Page 50 of You + Me – Against the World

“Sit down! We’re wasting time! What’s wrong with you this morning? Surely it’s not some lousy graffiti that has you all carrying on like this? If the smart alecks who did this are among you, or if you know who they are, I suggest they open a dictionary before trying their hand at being urban poets.”

“It wasn’t us, Professor,” Nicki Scott pipes up, clearly trying to score some points with him.

“‘It wasn’t us, Professor,’” Abrams mimics, pitching his voice high to mock her. “I thought we were in college, not kindergarten. Scott, grab some crayons and go draw me a pretty picture at the back of the class while I teach the others.”

My blonde classmate scowls, and the rest of the students either snicker or grimace. Mr. Abrams has managed to shut down any further discussion of what happened, and I’m grateful to him.

“Listen up. I have an announcement. I’ve hired Alma Lancaster to be my personal assistant for the first semester. However, applications are already open to take her place in January.”

Clémentine turns around, shocked. Other students turn to look at me too, some simply surprised, some clearly jealous.

I’ve got no idea how I’m going to survive this day.

“I’m giving you the morning off,” Abrams continues. “I want you to go to the movies. All of you, no exceptions. Go see anything, I don’t care, even the worst movie that’s showing at the moment. For Monday morning, I want a detailed report, including a new title for the film, a replacement actor for each of the main roles, an overall critique of the sets, costumes, and editing, and an alternate suggestion for the opening credits music. Imagine you’re a disgruntled producer. You invested a million dollars, and nothing is working. Be harsh, be unfair, be ruthless! I want you to make the movie’s director cry. Is that clear? Perfect. Now get out of here!”

Everyone is jolted back to reality by his words, rising compliantly and filing out of the room. I gather up my things and start to follow the others, relieved to be able to leave campus right away and to see my classmates worked up about something other than the offensive graffiti on the wall.

“Not you, Lancaster! You stay here. Keeping your commitments is the first duty of any good assistant.”

“I didn’t know I was starting today. What do you want me to do?”

“For starters, I’d like you to lose that hangdog expression; it doesn’t suit you at all. Is working for me really such a nightmare?”

I force myself to smile.

“There, that’s better. Now, you are going to contact Arcadi and tell him what you have to say to him. I don’t want you to spend the whole day brooding, whining, and overthinking. I want your mind to be one hundred percent with me. Go ahead, I’m not listening.”

“You know, these days we send messages. We don’t call each other when we want to talk.”

“Perfect. Call me an old fool if you want, but do what you have to do, and do it quickly.”

I grab my cell phone and start typing a text. I write, delete it, and start over; I don’t know how to word my thoughts, and Abrams hovering nearby isn’t exactly helping me concentrate.

[I didn’t say anything, I swear.]

I reread the message I just sent, thinking about everything I could have added, but my professor is already sighing impatiently. I slip my cell phone back into my pocket and force my mouth into a smile again.

“Ready. One hundred percent.”

“Fantastic! We’re going to my place; I have an entire office to tidy up. About fifteen years’ worth of stuff to sort, file, throw away, organize… I’ve always dreamed of doing this. Well, of having someone do it for me.”

Kill me now.

***

Trapped between these four walls, sitting on the dark wood floor in front of dozens of rows of files, I’m close to tears. The smell of stale tobacco is making me nauseous. Everything is brown here: the floor, the wood of the bookcase, the spines of the dusty, old books, the worn leather armchairs—even the yellowed walls, once white, are now bordering on a dark shade of beige.

Even this dog sprawled beside me.

Why is he staring at me? And why isn’t he moving? Is he even alive?

It’s hard to tell whether anything is still happening behind those drooping eyes.

“Alma, don’t pay any attention to Hitchcock,” comes Mr. Abrams’s distant voice. “He likes to stare at people when he’s half asleep, but he won’t bother you. Just pretend he isn’t there.”

The heavy silence settles back in. The only thing I hear is my professor’s footsteps making the floorboards creak here and there. I feel like I’m in a haunted house. And my only companion is a Basset Hound so still he looks stuffed.

I twist around to fish my phone out of my pocket and confirm what I already know: Vadim hasn’t answered me.