Page 56 of You + Me – Against the World

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“Alma, pick up the phone, dammit! I’ve called you ten times! I’m at the gym. The game is about to start, and your fucking name has been spray-painted on the wall—along with your fucking boyfriend’s! The whole college is here, and it’s all anyone is talking about. I hope you’re proud of yourself! I can’t cover for you this time. You know that, right? Seriously, how old are you? Everyone in the bleachers is staring at me. I’m so embarrassed. Anyway, some maintenance guys are trying to scrub it off before the players come out, but everyone’s already taken photos. And Tim is so pissed! You have no idea. Are you crazy or what? When Dad finds out, you’re dead! Anyway, call me back!”

Basile’s voice comes blasting through my voicemail. I listen to his message as I lie in bed, still half asleep. Every ache in my body reminds me of my magical night with Vadim. After that mad whirlwind in the gym, we gathered our clothes and ran off without looking back. Without taking one last look at the graffiti. Without giving a second thought to the consequences. I got in late, slipped into my room quietly, and slept like a baby. Waking up is proving brutal, though.

I bury my head under the pillow, trying to make my brother’s voicemail disappear. But his words keep echoing in my ears. All I want is to go back to sleep so I can avoid thinking, avoid facing this day. I want to pretend that nothing exists—except last night.

“Alma!”

This time, it’s my mother’s panicked voice calling my name as she knocks on my bedroom door. My father doesn’t bother with such niceties, barging in like a man possessed. He yanks off my comforter and starts yelling.

“Get up now!”

“Easy, Edward,” my mother soothes, trying to calm him down.

“Guess who we had on the phone bright and early this morning!” My father barrels on as I struggle to sit up. “The dean! A friend of mine! The one who got you into UCLA! And do you know why he was calling?!”

“No…” I lie weakly, rubbing my eyes so I don’t have to look at him.

“Graffiti, Alma! Your name and that Arcadi boy’s. In big, red letters on the wall of the gym, where a basketball game is going on right now! Do you realize what this means?!”

“I know, there was already graffiti on campus yesterday morning. But I have nothing to do with it, Dad.”

“Enough! You can explain yourself to the dean. We’ve been called into his office in half an hour.”

“Go get dressed. We can’t be late,” my mother says, always pragmatic.

“I’m very disappointed, Alma. I hope you’re not going to make me regret uprooting us all to come to the United States for you.”

My father casts me a dark look, then turns on his heel and slams my bedroom door. Tears well up in my eyes. My mother hovers near me, a hand at her throat, as if she’s struggling to breathe.

“You know he doesn’t mean what he says. He’s just angry. Everyone was thrilled to move here, sweetheart. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation and that you’re not behind all this. That’s right, isn’t it, Alma?”

She’s trying to reassure me, but I can hear in her voice that she’s the one who needs reassurance as she nervously smooths my hair. Her quiet, well-mannered daughter couldn’t possibly have committed an act of vandalism or decided to make a spectacle of herself in front of the entire university. It simply can’t be true.

My mother is on my side out of principle.

My father, out of pride, is on the side of the family reputation.

As I walk into the dean’s luxurious office, I keep my head down, eyes fixed on my feet. Then Vadim’s shoes suddenly come into view. I look up and find him standing there, arms crossed, next to his caseworker. While my parents and the other adults exchange cordial handshakes, my father cracks a little joke to lighten the mood, and Vadim takes the opportunity to roll up his sleeve and discreetly show me his forearm. Scrawled across his silky skin in shaky black block letters are the words:

Deny everything. Never happened. I love you.

He pulls down his sleeve and gives me a tiny, barely perceptible wink that makes my heart explode. Then he smiles, looking straight ahead. I can’t take my eyes off him, or that carefully crafted look of indifference. It’s pure perfection.

He loves me… it’s written there on his skin.

And I still can’t believe it.

The hour that follows feels like a scene from a play, improvised and chaotic, performed before an initially skeptical audience.

Vadim almost goes overboard in his role as a rebellious, solitary student, insisting that he hates me so much—me and all the other rich girls—that he could never have tagged something like that. It would be completely out of the question.

Keith Johnson glares at him and asks him to show a little more respect toward the Lancasters.

I confirm Vadim’s version of our relationship: one that was forced upon us during Mr. Abrams’s class, one that we both have to endure. I take the opportunity to thank the dean for the chance I was given to join his prestigious school, laying it on thick about the valuable education provided at UCLA.

Vadim rolls his eyes and sighs at my flattery.