Chapter 5: Accusations

You’re going to do it. They do it in the movies all the time, and it mostly works. You’ve never been much of an actor, though—your mom would testify to that after watching you stumble through lies in your early years. You seem to remember that it was about the time you tried to blame the broken window on someone else—a story that resulted in your mom crying (because she was laughing so hard) that you stopped trying to be untruthful altogether. Now, you gather around you any bit of deceiving-power you have to try to make this believable. You take a step forward into the office and Sophie relaxes, then moves back towards her chair, pulling a spare behind her where, supposedly, you are to sit.
“Oooo, oh, ah,” you hope she hears your painstakingly expressed words of surprise, but she seems utterly oblivious. So you try louder. “OH, AH, HHMMMMM…..” she is now busying herself looking for something in her desk drawer as she waits for you to settle into the chair before her. You stare at her incredulously and painfully. “Hold on a second,” you say in a volume really too loud for this closet of a space, “my phone is vibrating.” You reach into your pocket to “answer the call” but, horrified at not finding your phone there, or in your other pocket, you fumble around in the pockets of your backpack, muttering something about “hoping they don’t hang up.” You finally find your phone, lying cold and lifeless under a textbook, and turn around triumphantly, only to find Sophie looking at you with great confusion, and a bit of skepticism, across her face. “It’s—it’s—“above the furrowed line of her brow, one eyebrow rises.
“We won’t be long,” Sophie interjects, motioning to the seat she has situated awfully close to her own. “Feel free to close the door behind you.” So much for the phone trick—and that was your only idea. You turn slightly to take one longing, last look into the hall. “William, really, what is wrong?”
“Actually Sophie—Ms. Sparrow—I do have a class to get to. I—“
“You forgot about a class you had?” Sarcasm. Not only does she clearly not believe you, but she’s starting to take it personally. She says as much. “Really, now, I’m starting to take this personally.” So much for lies and excuses. The truth? You take a deep breath and stand a little straighter. She quickly stands up to face you. Uh, no—to heck with the truth. “What are you afraid of? You aren’t—wait a minute, you don’t think—“ She looks you up and down. “Do you have a crush on me?” You are so caught off guard that you have literally lost the ability to formulate a sentence.
“Wha—no, I thought—actually—“
“I don’t know what you thought, but you can stop that thinking right now. I do not date students. I am seriously just trying to help you, Will. Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” When she spins around to face the window, her hair follows like a golden wave, catching a bit of sunlight that makes it shimmer. “I think you had better go now. I’m starting to feel uncomfortable.” You are unable to re-hinge your jaw until you reach the end of the hallway and the top of the staircase that will take you to the bottom floor. You are still reeling from the situationally ironical slap you’ve just received across the face. As you descend the stairs, certainly both dazed and confused, you miss the first couple of times your name is called. In fact, you only hear it the third time because you are tapped on the shoulder from behind.
“William Walker.”
“Yeah—that’s me.” You say to a petite, brown-headed girl with big brown eyes who seems unable to progress past age 16.
“Oh, it wasn’t a question.” She replies, smiling. You continue down the stairs together. “I know who you are!” She extends a tiny, soft hand when you reach the landing. “I’m Angela Snow.” Where have you heard that name before? It reverberates slowly through your brain until it reaches your long term memory.
“Oh! Hi! Nice to meet you—you are…Mr. Neil’s niece, right?”
“Right! I was so glad he took my suggestion to add your work to the show. I saw a few of your photographs in the Anthem and I just thought they were awesome!”
“Yes, he told me you liked them.”
“I’m an aspiring photographer, myself. I love it, but I really don’t have a lot of time for it. Do you develop your own film?”
“Ha—no. Local drugstore.” She seems disappointed; you hold the door open for her and you both step into the afternoon light onto the sidewalk.
“Oh, well. I’m interested in taking a class to learn how to do that. All those very specific steps and substances—it’s so interesting…so exciting!” You half expect the conversation to be coming to a close, but now you are awkwardly choosing a direction as you continue to walk, not knowing where she is headed. Angela is unconcerned, chatting away and following your every step. “See, I’m a biochem major, but I’m interested in really all chemical processes. I just love understanding how things work on a molecular level.” You raise your eyebrows. Having somehow managed to skip over even basic high school chemistry undetected, you aren’t even sure you could define “molecule.” “It really puts things into perspective,” she is saying when you “come to” again.
“Well, aren’t you well rounded? Chemistry major, developing artist.” You have reached the student center, where you are planning on grabbing some fast food before heading back to the apartment. You aren’t really that hungry, but you’re a little afraid that this girl will follow you all the way home if you don’t shake her somewhere else. Sure enough, she follows you into the building and to the food court.
“Oh, art is just a hobby. I mean, I wish I could spend more time on it, but classes keep me stupid busy. So I just try to enjoy it when other people take pictures! Mmmm,” she sniffs the air and turns around to look at all the choices surrounding you, “good idea. I have a few minutes to get a bite.”
“I actually have to—“ you say to her retreating figure “—get it to go.” You are sitting, fifteen minutes later, at a table that Angela chose (“because it’s such a nice day!”) by a window, listening to her talk about biopolymers and enzyme-catalyzed reactions while simultaneously trying to eat and shade your eyes from the beam of light bearing down on you from behind her small frame. You are just about to make some excuses for yourself, for the second time today, when you suddenly don’t have to. A tall, stern-faced woman, dressed to the nines, walks smartly through the glass doors on the other side of the cafeteria and makes her way purposefully towards your table, her heels clicking evenly across the tile. You just glance at her at first, but then find yourself watching her approaching figure as she is relentlessly bearing her gaze into the depths of your soul.
“Angela,” she says to your new friend, though not taking her eyes off of you, “you are exactly three minutes, twenty-three seconds late.”
“Oh mother, I’m sorry!” Angela starts rushing to gather her things. “I’m coming—I’ll be out in just a second!”
“I’ll walk you out,” She says, “I’m certainly not going to leave you to continue whatever this is.” It’s amazing how very less-than-human her tone is able to make you feel. You, now a pile of meaningless goo, melt into your seat guiltily. How is this on me? You protest internally.
“I’m William Walker.” You stand and offer your hand, which Mrs. Snow simply looks at momentarily before adjusting to the new height of your eyes.
“Oh, I’m sure I know who you are, thank you, Mr. Walker.” Who are you, the Queen of England? Externally, this is translated to,
“Well, you must be Mrs. Snow. It’s a pleasure to meet both you and your daughter in the same day!” Her highness takes an alarming step towards you and Angela freezes halfway between sitting and rising.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Walker. You don’t have to pretend with me. I know very well how this all works. You seduce my innocent, 16 year old daughter, get her to promote your pathetic bit of art to her philanthropist of an uncle, and once you have gotten as much of his money as possible stuffed under your moth-infested mattress, you leave her used and broken-hearted in your wake. No sir, I am not naïve.” Angela, stone-faced, finishes standing up and touches her mother’s arm, which is coldly shaken off. She tries again, until she is able to drag her mother out of your personal space in a movement towards the door. “You are lucky that I don’t report you to the police for propositioning a minor.” You are sure your eyes could not convey any more alarm. “Do not let me see you near my daughter again” are her parting words. Once you can no longer see them in the parking lot, you take the back door and jog home as fast as possible.

You lock your house behind you in a futile effort to keep out trouble and fall onto your bed to catch your breath. What in the world is going on? Never in your life have you been so bombarded by insanity. Your reluctance to be assertive and social has gotten you into scrapes, but this is getting ridiculous. You can count on two fingers how many love interests there have been in your life to this point, but today you have become the local pimp…or…something like that. You turn over onto your stomach and pick at the old carpet fraying at the edge of the baseboard. Maybe you should lay low for a little while until you have to leave for work. You somehow fall asleep for a short nap, then wake up and bum around on the computer for a while. Noticing the time, you reach for your phone to update KC and ask her for a ride to work. Your phone is flashing with one notification after another that you have missed at least ten calls—a few from KC but most from the same unfamiliar number. There are two messages, the first from an annoyed, but concerned KC.

“I got your messages, Will. WHAT THE HECK? I told you to lock your car! Anyway, call me. I’ll come get you for work tonight. Oh, I need my dad’s coat back. He was a little pissed that I’d lent it to you. Apparently it’s really expensive—“ You grimace at the crumpled black cloth in the corner of your room, behind the door. “—anyway, I’ll bring a clean apron since I know you haven’t done laundry and really—yours is disgusting.”

The second one is from Detective Hobb—the unknown number. After a brief, neutral introduction at the start of his message, there is a noticeable change in his tone that makes your stomach flip-flop. No longer does he sound like the kind, helpful man from last night. He sounds almost…suspicious.

“Mr. Walker, this is Detective Hobb. I need you to call me at once. I have several more questions to ask you. My number is…” as soon as the message ends, you shut your phone and drop it onto the desk by your hand, looking at it as your heart beats a little faster than normal.

What happens next?
A. You heard the man: he needs you to call “at once!” You pull yourself together, dial his number and try to act composed.
B. After your unlucky streak of the day, you are terrified of the conversation that might ensue; you ignore the message and decide to call tomorrow—you have to go to work soon, anyway.

Chapter 4: Another Ordinary Day

Art History is in an hour. This is your first concrete, conscious thought. You’ve been struggling in that realm between sleeping and waking for the last few hours, but you have finally risen to the surface of the fog and are staring into the large, red digital numbers of your bedside clock, watching them shift to an even 2 o’clock. The zeroes stare back at you like angry, blood-shot eyes. Your head is pounding; the events of yesterday were not dissolved by sleep. Rather, they cling to you with persistent fingers as if you never escaped them even for an hour. You have got to do something other than wait for Detective Hobb to call you with news about your car. Thankfully, school is within walking distance. You can make it on time if you leave soon. One thing at a time: shower first.

About fifteen minutes later, you are grabbing a piece of toast and filling a travel mug with day-old coffee that you’ve nuked in the microwave. After realizing that your corduroy is MIA with your car, you slip on your faded jean jacket and start a brisk walk towards campus. It’s a crisp late February afternoon. The coolness in the air clears your head a little bit and you actually start to feel optimistic by the time you approach Cravy—the art building on campus—until you run into Sylvia Baker at the entrance to the building: A grad assistant, needlessly jealous of your sudden fame and success. Because she taught one of the first art classes you took at the University, she allows herself to feel somewhat responsible for your talent. You’re not above giving credit to a teacher for their role in a student’s development, but her class didn’t have required attendance so you never went to it.

“Good morning Sylvia,” you extend an olive branch you expect to have smacked out of your hand.
“Will,” she curtly responds, not disappointing. “Not quite morning, though. I guess some of us don’t have the luxury of sleeping the day away.” As she walks through the glass door you are courteously holding open for her, she seems to remember herself, her tone drastically changing to a thick sweetness. I don’t like sugar with my coffee, you feel like saying. “Were you able to make some profitable connections at the art show last night?” How to make this as brief and vague as possible?
“Well, I got a bunch of business cards from people interested in my work. That feels like a lot of work itself, though.” She is unable to hide her distain for long and mutters back:
“Sounds like looking a gift horse in the mouth to me.” You opt to take the stairs to the second floor rather than ride with her in the elevator.
“Gotta run to class—thanks for coming last night!” She nods in your direction with a painful smile while hitting the “up” elevator button.

Self-admittedly, you are not a very good student, but you are always on time. Today is no exception and you slide into a desk about five minutes before the professor enters the room. One of your art buddies is sitting behind you as per usual; it’s a relief to see a friendly face.
“Will! How was the show?”
“Hey Jane. Uh—that’s a long answer. How did everyone know about that, anyway?”
“The show? It was publicized all over campus!”
“Well, I know that, but about my involvement, really. No one posted the names of the artists.”
“Well, we found out about it no thanks to you, to be sure.” Professor Sparrow walks in at about 2 till 3:00 and sets her very feminine leather briefcase on the desk.
“Good morning!” She says brightly.
“Well, how did you know?” You ask again, only half turned around. Jane gives you a look that says “you really don’t know?” and after pausing for a moment in thought, nods towards the front of the room. At first, you think she means that it’s time to pay attention to class, but Sparrow is still getting papers out of her bag, not ready to start class yet. You turn back to Jane and she gestures again, this time a little more forcefully. It doesn’t dawn on you until you face front once more in time to see the professor lift her head and beam directly at you.
“Well, I think it is appropriate for us to start class with a round of applause for our very own William Walker.” Most of your classmates willingly oblige. You start to feel slightly uncomfortable. “I know you weren’t able to be here last week, Will, but we talked about your show so we would all be sure to go and support you.”
“Thanks—thanks a lot everyone.” You say, waving a hand, then feeling like a pretentious celebrity, so awkwardly putting it back down. “There were several other artists there, too, it—it really wasn’t my show per say.”
“Well, yes, of course.” Sparrow says. “Why don’t you tell us all about it?” And she motions to the front of the room. You stare at the floor by your desk. Please, you beg. Please, please. Just collapse. Swallow me up. Do something. The floor motionlessly mocks you.

You aren’t sure how you made it through that class. Filled with desperate energy, you bolt as soon as Sparrow utters her usual closing phrase: “See you next time.” You refuse even to make eye contact with any classmates pouring into the hall alongside you. You are just about to get away, too, when she calls after you,
“William Walker—hold on!” You stop dead in your tracks, wishing it were a bullet rather than her words that are keeping you in place. She sidles up next to you, tall, slender, well-made, if you will. “I hope I’m not keeping you from another class, but I’d love for you to walk me to my office.” An excuse forms on your lips. “I have all these papers to carry back with me.” Curses.
“Sure thing.” You are too kind for your own good. You walk back to the classroom with her and pick up a thick folder of papers. Despite the alarms going off in the back of your skull, you are suddenly walking towards the end of the hall, past classmates and towards Sylvia Baker and other faculty member’s offices. Sophie Sparrow is walking awfully close at your side, her long blonde hair brushing your shoulder as she shifts her head—you’re afraid she can hear the accelerated speed of your heart beat.
“I am just so proud of you.” She starts. “It does my heart good to see a student taking their craft beyond the classroom into the ‘real world.’ That takes such initiative, such commitment. What hard work it is to create and create and create until you have a collection to display—especially without utilizing digital technology!” You can’t help but feel like a counterfeit when you remember how you sifted through an old box of your photographs that you threw into a manila folder to mail to Hal. You try to walk faster, but she will not alter her pace. “That makes me feel a bit like a cheat!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know I teach several digital photography courses here.”
“Ah yes.”
“To purists, digital cameras can seem easier…like cheating. I understand and respect—truly—any reasons you may have behind sticking with film, but I just want you to know that I think you could really benefit from modern technology in the area of photography.” Arriving at her office, she takes her keys out of her bag but drops them while unlocking the door. Instinctively, you bend down at the same time that she does to pick them up. Your hands brush against one another in the process and the feeling of her breath at your neck makes the panic in you rise. Her hand lingers on yours just briefly before you both stand back up; she continues calmly as if nothing has happened. “I hope you understand,” she is saying—her voice finally breaks through the adrenaline beating in your ears, “that I just want to be available to help you succeed.” She steps into her office, a small closet of a room with neatly kept shelves of books lining the walls on either side and a wooden desk and chair in the back under a tiny window. After setting her bag on the desk, she hesitates for the first time—clearly expecting you to come into the room and curious that you are not. She pauses and you say nothing, too worried about the sweat gathering on your palms under the student papers you are carrying. She tilts her head just slightly. “Will, what I’m saying is: why don’t you let me give you a crash course just to see if you like it? I have equipment that I can loan you.” Why is it that all you can think in this moment is ‘my mamma didn’t raise no fool’?
“Um—“ She watches you, obviously her level of comfort decreasing. She seems to be struggling to communicate her meaning to you, and tries again.
“I want to see you succeed—so few of us artists do. I just think you could really benefit—“
“Well, I think that—um…”
“You don’t even have to sign up for a course. I mean, we could do it sometime in the evening—“
“Oh, I work most evenings—“ Your out—thank you Joe’s!
“Or afternoons! I’m very flexible.” You swallow hard. “You don’t have another class to go to right now?” You shake your head. “Please, then,” she puts a hand on the door knob, “come on in and we’ll discuss this.”

What happens next?

A. You’re not great at thinking on your feet…and she seems so sincere! You step into her office. Despite your nervousness, you are slightly intrigued by her offer.
B. Nothing good can come out of this situation. You’re afraid of what this looks like—pretend to get a phone call! Get out now!