The Fall of Troy

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  Breathe.

  In the things we loathe become the things we love.

  This was my thing. The thing I forced my mind to when anger took it to bad places. When Dr. Shelly, my psychiatrist, suggested that I find something to disrupt the negative train of thought—a word or phrase or some sort of physical reminder—this was the only one that worked. It was a stupid idea—and I told her that—because I didn’t have ‘negative trains of thoughts.’ But then I found myself coming back to that line every time I was surrounded or faced with something that I loathed. My father. My mother. Lilith. School. Therapy. Life.

  And now, Ms. Williams.

  My salvation had become my obsession. That’s why I’d had the words tattooed down my side.

  Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas.

  “Okay,” she said with a huff, shoving papers off her keyboard and mouse. My stomach rolled as one mess crashed into another. A collision of disorder that was fatal to my faculties. She clicked a few times and then began cherry-picking the keys as she typed. “Here is what we are going to have to do.”

  I glanced down at the newsprint course list on my lap. Why did I have a feeling my carefully coordinated choices no longer mattered?

  “Since you are transferring in this semester, most of the courses are already full.” Great. “However, I can still fit you into most of the general classes that you missed last semester: College Math, English Composition, Art History, and French 101.”

  Good. No science.

  The last thing I needed was a class that had Dr. Damien Milanovic, world-renowned chemist, written all over it. ‘Oh, are you related to Dr. Milanovic? The man who discovered the drug they say will cure lung cancer?’ I could see it now—all the opportunities for him and his scientific feats to come into conversation and pour more gasoline onto the ever-present fire of betrayal.

  For me, the only feat that was worth remembering was that he’d fucked my best friend.

  “However, I will also need you to take one of the freshman Value Electives.” My raised eyebrow silently screamed that she needed to explain. “Value Electives are classes with more narrowed focus in a variety of areas of art. They change each semester. Each year.”

  I quickly scanned the newsprint, searching for the section that listed these value electives.

  “It looks like this semester we are only offering two of them. Usually they are taken first semester and that is when we have a larger selection. For this term, it looks like you can take ‘Blue: Picasso’s Period’ with Professor Meghan Ja—”

  “I know who she is,” I cut in.

  Meghan James.

  Ever since their divorce, my mother had received all my anger because she’d been the one to leave. Now, that shone like a flickering star in comparison to the sun of rage I held for my father.

  My mother. Artist. Professor. Adulterer.

  My father. Chemist. Researcher. Friend-fucker.

  A less apathetic person might’ve found the irony amusing.

  “Oh, of course. I forgot that she is your mother.” Rat-pack Raggedy Ann laughed like it was a good thing. “Well, I assume then that that is the class you’d like—”

  “No.” She jumped in her seat with my curt forcefulness. I was not taking my mother’s class. The last thing I needed was to spend more time in that woman’s presence outside of my living arrangements. “What is the other option?”

  “Oh… ahh… well… let me see…” she sputtered, frantically clicking around the screen again, her judgment of me ringing loud and clear. “Oh! Well, you are in luck.” Do tell, I thought wryly. “It looks like the other VE course this semester is ‘A Study of David’ and it’s going to be given by a guest professor from France, Dr. Léo Baudin.”

  Awesome.

  So: mother or miserable old Frenchman?

  “Sounds great.” Miserable old Frenchman it was.

  I walked down the hill from the admissions building toward The Wise Bean, the clouds hanging like dirty cotton balls, heavy with the predicted snow. I was determined to stop for a caffeine fix before my appointment with Dr. Shelly. And by ‘before,’ that meant I was going to be a few minutes late if I stopped for coffee. I didn’t care—and neither would she. Caffeine completed the circle of life.

  Fresh coffee—strong, sweet, energizing—brewed inside my nostrils as soon as the door opened. Coffee was an addiction and by walking inside you could get a contact-high from the aromatic scent of the fresh beans that were imported from various places all over South America.

  The Wise Bean wasn’t a chain—not that I had a problem with Starbucks or the like; coffee was coffee. But Providence was a wanna-be Portland, infected with liberal art students who believed that chains were from the devil and one should always be told the name of the chicken one was about to eat when dining out. It sounded obnoxious, but really, it was just so excessive that it became like a TV show—something you could focus on if you wanted or something that could play in the background if you didn’t give a shit.

  I didn’t give a shit.

  I liked the Wise Bean because it was usually pretty empty, the worn brown leather couches were comfy, and most importantly, the espresso was strong.

  Today, unfortunately, the hipster coffee shop was packed. Judging by the crowd, I’d say it was because classes started next week so everyone was coming back from Christmas break and eager to catch up. Pulling my plain navy parka tighter over me, I weaved through the crowd of men wearing jeans that were too small for their bodies and women in over-sized hippie pants and long, loose sweaters. It was an identity crisis that no amount of caffeine could solve.

  Meanwhile, I had on a plain gray tee underneath my pewter winter jacket, tight black jeans, and my black rain boots, ready for any kind of precipitation. My wardrobe now consisted of the dark end of the grayscale as I mourned the death of the girl I always thought I was going to be. I was trying to fade away, dissolve in the darkness inside me. I didn’t care about blending in and I definitely didn’t want to stand out.

  “Large Americano, please,” I said quietly, sliding open my phone to pay.

  I ignored the cashier when he said ‘thank you,’ too busy declining the incoming call from my mother. Professor Meghan James.

  I hated how each of my two strengths came from each of my two parents.

  Science and art. Opposite ends of the spectrum.

  Maybe that’s why their marriage hadn’t worked out.

  Or maybe it was just because my mom decided that her Italian male model, Paolo, was hotter than my brilliant, nerdy, and slightly detached father.

  They’d split when I was twelve. The analytical part of my mind calculated that it was my mother’s fault and therefore she didn’t deserve my presence in her life. So, I chose to stay with my dad in D.C. while she moved up here with Paolo to Providence. We never talked about it—him and I. And I never talked to her until the night I’d called to tell her that I was coming up to live with her. She’d been thrilled, whereas I’d been choosing the lesser of two evils.

  “Oomph.” I tipped forward into the counter as someone ran into me from behind.

  “Oh. My. God,” a nasally, flamboyant voice rang out behind me. “I. Am. So. Sorry.”

  I felt every period between those words like it was a gunshot instead of a full stop.

  “It’s okay,” I mumbled, not even bothering to turn around. I just wanted to get my coffee and go.

  “I didn’t make you spill anything, did I?” The voice persisted as its owner rounded on me. Black hair—half of it long and parted to one side, the other half buzzed short. Crystal-blue eyes regarded me far more perceptively than his tone indicated he was capable of from behind narrow Gucci frames. I gave the rest of him a once-over. His small stature—probably about the size of mine—was even more pronounced by the giant black puffer coat he’d just unzipped. He looked like a stick of black cotton candy with a head.

  At least he was put together.

  My irritation with disarr
ay extended to attire as well. His pants were still too tight, but he wore a white button-down that had tiny purple dots all over it—like it was just begging for someone to connect them in some intricate design—and a black and deep purple striped tie. Professional. Colorful, but professional.

  “No, I’m still waiting for my drink,” I replied with a tight smile, looking back to the barista who still hadn’t grabbed my cup. I could picture Dr. Shelly’s sigh of mild annoyance that she would quickly bury under professional politeness and pity.

  “Oh. Good.” He pressed a hand up over his heart in exaggerated relief. “I’m Kevin,” he continued, extending that same hand out to me. “Are you new here? I haven’t seen you before.”

  In the things you loathe become the things you love.

  I wasn’t here to make friends. I was here to do what had to be done until my probation for not trying to kill myself was up and I could leave. Flee. And never come back.

  The greatest irony I’d found was that the past six years I’d spent essentially living on my own while my father lost himself in his lab. I made sure my schoolwork was done. I made sure the house was clean and the laundry was done. And when I could drive, I made sure I got to school and that there were groceries in the fridge and dinner on the table, waiting for him at whatever hour he decided to return. I’d become an adult long before my age made the transition legal. And now, because of one night, one mistake, I was being watched like a child.

  “Do you know everyone, Keith?” I asked with a tight smile, purposely calling him the wrong name and keeping my hand to myself, hoping he’d get the hint. I wasn’t here to make friends; friends could betray you just as easily as family.

  “Kevin.” He smiled, his eyes lighting with amusement because he knew I was being purposely obstinate. “And, actually, I do. But I don’t know you.” He got the message. He just didn’t care to listen to it. “So, you can either tell me your name or I’d be happy to make one up for you, too.”

  His smirk said that the nickname he’d give me wasn’t one I was going to like.

  “Troian.” I caved, with a long sigh, cursing the girl behind the bar who was attempting to take gold as the world’s most inept barista. “I’m a freshman. New this semester.”

  His victorious smile bloomed. “Wow—I love your name. So, I guess your friends call you ‘Troy,’ then?”

  “Sure, Keith.” Not that I had any right now… and not that I wanted any.

  His smile tightened. “Kevin. Wonderful. So, Sparta, what classes are you in this semester?” I turned and blinked in confusion, laughter dancing in his eyes. “If you’re going to call me Keith, then I’m just going to have to call you Sparta.” He shrugged. “I like ancient history. And one Greek city is just as good as the next.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of my lips—a rare sensation as of late. And I found myself more inclined to continue the conversation. Maybe because he was putting effort into forcing me to be his friend—because he was putting effort into me. And that was new. Or maybe I was just bored. Either way, there was more to this character than the superficial frivolity his attire suggested.

  “I uhh… have to take a bunch of Gen Ed stuff,” I said just as the bumbling barista called that my drink was up. Reaching for the cup, I finished, “And I have to take some Value Elective about Dav—”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Giuseppe,” he gasped, and gripped my arm, this time almost spilling the drink I’d waited a lifetime for, as his gaze locked on a new unsuspecting prey. “Please… please tell me I’m not dreaming right now.”

  “Um… You’re not dreaming…” My eyebrows scrunched as I focused solely on getting my coffee to the safety of my other hand.

  “Please tell me you see what I see.” The way he whispered should not qualify as a whisper. Thankfully, there were so many other conversations happening, I was still the only person who heard him.

  I turned my head, spitting the sip of coffee I’d tried to take back into the travel cup.

  Too hot.

  My mouth echoed Kevin’s jaw drop. I couldn’t tell if it was just my world or the entire one that seemed to slow to a stop as he stood in the doorway, clearly debating whether a coffee was worth the effort.

  Coffee was always worth the effort.

  He was tall. So tall. A few more steps revealed wide shoulders covered with the sport coat, shirt, and tie: business attire. Maybe an accountant. Or a lawyer. He had a runner’s body—long and lean. To me, that translated into a profession that required more mental exercise than physical. Just like my father. Only this man looked like he knew how to put his work aside for those he cared about—he just chose not to.

  Each step was like a strip tease, revealing more and more of him as he came closer. It started with dark brown hair, a jawline so hard it looked like it was chiseled from stone, and blue eyes so deep that Jules Verne must have pulled them up from twenty-thousand-leagues under the sea just so there would be something that would reach the bottom of his soul.

  For a split second, they met my own as he glanced around the room and I felt myself drowning in their stormy depths as fire licked through my body making my choice of parka and hot coffee entirely uncomfortable.

  He looked at me like he knew me.

  Like he knew my story front-to-back, like he knew all the answers I’d moved up here to find with just a single glance. I coughed with the urge to yell—to scream—that he didn’t know anything. He couldn’t. Not with one look. But still I shook with the fear that he saw it all. All my pain. All my insecurities. As though all the walls I’d built were as clear as glass.

  Then he blinked and the eyes that scanned my soul were gone. And, like I was just one more fixture in his path to a necessary caffeine infusion, he quickly moved on.

  “I think I need a cold drink,” Kevin murmured next to me. “Or a cold shower.”

  I agreed with him, but in lieu of speaking, I found myself mesmerized by his movements. Whereas I’d been acutely aware of each and every person that occupied the small coffee shop, he seemed completely oblivious—bumping and pushing through the gaggle of bodies like he didn’t even feel that they were there. His eyes may have come from twenty-thousand-leagues under the sea, but his mind was twenty-thousand-miles away.

  Each step toward us, my heart beat harder. I wasn’t even sure the stupid thing knew how to work like this anymore, feeling like it had been on life-support for months. My gaze caught to his jaw. No wonder it was so strong, I could see the muscles clenching and keeping the rhythm of his steps from over here and I felt the insane notion to kiss it and capture the tick.

  Most would say that he looked like he was angry or frustrated; on the surface, there was a hint of intense irritation as he pushed through to the register. But all I saw was a melancholy in his mind. Deeply rooted. And then like ivy, it spiraled out and weaving its way over every plane of muscle, over every line of his face, and clinging to every breath he took.

  Beautiful, but deadly.

  ‘I cannot conceive a beauty in which there is no melancholy.’ Baudelaire, again.

  In another time, the poet had written those words with this man in mind. And now he was here, in front of me: my poetry brought to life. The ache to capture every woeful nuance on paper hit me harder than the bottle of Jack I’d consumed that night—the night I hadn’t been trying to kill myself.

  I wanted to draw him but it was more than that. The magnetic intensity of hatred burst through my veins for the man with the sea of sadness in his eyes. I wanted that sea. I wanted his beautiful melancholy. I wanted to drown in its comforting depths. Instead, all I had was an anger that I shoved deep down inside me like a boat stuck in a bottle.

  I had to be good or I would never be free.

  “Do you know him?” I asked with a strangled voice.

  It was worth a shot even though there was no way the guy was a student. He was too old. Not in the George Clooney sexy-old, but definitely in his mid-thirties.

  “Nope, but I wish I did
,” Kevin replied, finally glancing at me. “I’ll find out though. Oh, boy, will I find out. And when I do, I call dibs.”

  Laughter burst from me for the first time in… well… in an embarrassingly long time. It wasn’t rolling on the floor laughter but it was genuine. It also broke whatever had tied all my focus to the mystery man.

  “Go for it.” The last thing I was looking for right now was feeling like that man made me feel. Hot. Bothered. Angry. I didn’t need another person to cling to who would disappoint me. “I gotta run. I have a… uhh… appointment.”

  I turned toward the door. It was nice talking to Kevin, but maybe it was better if I didn’t see him again.

  “Okay, I’ll see you in the David class, Troy. Hope you’re ready for some fine male sculptures!” he said and I could hear the giant self-assured smile in his voice.

  I spun to glare at him and his laughing grin.

  “Are you stalking me?” I whispered loudly. The last thing I wanted to do was attract the attention of anyone else in the crowded space.

  “Psh, you wish, girl. I work in the Registrar’s office,” he explained, waving me off. “And I also have to take a VE this semester since I got kicked out of the one last semester—” he held up a hand. “I don’t want to talk about it.” I hadn’t made a move to ask. “Anyway. I saw you there earlier and the way you were giving Lynn Kline that death stare—which she totally deserves, trust me—well, I knew then that one, you were someone I needed to meet, and two, that watching you in a classful of self-absorbed artists was going to be far more entertainment than I could pass up.”

  His smiled widened at me and I couldn’t decide whether or not to be flattered or creeped out. Then again, it was hard to be creeped out by a stick of cotton candy sporting Gucci frames.

  “I doubt that,” I snorted. I wasn’t interesting. I was so not interesting that even my own father couldn’t spare one minute to concern himself with my life or my thoughts. But I wasn’t going to tell him that. “Don’t stalk me, Kevin.”

  He raised his coffee cup to me in cheers. “How can I stop now that you’ve finally got my name right?”