Limerence: Chapter 2

“Are you sure Mr. Mabel is coming tonight, Ms. Davis?” Though he’s sitting several feet away, Dean Robins still gives the impression that he’s peering down at me through his wire-frame glasses.

“Yes.” I give him and the other Lionswood faculty members assembled in the front row of the auditorium a smile full of confidence I don’t currently possess. “I’m sure Mickey will be here any minute.”

I am not sure of this.

I’ve already sent Mickey at least ten different text messages, ranging from a mild: hey are you coming? To Where the fuck are you??

It’s nearing 6:30, and they’ve all gone unanswered.

Dean Robins sighs and makes a show of checking his watch and steepling his dark hands in his lap. “Given the short notice of our re-schedule, I suppose we can spare another five minutes.”

I try to avoid fidgeting with the mic.

I was so worried about finishing my part of the presentation that I still didn’t have time to change. Stuck to my thighs, my tights have dried to the point of being uncomfortably damp.

I’m praying to some higher power that any moment now, the auditorium’s heavy, metal doors will burst open and Mickey will sprint down the aisle, armed with a good excuse for his absence.

The ticking of the large clock positioned above the doors is the only sound that fills the large space – until Dean Robins sighs again, craning his bald head to look toward the exit. “Well, Ms. Davis. It doesn’t appear that Mr. Mabel will be joining us this evening, does it?”

I swallow.

Fuck you, Mickey.

After tonight, I will never hear another snarky comment about how much I procrastinate on the scholarship presentation slideshows.

“No, sir.”

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to present your portion of the slideshow tonight,” Dean Robins says. As if on cue, several faculty members flip open their leather-bound planners, prepped to take notes.

“I don’t mind rescheduling,” I say. It’s a challenge to keep the panic from seeping into my voice. “You know, when Mickey is able to be here.”

The Dean raises one thick eyebrow. “Well, the rest of us are here, aren’t we? If your part is finished, I don’t see why you wouldn’t just present it tonight, Ms. Davis.”

I muster a smile. “No, of course not. That’s no problem, sir.”

He nods, settling back into his chair, while I click through the slideshow on the auditorium screen until I come to the section I hastily prepped following lunch today.

The overhead lights shining down on the stage suddenly feel a little too bright, and I hope they can’t see the nervous sweat dotting my forehead as I clear my throat. “As always, I’d like to thank you for not just being here tonight, but for also investing in my education. You’ve given me the opportunity to study at the world’s most elite boarding school, and that’s a gift I’ll never be able to repay.”

Literally. Tuition alone is mid six-figures.

I swear I see Dean Robin’s shoulders straighten underneath his tweed jacket. He loves that throwaway line about Lionswood.

I click to the first slide, a photo of me and Mickey clutching our new school manuals with big, cheesy smiles. It’s from the start of freshman year, and probably the only photo we’ve taken together.

In it, my big, brown eyes are full of hope, my pin-straight, platinum blonde hair wrangled into a high ponytail.

I don’t recognize this girl.

We may be identical, but she bears none of the worry lines mapping my face, and I bear none of her optimistic spirit.

“As you can see, very happy to be here.”

Duh.

I suck in a breath as I click the next slide. This one’s a snapshot of my most recent grades. I’ve tried disguising the Bs and Cs in colorful word art and fun transitions, but looking over the stone-faced crowd now, I can see it hasn’t fooled a single one of them.

“It seems like you’ve had more than a few Cs in history,” comments a grey-haired man in the back. I think he’s from the Alumni board.

“And less than stellar geometry grades,” adds one of the math teachers, her gaze shrewd. “As a senior, I’m surprised you’re even still taking that course. Have you completed any extra-credit to bring those scores up?”

“I’ve done some of it,” I retort, “And I know they’re not…ideal. But it’s barely the start of October and I’ve just been caught up with –”

“Extra-curriculars, hopefully?” Adds another teacher. “Are you in Debate club? Mathletes? DECA?”

A flush is beginning to creep up my neck. “Well, not those, but I’ve taken three years of advanced art classes here. I didn’t have time for it in my schedule this year, but if you’d let me show you –”

I go to switch to the next slide, photos of my burgeoning art portfolio, when Dean Robins holds a hand up. “That’s alright, Ms. Davis. As much as we encourage the arts, our priority for students will always be the core subjects. If you’re struggling there, that’s where we’d like your focus.”

I fidget with the peeling wood of the podium. “No, of course, sir.”

And this is why I need Mickey.

Our scholarship presentations have always followed an easy, unspoken routine: he dazzles them with his honor roll grades and string of extracurriculars while I fly under the radar with mediocre grades and a closing speech about how this scholarship has pulled me from the depths of poverty. It’s a real tear-jerker, that one.

The problem is that my part doesn’t quite work without Mickey’s. When his grades aren’t here to dazzle, they only have mine to scrutinize.

“You’re clearly an intelligent student, Ms. Davis,” Dean Robins says. “Your SSAT scores four years ago have more than proved that but…” He flips through his planner. “Since starting your education at Lionswood, I can’t help but notice your academic performance has both plummeted and plateaued at various points. Do you understand why that might be?” There’s more question than accusation in his gaze, but it sends my heart soaring into my throat all the same.

“Uh, yes. I can understand why you might think…”

“I’m just concerned, Ms. Davis,” he continues with a shake of his head. “I can’t help but wonder if Lionswood may not be the right academic institution for you.”

My eyes go so wide, I’m sure it must look comical.

No, no, this is not happening tonight.

I am not about to lose my scholarship because Mickey Mabel got caught up with friends or overslept or whatever else might be keeping him from standing on top of this stage with me.

Lionswood is mine. I’ve earned this.

I take several long deep breaths and stare at the bright stage lights beaming back at me. It’s like gazing into the sun, and a moment later, I’m blinking away tears when I refocus on the crowd.

“When I was eight-years-old, my mother and I had this awful landlord who evicted us for no real reason,” I start. “She was waiting tables at a diner in town. We barely had enough for gas and groceries, let alone first and last month’s rent, so we spent the next three months living out of our car while she saved up some money. It was the middle of the winter. I’d walk to school in the morning, and then I’d do my homework at the diner while she worked her shift, and then we’d hole up in the backseat with blankets and whatever leftovers she’d snagged from her shift. Eventually, she worked something out. We found a place, and it wasn’t even our worst winter, but…”

There’s an intentional wobble to my voice as I relay this next part. “My point is, an education at Lionswood has changed my life, but it’s been an adjustment. I spent more of my childhood worrying about whether we’d paid the electricity bill than I did about learning multiplication tables. And I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me – I just want you to understand that there is no better place for me than here. My current grades may not reflect it, but I am proud to be a student here…and I will do this school proud. I’ll do you proud this semester and next, but beyond that too. I promise, ten years from now, you’ll be proud to have called me a student.”

I’m white-knuckling the podium by the time I finish, and it’s several moments before I allow myself to look.

To see if I’ve penetrated the doubt sown by my poor grades.

One glance at Dean Robins and I know I have.

It’s in his glassy eyes, the trembling of Ms. Arnold’s bottom lip, the emergence of a handkerchief in the back.

I dab at my eyes with the sleeve of my uniform.

It’s the Dean who finally breaks the heavy silence. “That’s quite a story, Ms. Davis. And not one we hear from our students.” He clears his throat. “Your academic performance could use some work but…I think I speak for the room when I say that we look forward to seeing what you do with the educational opportunity that’s been provided to you.”

Sweet relief surges through me.

Thank God.

Technically, I have not swindled the Dean or any of the faculty here tonight. The story is true – though it’s missing just a little bit of context.

One: the landlord in question was actually Mom’s boyfriend, Ed, who did have plenty of reason to kick us out after he discovered Mom hooking up with one of her co-workers. It was a shame, too. Ed had an actual house, and he hardly charged us rent.

Two: It was the middle of winter.

…in Mobile, Alabama.

The record low that year might’ve been fifty-degrees.

But I don’t say either of these things. It’s easier to pity someone when they’re the only victim in the story.

“Just a reminder that college applications are coming up, Ms. Davis,” the Dean chides. “Perhaps next semester we’ll see some improved grades, an extra-curricular or two, and a college acceptance.” His voice is stern but his face belies pity.

Right now, I am the kicked puppy he’s found on the side of the freeway, and he’s not going to force me out.

I give him the widest smile I can. “I’m sure you will, sir.”

I close out the presentation by shaking everyone’s hands and accept their life advice graciously. Not that I need some greying alumni to tell me it’s all about “pulling yourself up by the bootstraps” while the shine of his thousand-dollar loafers nearly blind me.

I am pulling myself up.

Passing the SSAT with flying colors and getting a scholarship to Lionswood is the most I’ve ever pulled myself up by anything.

But that story – just like the one I told tonight – is missing a little bit of context too.

***

I’m seething on the way back to my dorm.

My thin, fraying jacket is no match for the frigid breeze rustling through the Red Maples that line the stone walkway, and it’s only the anger burning through my veins that keeps my teeth from chattering.

It’s still radio silence from Mickey. No apologies. No excuses. Not even a half-hearted: Hope it went well!

Another harsh gust of wind shakes the fall foliage. I draw my jacket close just as two laughing girls pass by, both decked out in sleek Moncler bubble coats.

Jealousy sparks before I can stomp it down.

I’d like to say I’m above envy, above desiring two-thousand-dollar jackets, but I can’t. Being surrounded by the wealth of Lionswood – both flashy and understated – hasn’t made me immune to the allure of nice things.

Just more suspectible.

I try shaking off the bitterness because, that disaster of a presentation aside, tonight is beautiful. Under the full moon, the Gothic Revival stone buildings that make up Lionswood’s campus look almost ethereal. Most of them haven’t been touched since the early eighteenth-century outside of renovations for electrical wiring and indoor plumbing. It’s the school’s limitless funding and dedicated alumni board that ensures everything on campus looks fresh out of a Dickens novel.

Leaves crunch under my tennis shoes as I round the familiar corner to the senior dorms, or the West Wing, as it’s known to most students.

It’s one big, blocky building with glass-paned windows and a historic clock tower, separated into co-ed sections with private suites. It’s still a shared dormitory, but it’s the first time I’ve ever had my own bathroom.

It takes some significant muscle to heave open the massive oak doors, but fortunately, there’s nobody hanging out in the common room to watch me struggle.

Or to watch me huddle around the crackling fireplace in the entryway and leech some of its warmth.

The shared space is relatively small, bisected by two narrow, winding staircases: one leading up to the girls’ dorms and one for the boys’.

The anger comes back full-force when I glance toward the latter.

I wonder if Mickey is in his dorm room right now.

He could be with friends. Or gaming. Or sleeping. Or any other number of activities that might render him blissfully unaware of the fact that he left me to the wolves tonight.

Fuck you, Mickey.

He can pretend I don’t exist in the cafeteria or the hallways like the rest of my classmates, but this is the one time he’s supposed to have my back. The one time we’re supposed to be in this together.

And I’m sure Dean Robins will get an artful apology by the morning, but I deserve one too.

The anger festers the longer I stare at the steps, and then – before I can talk myself out of it – I’m climbing the staircase, intent on getting the face-to-face explanation and apology I deserve.

The first set of steps open to another common room, larger than the previous, decorated in dark neutrals and sports team jerseys and posters. Another fire crackles in the hearth.

I’ve heard plenty of stories about the boys’ common room.

What and who’s been done in it, but I’ve never ventured up here before. I’ve never had a reason to. Four years, and I’ve never had a boy invite me up these stairs or sneak me into his room – which is a thought that I refuse to let sting right now.

Instead, I scour the room until my eyes land on the bulletin board pinned to the wall above a dark green couch, a shade lighter than the pea soup I had earlier today.

It’s identical to the one in the girls’ room. A list of all the students housed in this section of the building.

I find Mickey’s name listed in alphabetical order – room 504.

Of course, he has to live on the top floor.

My thighs are burning by the time I reach the top of the second stairwell, a kernel of my frustration reserved for whoever decided an elevator would compromise the historical integrity of the building.

Room 504 sits all the way at the end of the narrow, dim hall overlooking the back of the building.

I turn the corner, pausing when I catch sight of a male silhouette lingering by the door to the fire exit stairwell.

Mickey?

I squint, trying to make out some facial features and what looks to be a curly head of hair.

“Mickey?” I call out.

The silhouette startles, but instead of turning in my direction, they open the fire exit door and disappear down the stairwell. They move quickly, but for a moment, they’re bathed in the fluorescent lights of the stairwell and I see their – his – face.

Adrian Ellis?

I blink and he’s gone, but there’s no mistaking the aristocratic nose and sharp jawline that’ve found a way onto the front page of the school newspaper for four years.

I guess he lives up here, too.

Something like trepidation winds down my spine as I approach Mickey’s door.

Maybe this is a bad idea.

I could just turn back, go home, and demand an apology tomorrow. Coming all the way here might’ve been a tad overkill, but…

He’s the one who left me hanging out to dry tonight.

So I take a deep breath.

And knock.

There’s no sound on the other side – not the quiet chatter of the TV or music. He’s either sleeping or not home at all, but in case it’s the first one, I shout, “Mickey? Mickey, are you in there?”

Still no answer.

I sigh.

So much for my a face-to-face confrontation.

One last time, my knuckles rap loudly against the aged wood, and to my surprise, the door creaks open under the weight of my fist.

I open my mouth to spew apologies for entering his dorm unannounced, but the room is empty – and the large, double-paned window by the desk has been blown open.

Frigid air slaps me in the face, and I shuffle toward the window.

Unless Mickey likes to sleep at a crisp forty degrees with wind chill, there’s no way he meant to leave it open.

I grab the latch, but my body goes rigid as stone.

I blink once.

And again – just to make sure I’m not seeing things.

But that’s when the screams start and I know I’m not the only one who has spotted Mickey’s body lying five floors down, his head cracked open like a cantaloupe on the concrete.