Monster in His Eyes
Page 25
Tell me about it.
"He called me, though," she continues. "I told him to after that night at Timbers, but I didn't really expect to hear from him. But he called, and we talked, and he's amazing. We have so much in common."
"That's great." He rubbed me the wrong way, and I don't trust him after the incident with the drink, but my warnings fell on deaf ears to her. She looks happy, and I guess that's what matters. "So you're going to see him again?"
"Abso-freakin'-lutely." Before I can question her anymore, her phone chimes. Melody is up off the bed, all traces of exhaustion gone as she darts for her luggage and rummages through it. She pulls out her phone, glancing at it, and squeals. "He sent me a text! It says: yo, sexy, you settled in? You hear that? He called me sexy!"
She laughs giddily as she throws herself back down on her bed, her attention fixed to her phone as she responds to him. My eyes drift from my roommate to my own phone, silent and still on the desk beside me.
I'll take beautiful over sexy any day.
"Happiness."
Santino stands at the front of the classroom, holding his favorite wooden pointer stick. It's long, and thick, arguably bigger than him, with a sharp metal tip like a dagger.
I think he's compensating for something.
He bangs it against the large chalkboard, hitting the word written in all capitals. HAPPINESS. I'm vaguely paying attention, my mind drifting, as Melody slouches in the chair beside me, doodling in the margins of her notebook. I peek her way, rolling my eyes when I see she's drawing hearts around Paul's name.
"Who wants to chime in and tell me what happiness means to them?" Santino asks, scanning the classroom for volunteers.
Hands shoot up, the do-gooders who would offer to shine the man's shoes if he hinted they were dirty, followed by a few other hesitant volunteers. The answers are expected from this bunch, a lot of idealistic bullshit tucked in with some materialism. A guy across the room shouts out something vulgar, making the class snicker, as Santino points his stick at him with disapproval.
"Getting the hell out of this class," Melody says under her breath. "That's my happiness."
"Tell me about it," I mutter. "Longest hour ever."
"Ah, Miss Reed," Santino says, swinging in our direction, his eyes meeting mine through the sea of students, like he has radar that's tuned directly to me. "Was that your voice I heard? Would you like to chime in with your answer?"
"Uh, true happiness is having a deep sense of well-being, and peace, and vitality," I say, remembering reading that in the material. "It's being grateful to be alive."
"That's true," he says, "but that's not what I asked you."
I'm momentarily caught off guard by his sharp response.
"You see, if I wanted the textbook definition, I would've read it," he continues, smacking the book on his desk with the stick. "The question was your definition. Pay attention next time instead of gossiping with Miss Carmichael."
"Sorry, sir."
He stares at me, raising his eyebrows. "Well? Your definition?"
"I, uh…" I can feel the gaze of my classmates burning through me, waiting. "I don't know."
"You don't know," he echoes. "You don't know what makes you happy?"
"Well, sure, but happiness isn't really a thing," I say. "It's a state of mind."
He doesn't look the least bit entertained. "A state of mind or a state of being?"
I hesitate before repeating myself. "A state of mind. It's just the way you look at things."
The corner of his lip twitches, but it's not with amusement. He looks like he might have a blood vessel burst if I keep speaking. "Do you pick up all of your philosophical insight from the realm of children's narrative, Miss Reed, or just your views on happiness?"
I blanch, hearing the wave of giggling flow through the room. I start to stammer out a response when he turns away, pointing back to the chalkboard, a sign that says he's done with my shit. "Albert Einstein said a table, a chair, a bowl of fruit, and a violin were happiness for him. Clearly, everyone defines it differently… those of us who can define it, anyway."
I slink down in my chair, embarrassed, as Melody leans toward me, whispering, "Please tell me you weren't quoting Seuss again."
"Walt Disney," I mutter as quietly as can be, but based on the way Santino's gaze darts to me again, I suspect he knew I was talking.
Class is over within minutes after that. I'm out of my seat as Santino shouts, "Two page paper exploring the concept of true happiness due on Thursday! I'll have your mid-terms graded then."
The class groans as we head for the door. Melody falls into step beside me, sighing as she slips her bag on. "You couldn't be normal and say orgasms, could you?"
I laugh, shaking my head. I couldn't say that, but of course, I wouldn't refute it. The mere mention of the word causes a tingle deep inside of me, the memory of the way Naz made my toes curl as I came for him.
That was undoubtedly happiness.
That was Heaven.
I could write the next great American novel about it.
"You know me," I say. "I like to keep things interesting."
"Yeah, well, you ought to be careful," she says. "You know he gets a kick out of torturing students. It's, like, foreplay to him, and if you keep it up, you might end up being the one getting fucked."
"He called me, though," she continues. "I told him to after that night at Timbers, but I didn't really expect to hear from him. But he called, and we talked, and he's amazing. We have so much in common."
"That's great." He rubbed me the wrong way, and I don't trust him after the incident with the drink, but my warnings fell on deaf ears to her. She looks happy, and I guess that's what matters. "So you're going to see him again?"
"Abso-freakin'-lutely." Before I can question her anymore, her phone chimes. Melody is up off the bed, all traces of exhaustion gone as she darts for her luggage and rummages through it. She pulls out her phone, glancing at it, and squeals. "He sent me a text! It says: yo, sexy, you settled in? You hear that? He called me sexy!"
She laughs giddily as she throws herself back down on her bed, her attention fixed to her phone as she responds to him. My eyes drift from my roommate to my own phone, silent and still on the desk beside me.
I'll take beautiful over sexy any day.
"Happiness."
Santino stands at the front of the classroom, holding his favorite wooden pointer stick. It's long, and thick, arguably bigger than him, with a sharp metal tip like a dagger.
I think he's compensating for something.
He bangs it against the large chalkboard, hitting the word written in all capitals. HAPPINESS. I'm vaguely paying attention, my mind drifting, as Melody slouches in the chair beside me, doodling in the margins of her notebook. I peek her way, rolling my eyes when I see she's drawing hearts around Paul's name.
"Who wants to chime in and tell me what happiness means to them?" Santino asks, scanning the classroom for volunteers.
Hands shoot up, the do-gooders who would offer to shine the man's shoes if he hinted they were dirty, followed by a few other hesitant volunteers. The answers are expected from this bunch, a lot of idealistic bullshit tucked in with some materialism. A guy across the room shouts out something vulgar, making the class snicker, as Santino points his stick at him with disapproval.
"Getting the hell out of this class," Melody says under her breath. "That's my happiness."
"Tell me about it," I mutter. "Longest hour ever."
"Ah, Miss Reed," Santino says, swinging in our direction, his eyes meeting mine through the sea of students, like he has radar that's tuned directly to me. "Was that your voice I heard? Would you like to chime in with your answer?"
"Uh, true happiness is having a deep sense of well-being, and peace, and vitality," I say, remembering reading that in the material. "It's being grateful to be alive."
"That's true," he says, "but that's not what I asked you."
I'm momentarily caught off guard by his sharp response.
"You see, if I wanted the textbook definition, I would've read it," he continues, smacking the book on his desk with the stick. "The question was your definition. Pay attention next time instead of gossiping with Miss Carmichael."
"Sorry, sir."
He stares at me, raising his eyebrows. "Well? Your definition?"
"I, uh…" I can feel the gaze of my classmates burning through me, waiting. "I don't know."
"You don't know," he echoes. "You don't know what makes you happy?"
"Well, sure, but happiness isn't really a thing," I say. "It's a state of mind."
He doesn't look the least bit entertained. "A state of mind or a state of being?"
I hesitate before repeating myself. "A state of mind. It's just the way you look at things."
The corner of his lip twitches, but it's not with amusement. He looks like he might have a blood vessel burst if I keep speaking. "Do you pick up all of your philosophical insight from the realm of children's narrative, Miss Reed, or just your views on happiness?"
I blanch, hearing the wave of giggling flow through the room. I start to stammer out a response when he turns away, pointing back to the chalkboard, a sign that says he's done with my shit. "Albert Einstein said a table, a chair, a bowl of fruit, and a violin were happiness for him. Clearly, everyone defines it differently… those of us who can define it, anyway."
I slink down in my chair, embarrassed, as Melody leans toward me, whispering, "Please tell me you weren't quoting Seuss again."
"Walt Disney," I mutter as quietly as can be, but based on the way Santino's gaze darts to me again, I suspect he knew I was talking.
Class is over within minutes after that. I'm out of my seat as Santino shouts, "Two page paper exploring the concept of true happiness due on Thursday! I'll have your mid-terms graded then."
The class groans as we head for the door. Melody falls into step beside me, sighing as she slips her bag on. "You couldn't be normal and say orgasms, could you?"
I laugh, shaking my head. I couldn't say that, but of course, I wouldn't refute it. The mere mention of the word causes a tingle deep inside of me, the memory of the way Naz made my toes curl as I came for him.
That was undoubtedly happiness.
That was Heaven.
I could write the next great American novel about it.
"You know me," I say. "I like to keep things interesting."
"Yeah, well, you ought to be careful," she says. "You know he gets a kick out of torturing students. It's, like, foreplay to him, and if you keep it up, you might end up being the one getting fucked."
