by Mara Lynne
“What should I do?” I am unconsciously biting my thumb. I do this whenever I am anxious.
“I thought you said you’d let him do whatever he wants.”
I thought so too, but I don’t think I can handle that for now. I absolutely fear what he might say to me. I cringe just by recalling his facial expression that day. He was stunned and shocked — terribly shocked that I can’t help thinking his head was filled with too many questions that he forgot I was still there standing in front of him, embarrassed as hell but still waiting for a positive reaction from him. Geez! The ground can eat me now!
“Angel, look!” Ray points his index finger to the main door where Mr. Maxwell comes in.
Damien turns to the old balding man with a protruding tummy in a checkered polo shirt. A dash of delight spreads across Damien’s face as Mr. Maxwell walks toward him.
Crap! I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.
They talk. It seems that Damien has persuaded Mr. Maxwell with whatever he wants to happen. Mr. Maxwell doesn’t seem like he is objecting at all. Ahh, if only I can lip read.
“Gosh, Angel.” I hear Ray’s voice, sending chills down my ears. “I think you are in trouble.”
I close my eyes as Mr. Maxwell strides to the kitchen with a forced smile on his face, and Ray pulls me to the corner.
“Where’s Mohr?” Mr. Maxwell roars after the door closes behind him. “Oh, there you are!” he continued with his hands on his hips, and his lips curled to a half-smile. “Somebody’s requesting for you.”
“But I’m busy, Mr. Maxwell.” I quickly fix my apron as though showing him I am busy.
“Is he the guy from table three? I can take their order, sir!” Ray raises his hand in an effort to help me out.
Mr. Maxwell’s eyebrow rises. Damn! Ray should have just shut his mouth off. Now, Mr. Maxwell thinks we are not paying attention to our customers’ needs. He probably thinks that Damien went to the counter to ask for a diner staff to take their order since nobody is coming for it. It isn’t really the situation, but who knows what Mr. Maxwell must have in his mind right now.
Oh, please, just don’t fire me!
“Mohr! Table three!” he barks at me.
I press my knuckles to my palms to ease the anxiety I am feeling. I feel Mr. Maxwell and Ray’s eyes follow me as I exit the kitchen door. Damien is waiting at the counter, and by the time his eyes catch a glimpse of me, he smiles.
I felt a sinking feeling at the thought of what he might say to me. Clearly, he’s here to make my life even more miserable. I’m too intelligent not to notice that it’s most probably related to the incident of a week ago.
I stand straight as though I am telling him not to mess up with me.
“Why are you here?” My brow arches as high as my hairline.
He calls me with three brief movements of his fingers, which I find way too arrogant. Can’t he just call me by my name or is it that hard to speak a poor woman’s name? I feel the fury raging through my veins.
“Come here!” he said with a slightly raised voice.
Nope! I stand my ground.
He takes out a small card from his pocket, smiles, and moves it closer to the edge of the counter so I can see what’s in there. It’s his calling card.
“For you,” he says.
“And why do I need your number?”
“In case you need me,” he confidently replies. “I have my apartment’s address there, so you know where to find me when you’ve made up your mind.” With that, he turns his back to me and heads to the door. His friends follow him while shooting glares at me.
Made up my mind? Geez! He has the gall to say that in front of me. How dare he?
My cheeks burn in mortification and my nose flares in annoyance. It’s that stupid question’s fault! Now here I am cursing myself for making that mistake, and he had to shove that stupidity to my face again. Will I ever get my peace back?
This is exactly the reaction I was expecting from him but not what I wanted to see. This calling card only suggests one thing: he’s up for my offer. For all I know, he’s going to shame me forever because of this. Asking that question is probably the biggest mistake of my life.
“What’s that?” Ray asked from behind me.
“His calling card,” I say with a sigh, picking up the thick piece of paper.
“Does this mean he wants to have sex with you?” Ray’s eyes widen with curiosity. His voice lay low in the sex part. Customers might hear.
“No!” I quickly reply and walk past him, walking to the trash bin to throw the damned card.
“Then, what does that mean?”
“He’s clearly teasing me. That’s all!”
“Damien Etheridge teasing you? Possible. But Damien Etheridge saying no to sex? I doubt it!”
“Shut up, Ray!”
“I’m just telling the truth. Your brilliant idea worked!”
“Brilliant? It was stupid!” I muttered as I start making coffee for table six.
“Stupid, yeah, but think of the money, Angel. Think of what you can do for your family. It’s not like women nowadays stay virgin.”
Is he actually trying to send me to Damien’s bed?
“If you say one more word about that, Ray, I’m going to cut your tongue.”
“Angel, I’m just saying—”
“No, Ray! That was a mistake. I’ll never let that happen.” I know Ray’s just concerned about me. He’s my best friend. If he says sorry to me now, he’s going to have my forgiveness right away.
“Okay, I’m sorry,” he gently says.
Chapter 2: His Proposal
Class with Mr. Reeble, my minor subject teacher, ends after an hour of grueling exam in philosophy. I have Ruiz for history and Haynes for literature in the next few hours.
Studying in Princeton is a big opportunity for me, so it’s also a big responsibility that I graduate this year. Dad spent almost all of his life savings to put me here, a huge sacrifice for an ill man who’s unemployed and almost broke. I should have applied for a scholarship, but something happened on the day I was supposed to take the exam. I was hospitalized three days after I fell off the stairs, and the broken leg required three months in a cast, just enough for summer before college started. Call it my destiny, but I always think it was bad luck. I am currently working on my degree in English, major in Creative Writing. I’ve always dreamt of being a writer since I was in high school. Being in the school paper for years gives me the motivation to dream big.
“Angel!” Ray calls in the corridor.
“Oh! Hi, Ray!”
“Hey, about the graduation ball...”
“Yes, I’ll be glad to be your partner.”
He laughs.
“You’re not asking me to be your partner, are you?” I sarcastically ask. I don’t have any plans of attending the ball. It’s just a waste of time and money. Besides, I have work in the diner.
“That’s not why I’m here.” We stop in the middle of the corridor. “But it’ll be an honor to be your escort.” He wiggles his head in a goofy manner. “However, I do not think I’ll be escorting you on that night.”
I pull him near the lockers so we don’t mess up the traffic.
“I’ve heard from Professor McCartney that Damien requested the facilitators to have the candidates for class valedictorian attend the ball. You are a candidate and will most likely get the top plum,” he explained.
I am about to cut him when he raises his finger to stop me from talking.
“Damien knows it, so I have a theory. He’s going to use the ball to get you.”
“I’m not going to the ball. You know that. Not until I pay my exam fees.” If I were to be class valedictorian, I have to take the exam first, right? “Damien was just teasing me, okay? Got that?”
“Believe me, Angel, he isn’t joking. He doesn’t joke on that matter.”
Yeah, right! Sex. Obviously, his clandestine interest in it is laughable, at least for me. I can’t
believe he won the Student Body Elections with this reputation.
“Ray, Damien Etheridge is just mocking me because of last week. He plays mind games and sees how I react. He will never take it or me seriously. What’s the connection with Damien and me and the ball anyways?”
“He might take you as his date!”
“Nonsense!” I dismissively said as I start walking to my next class, but Ray follows me.
“I’m not kidding. It’s a possible scenario. He’s going to do everything to get you, and he’s already started.”
“The calling card didn’t mean anything, okay?” Gosh! How long should I have to pretend? The truth is, I am trying so hard to condition my mind that Damien Etheridge is just playing with me because of that embarrassing incident. He could be laughing in his mind right now. A serious and smart girl asking that question? What a disgrace! Anyone with the right mind doesn’t just ask a random guy to make out with her. I can’t believe how anxiety and fear for my father’s life wrecked my rationality back then. It was like I was high on something or what.
We reach my room, so Ray has to leave.
“You have literature, right?”
“Yes,” I answer.
He bobs his head as though his mind is forming the craziest of ideas.
“I know what you’re thinking, Ray,” I said, making sure I sound menacing. I am already starting to feel cold. Damien and I are classmates in this subject. Shit!
“Better put up a strong front, sweetie,” he says.
I take a deep breath to maintain my composure. I don’t want Ray to think that I am nervous.
“I’ll see you after class,” I say after hugging him.
I go directly to my seat, just a row away from the front, and take out my essay on Shakespeare. For the entire week, I researched about the Oxfordian Theory on William Shakespeare. I am too focused reading my assignment that I don’t notice the room filling up. Mr. Haynes comes in, and he starts asking us one by one to read our assignments. I am called somewhere in the middle.
I go up to the platform and inhale to shrug off the nerves when my peripheral sight catches the menacing glare that I wish I should have not seen. He is smiling at me just like how he did it in the diner.
“Ms. Mohr,” said Mr. Haynes after noticing my sudden stiffness.
I remove my glare from him even though I can still feel his eyes on me.
“The English poet and playwright William Shakespeare is dubbed as the ‘Soul of the Age’ in the early 16th century. His famous works include the tragedy Romeo and Juliet, Othello, Macbeth, King Lear, Hamlet and several sonnets. We all read from books that he is from Stratford-Upon-Avon, a theater actor, and a writer. But his identity has been in question since the eighteenth century because of insufficient evidence about his life. We know that his works are celebrated for four centuries, and perhaps till eternity as long as the name ‘Shakespeare’ is attached to every printed copy of his writings. His legacy shall continue to walk the surface of the earth. And yet we know little about the man himself—exactly who is William Shakespeare? Conspiracy theories about his true identity arose as accounts about ‘Shakespeare’ being just a name to author literary works crop up. As he put pen to paper, Shakespeare creates a world beyond the unimaginable. Through his words, we could envisage what kind a man he is. His works are so great that no ordinary, university uneducated theater actor from a small town could have put into writing. Anti-Stratfordian theorists assert that the William Shakespeare who worked in the theater is not the real William Shakespeare but just an imaginary figure used to instill political propaganda or to perhaps veil the true identity of some high-ranked individual.”
“Who’s your candidate for the real Soul of the Age?” asks Mr. Haynes as he sits on the far edge of the table, taking out his spectacles.
“Edward de Vere, sir,” I reply.
He turns to everybody and speaks, “Is there anyone who has de Vere in their paper?”
I am utterly horrified when I see Damien raise his hand.
“Yes, Etheridge!” calls Mr. Haynes with an outstretched finger. “Read to us your paper.”
Damien goes to the platform while I hurry to my seat when Mr. Haynes stops me and asks me to stay in the front.
Damien clears his throat after eyeing me. I feel my throat tighten in protest, which is clearly not necessary this time. Mr. Haynes has the right to call him up. He’s our teacher. It’s not like he planned it to make my day miserable.
Damien starts reading, “Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford, was a poet, and a playwright. He became a ward of the Crown under the guardianship of William Cecil, later Lord Burghley, Lord Treasurer, after his father’s death on 1562. Oxfordians believe that De Vere is the true Shakespeare mainly due to his wide knowledge of the English aristocracy, and his and Shakespeare’s poems are of similar structures.” He pauses to glance at me again.
Why do I feel that he isn’t really reading? His eyes aren’t fixed on his paper. They move a lot like he isn’t serious at all. He isn’t making this up, is he?
There’s no way he’s making this up! He’s smart, but I don’t believe he can spontaneously talk about de Vere so fluently and cleverly. I would have not known this man if it weren’t because of Hayne’s appointed readings.
He continues, this time folding his paper crosswise, keeps it to his pocket, and shows to everyone that stuck-up smirk again. He’s not reading anymore.
“De Vere wrote under a pseudonym, just like Bacon, to protect his noble reputation. To further prove this claim, Edward de Vere had traveled to Italy in the 1570’s, making him knowledgeable about Venice, which was used by Shakespeare as the setting for his plays, the Merchant of Venice and Othello. Many scholars also observed that his works are autobiographical plays of his life. Only a person who had experienced these real life situations could have convincingly described them in prose. The Earl’s nickname at court was ‘Spear-shaker’— quite close to ‘Shakespeare,’ right? His great skills at tournaments and his coat of arms featuring a lion brandishing a spear earned him the moniker.”
Before he can continue, Mr. Haynes cuts him off. “Congratulations, Mohr! You got yourself a partner,” he says.
What? The words ring in my ears, and I feel them hitting my eardrums.
“Etheridge and Mohr, defend de Vere. Submit your works next week, Friday,” he sharply says. Then he starts pairing up the others for Sir Francis Bacon, Christopher Marlowe, William Hastings, and other candidates.
Class ends there.
Did Mr. Haynes just pair me up with Damien? I feel my surroundings swirl as people around slowly leave the room. For a moment, I turn deaf and mute.
Why him of all people?
“Hey.” I feel a light nudge on my shoulder.
It takes me a few seconds to realize it is Damien standing in front of me with that menacing gaze of his. I quickly step back, avoiding his touch.
“What do you want, Etheridge?” I move to my chair to take my things.
“We’re partners, Mohr,” he says.
“I heard that.”
“I have plenty of Shakespeare materials in my apartment…”
I turn to face him. “And you can secure us tickets to England to see fifteenth and sixteenth century de Vere accounts in their National Library.”
His mouth opens slightly in surprise, but his eyes smile. “I think I can do that,” he utters confidently.
“Well, good thing we have the powerful Google nowadays so we don’t need to waste a single dollar for that.” I try to sound clever as possibly as I can. I’m not really used to talking to him. It’s only now that he takes notice of me because of that silly question. I was always the wallflower in this classroom except during exams and recitals. I am kind of surprised he knows my name.
“Well then, I’ll see you tonight,” he says.
“For what?”
“Research.”
I smirk.
“For your information, Etheridge, I have int
ernet at home, and I’m not an elementary student who needs guidance for assignments. Let’s work on this separately, okay?”
“Okay.” He rolls his eyes at me. “But don’t blame me if our research doesn’t coincide with each other. I am merely offering my resources, Mohr, and here you are running your pride. This isn’t about…” he trails off as he leans forward and whispers, “the sex question, right?”
I see his eyes glimmer with excitement and mischief.
Of course, it is! a voice in my mind shouts.
Why would I be so self-conscious around him if I don’t feel embarrassed? It’s that question’s fault! My cheeks start to boil with heat. He doesn’t need to remind me that, but he did anyway to stir me up.
He sees me fuming with anger, but he isn’t showing any sign of defeat. “That thing should not get into your mind, Mohr,” he continued. “This is academics we’re talking about here, not your or my sensual pleasure, okay? If you want to seal your class valedictorian spot, get at least a ninety-eight in this. We can help each other on that.”
I slam my books against the table, look up, and face him. I see him flinch.
“Etheridge, I can get that ninety-eight with or without your help.”
He heaves a sigh and smirks.
“Do not underestimate me,” I add gracefully.
“I have never underestimated you, Mohr.” His eyes flicker. “As a matter of fact, I am quite stunned by you. To let you know, I am interested in your offer.”
“A man of your stature? Obviously, you are, Etheridge.” I sarcastically muttered as I started to walk past him when he grasps my arm and stops me from leaving.
“I’m not kidding, and I know you weren’t as well.”
I turn to face him, appalled.
“What do you mean by that?”
He yanks my arm close to him so our faces are only inches from each other.
“I think you are underestimating me, Mohr. I’m disappointed that you don’t recognize what I can do.”
“Just so you know, Etheridge, I’m not afraid of you,” I boldly reply, not flinching even in his presence.
For a second, his gaze lands on my lips. A strange twisting sensation in my stomach calls my attention.
