that it takes him a few seconds to recover. He doesn’t follow me, though. He stares at me, intimidating me.

  “Bitch!” he yells. I want to tell him to come up with some more creative insults for me, but instead, I just turn around one last time and flip him off. In that instance, he snaps a picture of me. Good for him. Our professor won’t let that one hang in the gallery. I’m sure she won’t display mine, either, unless I do some creative cropping. Fortunately, his rage was evident in lines across his face and skin the color of a tomato. I still have a good shot, even without his indecent gesture.

  When I get back to the classroom, my professor sits alone at the front of the class, typing away on her computer.

  “You’re back already?” she asks me, barely looking away from her work. I concentrate hard on my breathing, steadying it, as I debate telling her what happened. It all transpired so quickly that I’m not certain how things escalated the way they did. I touch my neck, feeling the spot where my camera strap burned into my skin, hiding it from my teacher. “Livvy?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer quickly. “I got the perfect shot, I think.” Now that I’m calmer, I start to think that maybe it’s not such a good photo after all. It will show a very angry side to Emmanuel, and in fact, it isn’t one that represents the guy I’ve known since I met him last year. He’s angry with me now, but he wasn’t always angry. In fact, he was rarely angry. “Well,” I add, looking at the photo in the small digital display as I stand near the third row of seats. “I thought I had one... I think the card went bad. It says ‘card unrecognized; reformat.’ That can’t be good.”

  “Let me see,” she says. I stare at his picture a little longer, wondering if I should just delete the image entirely.

  “No, it’s toast,” I lie. “I’ve seen this before. I, uh...” I stammer, looking up at her for her response.

  “Shall I have him meet you somewhere, once he returns?”

  I shake my head apprehensively. “No, I guess I’ll just take the failing grade.”

  “Livvy, is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “You might check with the IT department. They may be able to recover something off of the card for you.”

  “Sure, yeah. Maybe I’ll go do that right now.”

  “Good luck,” she says.

  I veer toward the library to study for awhile before heading back to the dorm. “Where were you?” Rachelle asks me. “I waited after class, but you never showed up. I was worried.”

  “Why were you worried?”

  “You, partnered up with Emmanuel. Wasn’t that weird?”

  “It wasn’t good,” I tell her. “I got a crude candid of him that I can’t use in class, and then we split up.” I pull out my camera and flip through a few photos I’d taken last weekend before reaching the photo from this afternoon.

  “He can’t keep doing that–making you two partner up. That’s weird, Liv.”

  “I know. I already spoke to our professor. She’s not going to let it happen again.” I hand my roommate the camera and let her look at the photo.

  “What the hell?”

  “Yeah. He was telling me I’d be sorry for not going out with him or something,” I explain. “This was his attempt of showing me what I’d be missing.”

  “Well, that might have done something for me last week, but not after this weekend. I still can’t believe he said that about your uncle.”

  “Me, neither. And he tried to casually explain it away. Like it was a joke.”

  “He was pissed about Jon?” she asks.

  “Yeah. He called Jon an elitist,” I say, still laughing at the thought. “I find it ironic because here Jon went to a public school and attended our non-profit art school for underprivileged kids, and Emmanuel got this scholarship for this prestigious art academy that I was supposed to go to. You know, they both had humble beginnings, but who’s the pretentious one, really? My boyfriend, or this photographer who only dates models and thinks he’s God’s gift because he can take a pretty picture?”

  “I wouldn’t call Jon an elitist, but there is something about him that elevates him from that poor-boy you’ve told us about.”

  “He’s smart,” I tell her. “He just knows a lot. And, yeah, he has confidence. He should,” I defend him. “That doesn’t make him snobby or anything.”

  “That’s not what I mean. He just carries himself... differently than I would expect someone from his background to. He doesn’t seem like someone who should fit into your world, but he does.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “C’mon, Livvy. You went to the same type of school I did. Sure, the guys who come from wealthy families like ours can keep up, but anyone with less always seems intimidated by me. It’s not like we project some image of superiority, but they seem to feel inferior. And there’s no amount of ego-fluffing that will change that. Jon doesn’t carry himself that way.”

  “He doesn’t let his parents’ choices define him,” I tell her. “He’s paving his own way. That’s one of the things I really like about him.”

  “What drives him to be that way?”

  “He wants to set a good example for his younger brothers. As kids, they were exposed to a life barely above the poverty line. Jon had a father figure for most of
his life, but his brothers didn’t. They looked up to Jon–even more than they looked to their mother for advice or help. He was forced to grow up a lot sooner than most kids... and I think it shows.”

  “Do you think he tries too hard to fit into your social status?”

  “No,” I answer honestly. “I don’t think he cares about that. I mean, I don’t care about that. I like it when he shows his roots. He’s passionate about where he came from, but he’s even more passionate about changes he wants to make for people who also came from that same background. He cares about that.”

  “Do you ever think he’s latching onto you because of an agenda? Like, he knows you have the resources to accomplish some of the things he wants to do?”

  I smile at her question, knowing deep in my heart that Jon’s affections for me are real. “No,” I tell her simply. “But I wouldn’t hesitate if he ever asked for anything. But that’s just it. He never would.”

  Someone knocks at our door, and Rachelle walks over and looks out the peep hole. “It’s Emmanuel,” she whispers.

  I pick up my camera and head to the bathroom. “I’m not here.” She nods her head and waits until I’m behind the closed door before answering. I listen to their conversation, which isn’t hard to hear through the thin door and wall.

  “Is Livvy around?”

  “No, I think she went to dinner.”

  “I didn’t just hear her in here, talking to you?”

  “I had the TV on,” my roommate lies.

  “Oh,” he says, apparently believing her. “I wanted to talk to her about the photo assignment.”

  “I saw the candid,” she says. Her admission catches me off guard, and I consider going out into the room and talking to him myself. I knew he’d be angry that I showed the picture to anyone.

  “You saw what?”

  “The picture she took of you. You seemed quite animated. Did you have an itch or something?” Please shut up, please shut up, please shut up.

  “No, I–” he stops talking for a few seconds, then continues. “Interesting. She told our professor that the card was corrupt,” he says. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, hoping she’ll think of something to corroborate the story.

  “I guess she got it fixed,” she says instead.

  “Good to know,” he says, sounding angry. “Don’t tell her I stopped by.”

  “I probably will,” Rachelle tells him, adding an insincere apology and closing the door before he can return. I leave the bathroom once I hear her lock the door. “Was that picture a secret?” she asks me.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not turning it in. I already told Professor Murphy that–well, that the card was corrupt.”

  “Why? I think she should see that. He’s disturbing, Livvy, and I think he’s taking advantage of his position in the class with you. Wait, what happened to your neck?” she asks, touching the sore spot.

  “He tried to forcibly take the camera from me.”

  “You can’t keep quiet about this.”

  “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. I won’t have to work with him anymore, and he’ll find another girl soon. Hell, he apparently already found one to fool around with since our date and today,” I tell her.

  “Do you care?” she asks.

  “I only care that my judgment was so off with him. We clearly value different things.”

  When Jon calls that night, it takes a lot of convincing before he calms down enough and drops his threat to report what he feels is an assault to campus police. I didn’t even mention the burn on my neck from my camera strap. He questions why I was alone with him again when I promised I wouldn’t be, and I explained it was an assignment, and told him that we were out in the open the whole time. When he finds out he came by my dorm room, he begs me to never answer the door for him when I’m alone. It’s not a hard thing to promise him.

  My phone wakes me up early the next morning. I’d thought it was a part of my dream until I felt one of my roommates push on my arm to alert me.

  “Hello?”

  “Olivia?” He sounds angry.

  “Jon?” I whisper into the phone.

  “It’s your father.”

  “Oh. Well, you only call me that when you’re mad,” I say as I sit up and stretch. “What’s up?”

  “I’m mad,” he says plainly. Realizing this may not be a brief conversation, I take my phone into the bathroom and close the door, hoping my roommates can go back to sleep. On my way, I check the time, noting it’s only five-thirty.

  “What? Why?”

  “Olivia Sophia,” he sighs, “why would you do that to a photographer? I thought we’d talked about laying low with the paparazzi and trying not to draw attention to yourself.”

  “Dad, the paparazzi don’t come on campus. They’re not even allowed, you know this. What did I not do?” I ask him as I begin to take offense at his accusation.

  “You flipped off someone, Livvy, and it’s on the cover of two tabloids and multiple social blogs,” he says loudly into the phone. If I wasn’t fully awake, I am now, and start seething at Emmanuel. “Why do you insist on doing this to our family? I expect you to respect your name better than that. Does it mean nothing to you?”

  “My God, Dad, of course it means something to me! And I didn’t flip off some random photographer.”

  “Did you not see them?”

  “Oh, I saw him, Dad. It was Emmanuel. It was for a class project. And he was retaliating against a picture I took of him.”

  “What is going on?”

  “We got into a fight over the weekend–”

  “Matty told me.”

  “Well, he made me partner up with him again on our project, but I didn’t want to be with him in the first place, and I didn’t want to hear him ranting about how sorry I’d be that I chose Jon over him–”

  “What do you mean, he made you partner up with him again?”

  “We have an odd number of students, so someone always has to partner with him.”

  “And he picks you?”

  “Yes, but Dad, I’ve already handled it. And I’m sorry, but if you saw how he was acting with me, you wouldn’t be mad at me right now. You’d be proud of me.”

  “What did he do?” he asks.

  “Dad, I said I’ve handled it. I won’t have to work with him, one-on-one, anymore.”

  “He was taking advantage of his position of authority?”

  “Dad...”

  “Olivia? This is unacceptable. Did he threaten you?”

  “Not really,” I tell him. “He was just trying to intimidate me. I can take care of myself, Dad. He’s angry with me because of Jon. He’ll get over it.”

  “Did he take that picture during your class time?”

  “Yes.”

  “That seems like an abuse of his privileges. I guarantee he profited from this photo, Livvy. I have no doubt in my mind. He could get fired or expelled over this–”

  “Dad! Stop it.”

  “Either you report this, or I will.”

  “I’ll drop the class,” I try to bargain with him.

  “The hell you will! He will. Who’s making the call? Me or you?”

  “I will. I’ll handle it.”

  “I want you to report back to me tonight with the outcome.”

  “Daddy, I’ll do it. Don’t micromanage me. I said I’d handle it, and I will. And I’m sorry. I had no idea he was even taking the picture, and I never would have imagined he’d sell something like that... not after all you two did for him when he was younger. He wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you.”

  “Well, maybe he shouldn’t still be there. I could make that happen, too.”

  “That would be an abuse of your power, Dad. This is my life, okay? I’ve accepted that people are going to watch me. I’ve accepted that people are going to love watching me make mistakes in my life. I’m fine with it. So the hell what? I know that I’m a good person. I know that I always have good intentions. I know that you tau
ght me well. I’m sorry I make you look bad. I’m sorry to tarnish the Holland name. That is never my intent, and I really do try to keep a low profile. But I can’t shut everyone out of my life, all the time. I thought I could trust him.

  “Hell, you thought he could be trusted. So we both made a mistake with this one. Don’t comment on the picture, don’t try to explain what I did. I’m eighteen. This is probably just the beginning, but please let me deal with the consequences. You know me, Dad. So trust me.”

  “You’re right, Contessa. I’m sorry. But I don’t want him to get away with this without some consequence. He can’t drag your name through the mud anytime he doesn’t get his way with you.”

  “He’ll never get his way with me, Dad,” I tell him, realizing a second too late what I said to him. There’s an awkward lull in our conversation. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. “Ummm, don’t you need to get ready for work?”

  “Yes,” he answers. “Call us before you leave New Haven tonight, okay?”

  “I will. I’ll see you this evening. Love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you, too. Good luck today.”

  I decide to go ahead and get up since I have homework to finish for a class today. I head to the cafeteria for breakfast, and after checking a few of the usual Manhattan blogs to see the picture my dad is so angry about, I start my assignment as I sit at a small table by myself. At eight, I gather my things and head toward a building I haven’t been to before.

  After signing in at the Office for Equal Opportunity Programs, a man takes me to a back room immediately and tells me someone will be with me shortly. About five minutes later, an older woman enters the room and takes a seat across from me.

  “I’m Mrs. Heart,” she says. “If I’m not mistaken, you are Livvy Holland.”

  “Yes,” I tell her.

  “What can I do for you today, Miss Holland?”

  “I guess I need to lodge a complaint?” I touch my sensitive neck again, wondering what all I should report.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  I give her a brief history of how I know Emmanuel, and realize quickly it has nothing to do with this situation.

  “I’m sorry, I’m nervous,” I admit. “I don’t really want to get him in trouble. I just don’t want the situation to get worse, and with what happened today, I’m afraid it will.”