Chasing river, p.4
Chasing River, page 4
"No, I meant here, with us." She spat, and I could see the resentment in her eyes.
"Gene!" Keomi gasped.
"What? I was just curious as to how she's already taken his place." Geneviève defended.
"I didn't know I was 'taking' anyone's place." I scoffed,
"No, you're not Armani, don't worry," Merilla said, placing her hand over mine.
"I don't think River would be happy about this." Geneviève retorted, folding her arms in disapproval.
"Well, River isn't here, is he?”Fabian retaliated, “You know he doesn't have lunch with us in the cafeteria."
"Wow, you're already throwing me under the bus for her, and you've known her for five minutes."
"Gene, I know you're hurting, okay. We all are. But there's no reason for you to take all your anger out on Armani." Keomi warned just as Geneviève stood up abruptly.
"Listen…Armani is it? I have nothing against you. Personally, it's just strange to have someone else here unexpectedly." she muttered, heading for the door. “I’m going to go find River.”
"Listen, if I'm causing too much trouble by being here, it's okay. I can leave," I assured them, not knowing what the fuck was going on.
"No, it isn't like that, don't mind, Gene, she's just upset about something," Keomi told me, her eyes worried.
"About what?" I asked, and Merilla immediately shoots her a don't you dare stare.
"Listen, Armani, just trust us, okay—" Fabian begun, but I cut him short.
"Okay, I get it," I sighed as frustration bubbled inside of me. “There’s a lot I don’t know here at St Kathrine’s, and I’m still very new here. I’ll let you guys talk. I’ll go eat lunch somewhere else. It’s alright.”
“We’re so sorry, Armani. I promise it’s not always like this,” Keomi explained, looking down.
"It’s okay. I’ll give you some space. Then, when you're ready to talk, you know where to find me," I said, taking my lunch tray with me to find somewhere else to eat.
I wandered through the halls and remembered the old art classroom that Fabian had shown me on our tour. I raced upstairs to the second floor and pushed the door open ever so slowly. The second floor of the school creeped me out. It was much more antique and less modern than the first floor. Even the air up there was heavy, with untold secrets and promises struggling to be kept.
There in the far corner of the room was River with his back turned to me, he was tall, and the contrast of his fair skin to the black of his clothes made him appear almost shadowy. Like he was there, but at the same time, he wasn't. I got the idea he wanted it to be that way— he wasn't the kind of guy who craved the attention of others for personal reassurance. He was perfection, and he knew it. He was scratching out the plan for something, something so grand and important that he had to take refuge on the creepy second floor to work on it. The way he worked his hands was enthralling. He had so much skill and precision you'd think he was the love child of Michelangelo and DaVinci themselves. I couldn't risk taking another step to see exactly what it was that he was working on. He himself was frustrating yet fascinating enough.
"Les morts ne mordent pas." I said, quoting Treasure Island once more, just like the first time we saw each other at the bookstore. The dead don't bite. He turned around to face me, his eyes flames in water— if you could imagine such a thing.
"C'est là que vous avez tort, la morsure des morts est la plus venimeuse et la plus douloureuse." He spoke in the most fluent French I'd heard by far from the students at this school. That is where you are wrong. It is the bite of the dead that is the most venomous and the most painful. His voice was deep and strangely melodic, luring me closer to him, like what I'd imagined Eve had heard from the serpent in the Garden of Eden. His voice slithered up my spine. I placed my tray on one of the desks by the door as I stepped into the room. I felt like I was penetrating his personal space, puncturing his glass bubble.
"Do you read a lot?" I asked, stepping closer towards him but stopping once I felt his discomfort.
"What're you doing here?" He asked. On the other hand, his English wasn't perfect— just like mine. He still pronounced certain words with a heavy French accent, although he sounded slightly British. It was confusing, and I made a mental note to ask about that.
"I was looking for somewhere to eat." I clarified, and his eyes narrowed in irritation.
"Have you never heard of the canteen?" He taunted. There it was again— the canteen instead of the cafeteria.
"I don't think people really want me there," I said, looking down as the memory of Geneviève lashing out at me replayed in my mind.
"Well, I don't want you here." He told me with his usual emotionless expression. It was a mask. I knew it was. Therefore, it didn't scare me or ward me off like everyone else.
I sighed, ignoring his attitude, "Are you a painter?"
"No, a sculptor." He clarified, almost as if it was an insult. “However, I do paint when necessary.”
"Can I see?" I asked, trying to look past him and see what he was working on, but he immediately mimicked my step and blocked my vision.
He made his way over to me with his charcoal pencil in his hand, I took a step back, and my back hit the door. River was close to me, very close to me— so close that I could make out his earthy scent. He carried the scent of vanilla and petrichor, a café in the pouring rain. He tilted my chin up with the tip of his pencil, so my eyes met his, and like a Parisian winter, they were cold and unforgiving. His rosy bee-stung lips pursed into a straight line as he made out my features. I felt as though he were a god, and I was merely a mortal waiting for him to punish me.
“Why would I let you do that?” He responded,
“Why wouldn’t you?” I retorted, and he seemed perplexed by my forwardness.
“You are—” he begun, but I cut him off,
“Armani Nnandi.”
There was a beat of silence, as we stared at each other, and he looked down into my eyes, and I could almost see the reality that we had met before sinking in, I know you, I want to say, but I don’t. Because his presence was entirely too overwhelming.
"Leave." He instructed sternly, the tip of his pencil sharp and warning against my skin. I spun around and opened the door, racing down the stairs in exasperation. He wasn't going to actually hurt me, was he? Flashes of the way his eyes like a cold fire had burned into mine, danced behind my closed eyelids.
River Kennedy, he looked at me like I was one of the most beautiful disasters in history.
Chapter 4
Pandora's Box
OVER THE course of the next few days, I much preferred to eat my meals in solitude or in the confinement of my bedroom curled up with a book. I had read through a total of seven complete works of fiction in one week alone, and if that did not speak for itself of how much time I’d had on my hands, I was not sure what else would. I had been whispered tales of beauties who tamed beasts, people with both sense & sensibility or neither, girls who fell down rabbit holes and went mad as hatters, secret gardens and kisses electric enough to breathe life into another. I had read it all.
Earlier that morning, I passed by the student lounge and took notice of Geneviève seated opposite River; I watched as she conversed with him, her face full of expression and eyes full of emotion, while he simply nodded, seemingly bored by her. But they still talked nonetheless, something about black coffee, itchy sweaters and Vincent van Gogh's starry night.
Later that night, I lay staring up at the ceiling with my mind swimming with images of a beautiful god, images of River Kennedy. His presence electrified something through me, something I'd never felt before and couldn't quite explain. I traced my finger over the spot beneath my chin he'd used to threaten me with a pencil. I was being entirely too ridiculous for my own good, far too obsessive.
I never quite learned how just to like something; I always allowed it to attach itself to me, become my very own parasite. Nothing ever merely tickled my fancy. I let it consume me entirely. I fear that I may have not been entirely truthful with you. It is important to remember that, above all, I am my mother’s daughter. When I love, I love hard. When I hold on, I never let go. When I give it a try, I give everything. Et je n'ai pas de regrets.
I have no regrets.
His words echoed in my mind leave, and just like that, I did what he asked without even thinking about it. It was almost mechanical. I had no say in the matter. I wasn’t used to feeling so…inferior. I was so caught up in my thoughts that I barely even noticed when Keomi walked in, with a troubled expression on her usually radiant face. She tossed her bag on her bed and plopped herself down on the foot of my bed.
"Are you sure that you can't possibly find a way to get over this?" She asked, her voice tired and drained of all its usual enthusiasm.
"No, I don't think I can, Keomi," I replied honestly, "But don't feel pressured to tell me anything you're not ready to, okay?"
"No, Armani, you don't understand I— I have to talk about it because it's been eating me up from the inside out." She spoke, and at that, she caught my attention, and I immediately sat up in bed.
"I'm here for you, I promise," I assured her by placing a hand on her shoulder. She was tense but relaxed under my touch.
"It wasn't always just the five of us..." Keomi began staring straight into the distance.
"What do you mean?" I asked,
"There was a sixth member of our group, Jace, but he's gone now." She confessed, and I was taken aback. I would've never guessed it.
The way Keomi and her friends behaved and conducted themselves when I first met them, you'd never have thought that it wasn't always just them. But in a way, I could feel it. I could feel the void. It was the empty seat at the lunch table that no one dared glance at or sit on. It was how sometimes there were gaps in conversation, as if awaiting an opinion from a silent voice. The emptiness, it was there. It was unavoidable.
“Are you familiar with the Greek myth of Pandora’s box?” Keomi queried, and a beat of silence followed,
“Yes, I am,” I assured her, recalling the hours I put into tenth-grade mythology.
“When Prometheus stole fire from the gods, Zeus exacted retribution by bestowing Pandora upon Prometheus' brother Epimetheus. Pandora was given a box as a wedding gift and instructed never to open it. Unfortunately, eventually, curiosity got the better of her, and she opened the box, releasing death, evil, and misery into the world.” Keomi explicated, and I stared at her in confusion. “However, the last thing in the box was hope and ever since, humans have clung to it.”
“Yes, I hear you.” I assured her, “But what does any of that have to do with this?”
"This entire situation is like Pandora’s box. We locked it away, made a pact to never talk about it again, to never bring it up. But now you’re here, Armani, and you’re opening it all up. There might be hope in the box, but with it will also come misery." She told me as she grabbed a copy of Gone Girl from her locked drawer and took the picture out, handing it to me with tears in her sad brown eyes.” therefore you must be certain that you want to know everything, if it’s worth it.”
“I am,” I told her, and she nodded silently.
"I remember that day like it was yesterday,” She narrated, referring to the photograph, “Merilla had never been to the Eiffel Tower so Jace suggested that we should surprise her with a picnic there. She was so happy," She smiled, tears spilling from her eyes, "We were all so happy, especially RK."
"RK?" I asked,
"Stands for River Kennedy, which is what Jace would call him all the time, and it eventually caught on with the rest of us." She reminisced with a sad little laugh. “He’s our friend. Have you met him yet? He should be in your art class?”
“I have, but he looks so different here." I noticed he was smiling— his eyes were brighter than they were when I'd met him. So much so that it was almost as if I was looking through a window into a parallel universe. "Did you talk to him?” She asked, her eyes hopeful.
“No, not really.” I told her with a slight laugh, “He’s rather reserved.”
"Yeah, he is now, but that’s not the same River that we knew. He and Jace were really close— so when he died last summer, it was like half of River went along with him." Keomi told me, her tone was serious.
"What are you saying— that he's like still grieving?" I asked, and she scoffed.
"That's the exact problem, Armani. River isn't grieving. He never even cried at his funeral."Keomi said with a hint of anger and frustration.
"It's okay, Keomi he probably just-"
"No, it isn't Armani, Jace Monet was his best friend, and he's dead. River barely talks to anyone anymore, let alone eats lunch with us. He built up these walls, and no matter how hard we try, we can't break them down." Keomi disclosed, and I could feel what she felt. I could finally see what she saw, and it was heartbreaking.
"It's a shame that that's the version of him you're going to know." She sighed in disappointment, shaking her head.
"I'm sorry about Jace Keomi. I'm sure he's in a better place, a happier place." I apologized feeling obligated to do so. "Come here."
She took a seat beside me, and I pulled her into a hug. Her mind was a hurricane sweeping up everything in her path. I whispered comforting words to her, not bothering to ask any more questions. She'd been through enough. She'd had enough. I decided that I wouldn’t push her for answers anymore. Perhaps it was not my place. I wanted to focus more on being a good friend to her. I knew what it was like to just need a friend.
Night fell over St Katherine's, and my spirit was more restless than ever. I worked on my art homework and completed it within an hour or so. I opened the door ever so carefully so I wouldn't wake Keomi up, then proceeded to venture outside. I made my way off-campus, and the summer midnight air caressed my skin.
I couldn't possibly get used to walking the streets of Paris because it always felt so dreamlike. The lights made me feel less alone. There was a man by the bakery playing Baker Street on his saxophone, I tipped him, and he wiggled his eyebrows in approval. The Café was still open, and only a few people were perched outside, mainly couples enjoying each other's company with a late-night coffee.
Just as I was about the walk past the quaint little Café, I saw him, the candles reflecting in his stern, cold blue eyes as he sketched. He wore a white, almost see-through button-up shirt with a gold lock and key necklace beneath it. I stopped in my tracks and made my way through the Café doors. I was greeted by a friendly waiter to whom I lied and said my friend was already there. I stopped and thought, how dumb could I be? He obviously didn't want me around, and yet here I was anyway, chasing him. Drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
I drew out the chair opposite him at his table and sat down. He didn't even look up at me. He barely flinched. He acted as though my existence didn't even occur to him.
"How do you do that?" I asked out of curiosity,
"Do what?" He replied, still not looking at me.
"Act like you don't care." I clarified, and he let out a bitter chuckle before finally looking up and making eye contact with me at last, I didn't realize just how much I craved to have his attention until then, and it frustrated me. “I’ve never quite mastered the art.”
“I can tell. Your every fleeting emotion is painted on your face for everyone to see.” He revealed condescendingly.
“No it is not.” I refuted with a pout, and he gave me an incredulous look.
“It is.” He argued,
“What do you mean?” I asked, and he paused.
“Par example, right now, your eyebrows are furrowed, and you’re leaning into me with your eyes, so I know that you value my opinion.” He spoke, “Which is rather pathetic, considering we don’t know each other.”
“You think I’m pathetic?” I scoffed in offence,
"Look, I don't know you, and it's better that you don't know me." He said, his eyes burning into mine so furiously I couldn't help but look down. I got the feeling that this was what he wanted me to do, he wanted me to fear him and cower under him like everyone else, but I wasn't going to, not this time.
"You probably act like you don't care because you care more than everyone else," I told him, folding my arms.
"Wow, congratulations, you've got me all figured out. Am I that transparent?" He mocked.
"Yeah, you are." I spat back, and the pencil he was using broke when it touched the paper, and I couldn’t help but flinch slightly. “I guess I’m not the only one having trouble concealing my emotions.”
"Why don't you just leave? I don't want you here." He deadpanned.
"I want to be here," I confessed, but this time it was him who couldn't look me in the eye.
"Why?" He asked, looking down.
"I don't know. I guess you're a good artist, and I wanna see what's so damn good about you." I said, averting the topic from where it was about to go.
"So you basically want to use me for my art? that's a very bad thing for a good girl like you." He said with a slight smirk.
"I'm not a good girl," I replied. I hated being called that. I hated titles.
"Right." He said, grabbing another pencil,
"My intentions are clear, River. I want to learn. I want to see your work." I conveyed,
"And what makes you think that I'd waste my precious time on you?"
"Because if you don't, I'll go on believing that you're all bark and no bite." I taunted, tracing the steak knife up and down the table, closer and closer to him.
"You can't hurt me." He said, grabbing the opposite end of the knife with his bare hand. He lifted a condescending eyebrow.
He was testing me, and I was trapped. If I pulled the knife forward, it would cut him, and if I pulled it back towards me, It would hurt me. The question hanging in the air was, how badly did I want this? How badly did I want to take a step further into his fucked up world? I wasn't going to let him win. I couldn't let him win.
