by Linnea May
“Pride is not the same as arrogance,” she inserts.
“They’re practically twins.”
I lean back in my chair, my eyes never leaving hers.
“Do you know what an Angel investor is?”
She shakes her head no.
“People like me,” I explain. “People with assets and a good comprehension of the market. Young start-ups not only ask for my advice, the ask for my money, too. We’re called Angels, because we serve as a guarantee in making dreams come true.”
She furls her eyebrows. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m telling you, because this is the part of my success that I enjoy the most,” I explain. “I failed, again and again. I failed at things that didn’t matter in the end, but I also failed in things that mattered. And now I’ve become someone who can help others through those inevitable failures along the way. Because I know what I’m doing - and because I have money.”
“Mhm,” she mumbles, showing no sign of admiration.
“I could help you, too,” I say, trying to make things a little clearer for her. “But I’d have to know what it is you want to achieve.”
“Why do you think that I need your help?” She wants to know.
“I think you do.”
Our eyes lock onto each other for a few moments, before she breaks away to finish her coffee.
“Why do you care?” She asks, her eyes low on the table between us.
“Because I do,” I say, watching her fingers trail around the empty cup of coffee. Her hands are so petite and delicate, they almost look like they belong to a child and not a graduate student, a grown woman.
The thought of seeing them wrapped around my hard cock sends painful shivers through my core. The conversation took a different path than I had anticipated. The way she’s feeling now, contemplative and diffident, doesn’t allow for approaches of a physical nature. I’m sure I could get her back there by getting rid of my sweater, but I don’t want to do this to her right now. She needs this, she needs to think about these things.
So, I’ll leave her with something else.
CHAPTER NINE
LANA
Weeks have passed since that fateful thunderstorm announced the definite end of summer - and the beginning of my weirdly intimate interactions with Mr. Portland. I can’t get him out of my head, and it doesn’t help that I’m confronted with him every Monday morning.
He’s getting to me on more than one level. I don’t understand why his words stuck with me the way they did. Is it just because he is who he is? It’s obvious that his surreal attractiveness has an impact on me, as shallow as that may seem.
His face, his eyes, his muscles. How can a man look like that and put his eyes on me the way he does? He looks at me as if I was the one with the alluring appearance, when it’s so obvious that there’s nothing exceptional about me, especially not my looks.
But it’s not just that. The things he’s saying stir something within me, an omnipresent dissatisfaction with the direction my life is going. He’s opening doors that I thought to be securely shut for years. Doubts that haunted me years ago, but not since I pushed them aside. I thought they had disappeared the same day Olivia left my life.
In fact, Mr. Portland reminds me of her. She was the only real best friend I ever had, we were inseparable during junior high school. We were young and naive, dreamers who swore to do something great in life, something special, something crazy. We made an oath never to become like our parents - mine, the ivory tower scholars, and hers, the narrow minded lawyers. We were the perfect hippies - anti-everything.
And then, Olivia’s family moved away, across the country, a killing stroke for a junior high school friendship. We kept in touch for a while, but quickly grew apart, as teenagers do when they live on completely opposite coasts.
Before she left, we wanted to make sure to exchange gifts, something that would help us remember each other and the promises we made. Of course, friendship bracelets were too mainstream for us, so we went to a local jewelry shop and picked out black ceramic rings.
“I’ve never seen anyone wear a ring like this,” Olivia exclaimed. “It’s perfect for us! Perfect!”
I agreed.
Now, I’m sitting on the bed of my dorm room at an Ivy League school, majoring in the same subject as my mother and following a path that will eventually lead to the one thing I swore not to become: my parents.
The ring is still there. I don’t know why I never took it off.
Maybe, because it reminds me of her, of our dream, of the person I used to be, before Olivia’s contagious free spirit left my life. I know that she didn’t forget about it, she actually went through with our oath and has become an artist, a struggling artist, but a happy one. She always wanted to become a dancer or an actress, as it suited her expressive nature. Now, she’s doing both. Social media makes it easy to follow someone’s life, even when they’re not living around the corner anymore.
I can’t say how many times I’ve been sitting in front the computer, staring at her profile, thinking how happy I am for her, while at the same time, feeling troubled by my own choices. I’ve given up, just because I couldn’t put a name on what it was that I wanted to pursue. Olivia had a clear cut dream, a goal. I never had anything like that.
All I have are ideas, plenty of them. When people say that there’s an app for everything these days, I strongly disagree, because I have encountered numerous situations in which I thought there should be an app for that, but there isn’t.
But I picked the wrong major. I had this short period in my life where I thought I knew what I wanted to do, and then I fell back under my family’s influence, too weak and with too little volition to withstand their ideal of growing an undiluted household of scholars, drinking Bourbon while they engage in discussions on their field.
I don’t even like Bourbon. I don’t like any of it. It just comes easy to me.
Now this man shows up in my life and unwittingly starts poking at all these things, these ideas from the past, the ongoing doubts. Just as I’m about to finish my graduate degree and embark on the next level, as he called it.
I thought Mr. Portland was joking when he said that he wanted to give me an individual homework assignment. I expected some kind of payback for my snappy way of talking to him, but instead I find myself faced with an assignment that rocks the foundation of everything I built up during the past few years.
“Figure out what it is you really want to do in life,” he said. “Not what you should do, not what is expected of you to do, not what would be smart thing to do right now. It has to be something you really want - even if it appears to be silly or unrealistic.”
He sat there, looking gorgeous with his damp hair and green eyes, both of us wearing his sweaters like long term lovers, and he told me to rethink my future.
As if it were that easy. I’ve been trying to cast his intrusion aside for weeks and focus on getting through my final classes as well as possible, but I’ve reached a point where I have to admit that it won’t work like that. Especially, because I’m reminded of all my ‘what if’s every time I sit in his class.
Mr. Portland’s lectures diverted from sheer self-marketing and inspirational speeches to something much more. While he sticks to his mantra of doing things differently, thinking outside the box and not underestimating the worth of failure along the path, he also presented us with quite a few insights to the business world that caught my interest more than the models and mathematics behind everything that we are taught about in other Econ classes. In a nutshell, he is teaching us how to turn an idea into a profitable business.
It could be interesting to follow up on this. With him and what he’s teaching us. I kept my distance from him, because I perceived his way of unraveling me as distracting and too confusing. But the more time passes, the more intrigued I am to open this new door instead of shutting everything behind it out of my life like I have before.
Besides, I s
till have his sweater.
He never asked me to return it, but every time he casts me one of those fierce looks during class, I’m reminded of that soft piece of clothing that belongs to him and that - for some reason - I keep hidden away in the far back of my dresser.
I’m also reminded of the fact that I secretly wear it when Celia is not around. She’d freak if she knew what happened between me and the elusive Mr. Portland. I can’t even imagine her reaction if she found out that I ended up in his office, alone with him while both of us changed into dry clothes, that he stood in front of me with that marvelous bare chest and that he gave me something of his to wear, and that I kept it and occasionally wear it as if we were a couple or something.
I mean, nothing happened between us. We didn’t kiss, we didn’t even touch. Did we flirt? I most certainly didn’t - but him? I’m not sure.
“Yo, dreamy head!”
Celia’s voice violently pulls me out of my stream of thoughts. I look up and turn to her bed, where she’s still tucked in beneath her massive amount of sheets and pillows. Her bed is so crowded with bedding, I always wondered how she manages to sleep in there at all.
Her hair is ruffled and her eyes a nothing but narrow slits as she glances over to me.
“Aren’t you late for class?” She asks.
I glance over to the alarm clock on my night stand and realize that she’s right.
“Crap!” I exclaim, jumping up from my bed.
Celia chuckles as she rolls back over, turning her back to me and burying her face beneath the bed sheets.
“What’s wrong with you, man,” her muffled voices asks from underneath the sheets. “You’re lucky that your disturbing morning routine has conditioned me to be awake this early.”
I want to argue that it’s close to 10am, which some people wouldn’t even consider morning anymore, but I’m in too much of a hurry for that.
I throw on my scarf and jacket, grab my satchel and storm across the campus. This has never happened to me before. How could I get so lost in thoughts that I actually forgot about class. His class!
I’m one of the last people to enter the auditorium, and of course, there is no chance for me to take my usual seat in the third row this late. I’m left with a free seat at the far back of the hall. I’ve never sat this far back before and am surprised at how little everything appears from up here. I have to squint to see what is written on the board at the front.
Why would anyone want to sit here voluntarily?
However, a look around at my seatmates provides an answer to that. The guy sitting right next to me isn’t even awake, he’s lying bent-forward on his desk, curled up in his sweater and snoring noisily. I will have to wake him up when that attendance list makes its way around.
Others in my proximity are glued to their phones or tablets, some even with laptops, scrolling through online shops or giggling over memes and cat videos. Even the magic and allure of Mr. Portland fails to reach every student sitting way up here.
When he enters the auditorium and takes his position in front of the board, I see him glancing to the area where I would usually be sitting. He always does this, but I never realized how natural it has become for me. Even though we haven’t been in a one-on-one conversation since that thunderstorm, I’d feel disappointed if he started treating me like any other student.
His face changes when he realizes that I’m not in my usual seat. It gives me great satisfaction to see him furling his eyebrows and looking around, scanning the rows for me.
A faint hint of relief emerges on his handsome face when his eyes finally lock onto mine, before he tilts his head to the side quizzically.
I hunch my shoulders and cast him an apologetic smile. Sorry, I was late.
He turns his attention back to the rest of the class and begins his lecture.
This feels so natural. The self-evident way in which we make sure that the other one is around feels so right and normal - yet it is anything but that. There’s a kind of connection and tension between us, triggered by that day we escaped to his office.
He dismissed me abruptly and I left, taking not only his sweater with me, but a homework assignment I have yet to turn in.
He is waiting for me to come back to him. Obviously, he is. But I can’t come back until I have an answer, until I have done the homework I was assigned to do.
I spent too much time pushing him and the ideas he put in my head away.
But that is going to change going forward.
CHAPTER TEN
JACKSON
Walking down the hallway is a torment in itself, even without the constant yelling and jeers to ridicule me. My shoes have been broken for a while, the soles growing thinner with every step, until they finally fail to provide protection from the surface I’m walking on. It’s been raining this morning and my feet have been soaked all day, the cold slowly creeping up my legs until it reaches my core.
I’ve never known anything but poverty, but the older I become, the more it seems to hurt. Still, I can consider myself lucky. I’ve never gone hungry. Food is the only thing that my mother always has enough money for. Food and alcohol. It’s the only comfort she has since my father left us two years ago, and I’ve been watching her grow more depressed ever since. Glued to the couch in front of the television, the only quality time I ever share with her is a huge portion of fries and fish sticks with ketchup, Pizza or instant mac & cheese. Sometimes, it’s all of these together, while we stare at the TV in silence, only communicating via our loud chewing or to pass drinks and food between us. She started sharing her beer with me when I turned thirteen a few months ago, but I never cared for the taste. I don’t understand why everybody is making such a big fuss about underage drinking, when beer tastes like wet feet. I’d much rather stick with my Coke.
“Jackson Fatson!” One of my classmates yells across the hall as I approach my locker. I ignore him, just like I ignore everyone else. The stares, the name calling, the pointing fingers, the giggling behind my back - the D on my most recent test. I provide these cruel kids with a target on so many levels, I can hardly blame them for unloading on me.
I just wonder what it’s like on the other side.
I hold my head low and fiddle with the lock on my locker, prepared to be attacked by a horrible smell or something falling at me once I open the door. Kids are very creative when it comes to torturing others.
Today nothing of the sort happens. All I find are my belongings, worn-out schoolbooks, pens and an open bag of candy, the only solace I know. I grab two pieces and quickly shove them into my mouth, hoping that no one saw me do it. A faint smile speaks of the comfort the sugar provides for me. I feel happy, even though I know the feeling won’t last long.
My next class is Math, the only class that doesn’t make me feel like a complete failure. It’s not like I’m bringing home straight As, but I never saw a big fat F or D scrawled across any of my math tests.
“Jackson Fatson!” Another chorus sings behind me.
“Whatcha doing loser?” Kendrick, a boy from my Geometry class asks. “Trying to hide in your locker?”
“Like he’d ever fit!” Another one chimes in. “Probably crying because he flunked the easiest quiz ever!”
“I didn’t flunk!” I protest, now turning around to the little group of boys who have nothing better to do than to add to my misery for their own amusement.
“Whatever!” Kendrick yells at me. “Jackson Fatson!”
Something tells me that he’s not the brightest bulb in the box himself. Others have shown a lot more wit when it comes to tormenting me with their words.
I cut off his ongoing attempts at messing with me and head for my next class. Math is my favorite class, not only because I don’t suck at it, but for an additional reason: That other reason happens to walk around the corner just this moment.
Aileen Watson may not even be aware of my existence, but she plays the lead in all of my adolescent dreams, innocent or not. She is tall fo
r a girl, taller than me and there is nothing particularly captivating about her looks to others, as far as I can tell. I’ve never heard the boys talk about her the same way they talk about others. Like Sara, our blonde, popular star athlete whose breasts have grown enormously during the last summer and who suddenly started to wear the most exceptional makeup.
Aileen doesn’t wear makeup or short skirts and she is rather clumsy in gym class, but she excels in her studies. She’s the best student of our entire grade, which means that she must be a lot smarter than me. Her brown hair falls over her shoulders in long waves, sometimes blocking her views when she bends over her desk to work on assignments. When that happens, she tucks it behind her hair with a calm and elegant motion, not letting it disturb her work. She’s always prepared and concentrated in class and doesn’t participate in the chatting and giggling of other girls.
And she doesn’t bully me. She’s a good person. At least I think she is. I’ve not talked to her once, and the only time I’ve heard her speak was in class, when she answered the teacher’s questions. Her voice is deep and calm, not squeaky and annoying like those of the cheerleader squad who continuously practice their infantile chants on the field outside and inside the halls.
She always sits in the front row, while I’m two rows behind her, slightly to the right, so that I can see her delicate back and watch her follow class with unparalleled attention.
She’s too good for me. I know that. While I’ve never seen Aileen with a boyfriend or even talk to another boy in a flirtatious manner, I’m sure that I’d be that last one for her to pick. She needs someone smart. Someone with potential. Not Jackson Fatson. Not a loser who sighs in relief for every passing grade he receives, because he’s too dumb for school.
But while all of that may be true, Aileen still gives me a reason to smile. Her mere presence uplifts my mood and makes me feel blessed to be alive.
