SAINT THERESA COLLEGE FOR WOMEN was known for its strictness when it came to matters to do with rules and dress code. My parents wanted that for me, but I chose to follow the route of rebellion in order to be free from the invisible chains the nuns secured around all the women here.
“What does rule number two state?” Head mistress Juliette asked as her face marred into a scowl as cruel as her heart. Oh, give me a break – it is only day one and we are already at each other’s throats again!
Sheets of paper inked with rules of conduct and their consequences were stapled onto the office wall behind her desk – mistress Juliette even went as far as to hand me a copy before summer break in hopes that I would abide, but all I did was toss them in the trash.
“Students are expected to dress in a manner that reflects the morals and ethics of this institution,” I read aloud in a blasé tone.
What I wore was a plain white top; tucked into black sweat pants and paired with sneakers. What is unethical about tops which reveal shoulders, backs and bellies? Where does it say unacceptable on clothes that separate a woman’s leg and cling to her every curve and dip?
“Good,” Our dorm captain Madame Patricia praised as she strolled towards me with slow and calculated steps – hands behind her back. “Cover up. We cannot afford another Katrina scandal.”
The authorities of this institution lack discernment. The man that was involved in the Kat fiasco came out scot free while she was apprehended in front of the whole school, blamed for alluring him with her ‘indecency’ and put to shame the moment she was kicked out of the school like a stray dog.
“You know what to do—” Mistress Juliette pushed the donation box towards me before I slid in the two-dollar fee for violation of dress code “—dismissed.”
Well, at least the money went to helping the less fortunate in society, who have it worse than me – that still was not enough to ease the anger that threatened to bubble up – my problem is as important. Madame Patricia retrieved a set of clothes from the lost and found which reeked of disinfectant and other chemicals unknown to me – the first-year medical student who wishes to earn a living from all the Netflix shows I binge daily, instead of studying. “Hurry to class.”
The maxi dress I changed into was not of my taste, but I am sure someone else would love it. What bothered me was that its collar was stained in brown despite the obvious bleach, and its hem polished the wooden floors that led to the open doors of the auditorium, which revealed a new male lecturer – dressed in a Lakers NBA Jersey with the name ‘Zeppetelli’ printed at the back.
I am not one to compare myself to others, but in this moment, it is clear that this institution has double standards: It allows him to parade his broad masculine shoulders, but not me – how unfair.
“That is incorrect,” Mr. Zeppetelli told a woman as he erased the blue marker off the white board – his muscles flexed in an athletic way which, communicated to me that he scored the most beautiful shots if at all he played basketball. “Thank you, next.”
His voice was like the ferocious roar of a lion – It echoed so violently inside the prey’s mind that it numbed all nerve impulses to the brain so that, the only thing that could run were the cold shivers down their spine.
“Simona Monet!” Madame Patricia shouted. “You have fifteen seconds to enter class. One… two…”
I lunged forward into the auditorium and shut the door behind me with a loud thud then let out a much needed breathe. Maybe I should have let her see how this new lecturer has his jacket around the chair instead of covering his shoulders… maybe she would have proved me wrong by apprehending him, too. Embarrassment creeped up the top of my ears, which I could feel heating up when I noticed all the pairs of eyes on me including… His – the same silver ones that reminded me of the moon.
“You can take a seat after you solve the problem,” Mr Zeppetelli commanded as he prowled around me like a lion ready to devour its immobile prey.
My voice came out shaky and weird at the realization of who he was and now I was afraid to fail his mathematical question as he seemed like the type of person to judge others based on academical ability… I do not want him to think that I am dull. “Which one?”
He pointed to the question on the board then handed me a blue marker. “Summing the three cubes. Go.”
Find x, y and z such that x3 + y3 + z3 = k, for each k from 1 to 100 – that was it. I wish I studied more during summer break, instead of social media and parties.
I stared at my reflection on the white board before I began scribbling whatever I could recall then stepped back, puzzled by a missing piece in the solution. “One answer is x = 1, y = -1, and z = 2. But what about the integers for x, y, and z so that x3 + y3 + z3 = 42?”
He smirked. “See me after class.”
…
“Alla prossima.” Mr Zeppetelli dismissed after the siren wailed – an obvious indication that it was twelve in the afternoon and also, time for all the student to diffuse out of the auditorium – making a move on into the less crowded café for lunch.
I intended to avoid the pending conversation with Mr Zeppetelli even if it meant crawling on the floor between the feet of the multitude in order to reach the door like a coward, who knows not to be trapped in his same manipulative web of lies – once bitten, twice shy.
“Sheila –” I turn to the neighbour who was ever at my beck and call “– I need a favour.”
The moment she turned her attention to me, her stare drew me deep into the warm blue specs that darkened into a shade which complimented the blonde strands that stemmed from her roots – she screams evil innocence – such a term coined by me makes sense in the 21st century, where people are faker than plastic.
“What is in it for me?” Sheila asked, packing her books in a failed attempt to seem uninterested, which definitely was not the case. Desperation seeped out of her prominent cheekbones that curved out like the corners of a kite, while gracing her forehead and chin with a narrower appearance.
“Name your price.”
Surely, she could not afford to pass up such an open offer in this restrictive university, where fun activities that included everything she liked – loud parties with alcoholic drinks – to mention a few was considered a sin, which defied the famous proverb around here: “cleanliness is next to godliness.”
“A pack of cigarettes and dextromethorphan,” She responded with a dangerous glint in her eyes. Our relationship was one filled with many favours – I always delivered, but as it was, cigarettes were scarce in these places and I did not bother to find out where I could obtain them from as I only ever experienced second hand smoking. The latter, however, was a common ingredient in over the counter cold medicines. “Is that too much of a challenge even for the dare-devil of St Theresa?”
“Nothing I cannot handle. So, here is what I need you to do —” I lean closer to her, then discreetly pointed at Mr. Zeppetelli “— Distract him.”
We were the last bunch in the auditorium, but Sheila went ahead and sauntered towards Mr. Zeppetelli, bombarding him with questions and holding his stare long enough for me to reach the door… at least.
“Miss Monet!” Mr. Zeppetelli called out as I stopped the door in vain, allowing it to slam once I realized that our plan had not succeeded… I guess it is true that most, if not all teachers have eyes behind their back.
Slowly, I rotated 180° to the left, dreading each turn as I cussed the universe out internally. With another ninety degrees, I was met with an annoyed expression; in that stroke of time, he probably defined me as immature and problematic.
“Deliver the stuff before curfew.” That was all Sheila whispered before she left, then we were alone behind closed doors that were bound to shelter all the secrets about to be witnessed.
I focused on wiping my sweaty palms on the straps of my backpack that weighed me down even more – if believable, I would use it as an excuse to stay fixed in one spot: near the door and far from him.
“Mr Zeppetelli—”
“Julian. Call me Julian,” He introduced as he bridged the space between us only making me back up against the door and him, charge forward so close to me that it was dangerously illegal, but I know for a fact that I was not created to cower in the presence of any man – we are born as equals after all.
“Make it quick, Jules. I have men to fuck.” More like café tables to clean, but he does not need to know that.
He overstepped the boundaries when he retrieves the checked work uniform that so happened to be peeping out of my bag at the wrong place and time. “Liar.”
It pisses me off to know that after he invaded my privacy and personal space, he also gathered the audacity to call me a liar with no solid evidence whatsoever. The anger from earlier on resurfaces along with the pent up one from after that night.
“And so are you, Julian!” I snapped, placing more emphasis than necessary on the J in his name. “You promised to call me.”
The ice in his stare met the fire in mine and now, it was a competition to see who would melt or freeze the other with cold words or a hot touch. “The rules were simple: fuck and move on.”
...
L I K E (Pretty)
S U B S C R I B E (Please)
C O M M E N T (with a cherry on top)
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