Monster in His Eyes Page 14

  "So, what, you're giving up?"

  "Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's ignorance."

  Her brow furrows. "Are you on drugs?"

  "No," I laugh. "It's Confucius. It means it doesn't matter if I open my book or not, Melody. I'll never know everything, I'll never get it all right anyway, and whatever… I'm cool with that."

  She looks stunned. "You've changed more than Biggie Smalls."

  My brow furrows. "He changed?"

  "He went from ashy to nasty to classy, didn't he?"

  I laugh as she recites one of his songs and lean back against the wall, spreading my legs out on my bed. "Yeah, well, you've changed, too. I don't think I've ever seen you study so much for something before. What gives?"

  "I just want to try to do good," she says, slamming her book closed. "Paul got a B in Santino's class last year, so I really want to get one, too, so he doesn't think I'm an idiot or something."

  "You shouldn't change who you are for a guy."

  "Ha, look who's talking! You went from rocking Payless boots to nine hundred dollar Jimmy Choos."

  "Is that from a rapper?"

  "No, that was all me. Pretty good, huh?"

  Okay, maybe she hasn't changed that much.

  "Regardless, I'm still me," I say. "Just me with more stuff."

  A lot more stuff.

  My eyes scan the room at the mention of it. My side is starting to look like Melody's, our living space entirely too small to cram everything in it anymore. One thing I learned quickly is that Naz is a giver, never hesitating to lavish me with the best of everything. Shoes. Clothes. Flowers. Orgasms.

  So many fucking orgasms.

  The material things I can do without, and I tell him that, again and again, but only a fool would turn down an orgasm from him.

  "The point is," I say, turning back to Melody, "you shouldn't feel like you have to work to impress Paul. If he's not already impressed, if he doesn't already think you're brilliant, then screw him."

  She scowls at me but doesn't respond because she knows I'm right. Tossing her book aside, she gets up, stretching, as she steps over to the mirror to put on lip-gloss. I start flipping through channels again. I'm as ready as I'm going to be, wearing jeans and a sweater and my favorite scarf. All I have to do is put on my aforementioned Payless boots.

  "Have you told your mom yet?" Melody asks.

  "Told her what?"

  "About your sugar daddy."

  I roll my eyes and cringe, unsure which response that warrants. "First of all, he's not my sugar daddy, he's my…"

  "Your what?"

  Fuck if I know. Boyfriend sounds so silly. It doesn't begin to cover the force of nature that is Naz. He's too much to cram into a box with a pretty little label. "He's just… mine."

  "Well, have you told your mother about your whatever he is?"

  I scoff. "Of course not. She'll lose her mind."

  "You think so?"

  "I know so. This is a woman who tried to keep me from going to prom because she was terrified. I tried to explain that there would be chaperones, but it just freaked her out more. She all but cried when I insisted on going, telling me it wasn't safe, that I had to promise her I wouldn't leave the dance, that I wouldn't go anywhere alone with anyone without her knowing. I'm surprised she didn't sit out in the parking lot and watch the whole time." I pause. "Actually, she might've done just that. But the point is she's liable to have a stroke when I tell her about Naz."

  "You'll have to tell her eventually."

  "I will," I say. "But I have to spend next weekend with her, and I'd rather it not be one long freak out where I try to explain something to her that I can barely understand myself, you know?"

  "I do not envy you," Melody mutters, her focus on her reflection. "Actually, I'm lying. I do. I envy those new black Louboutin pumps you got. They would look great with the dress I'm wearing tonight."

  "You can borrow them," I say.

  She swings around to face me. "Really?"

  "Yeah, why not? You let me borrow your clothes all the time."

  More like she forces me into them but close enough.

  She squeals, running over to attack me with a hug, but I shoo her away so I can pull on my boots. After gathering my things, I sling my bag on my back.

  "You're going in that?" Melody asks. "All sweater-y and scarf-y?"

  I roll my eyes. "It's just a test. I have to come back here to shower for tonight, anyway. Who cares what I look like?"

  Melody shrugs, grabbing her things and following me out the door. The trek to the philosophy building takes about fifteen minutes today, the sidewalks congested as people rush around. Melody's yammering away as usual, still talking up a storm when we walk into the classroom.

  Santino is sitting at his desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes scanning the crowd as we take our seats. We sit in our usual spots in the back, but even from here I can tell he looks like hell, glasses askew and hair unkempt.

  "Looks like Satan hasn't slept," Melody says. "Too busy torturing poor souls for a moment of rest."

  He wastes no time, passing out the tests before everyone has even sat down. I skim through it as soon as I get mine, assessing the potential damage. Mostly multiple-choice, but even the few fill in the blank and paragraph answers feel easy enough.

  If I don't pass this one, we have a problem.

  I can hear Melody huffing beside me as I breeze through the test. I'm done in fifteen minutes, the rest of the class following suit not far after. Melody is the last, with twenty minutes to go. Santino collects the tests but instead of dismissing us early, he picks up a piece of chalk and writes a single word in all capitals across the chalkboard.

  MURDER.

  There's a flow of murmurs through the classroom that he silences when he picks up that godforsaken stick and whacks it against his desk so hard I'm surprised it doesn't break.

  "Show of hands," he says. "Who thinks murder is wrong?"

  All at once, every hand in the classroom goes up.

  His eyes scan us. "Why?"

  Just as fast, nearly every hand drops back down. Santino scans who's left, pointing at a boy in the front row.

  "Because it's illegal."

  Santino stares at him like he's an idiot before moving on, pointing at a girl along the side.

  "It's immoral," she says. "It's wrong to take someone's life."

  He moves right along, calling on others, who give much the same answers. After everyone who volunteered has spoken, he scans our faces again and shakes his head. "Why is it you all know murder is wrong but you can't say why it's wrong, except that it just is? It's wrong because it's illegal; it's illegal because it's wrong; it's wrong because it's immoral; it's immoral because it's wrong. But why?"

  The silence is deafening.

  "Show of hands," he says again. "Who believes in the death penalty?"

  The majority of the class raises their hands, Melody included. I waver but eventually put mine up, not so much a cynic as not wanting him to call on me for this conversation. He smirks, all crazy-eyed, as he surveys our hands. "Ah, so you guys don't think murder is wrong?"

  Hands slowly drop down.

  "If we define murder as the premeditated killing of another human being, is putting someone to death not murder? What makes one situation right and the other so wrong?"

  "Because people on death row are murderers," the same guy from earlier says, not bothering to raise his hand this time.

  "So it's okay to murder somebody if they've also murdered?" Santino asks. "Equal justice? An eye for an eye?"

  "Yes," the boy says. "But that's not murder. Murder is killing someone innocent."

  "Did you know," Santino says, tapping his stick against the floor, "that since the death penalty was reinstated, 139 people slated for death have been exonerated and set free? In that same time, we've executed over twelve hundred. How many of them do you think were innocent? Maybe none, but if it's even one, doesn't that make it murder? Af
ter all, you've killed an innocent man."

  Nobody knows what to say… except for the same damn boy. "It's unfortunate that they had to die, but it's for the greater good."

  "And that's precisely what a lot of murderers would say about their victims," Santino says. "So again, show of hands. Who believes in the death penalty?"

  Only a few brave souls raise their hand this time.

  "Two page paper on the topic of murder," he says, turning away from us with a wave of the hand, dismissing class. "Due Tuesday."

  A collective groan echoes through the room. It's a holiday weekend—Easter. I get up and grab my bag, heading for the door with Melody beside me. We stroll through the building and I glance up just as we step outside, my footsteps stalling when I come face to face with Naz. He's parked out front, leaning against the side of his Mercedes, his eyes zeroing in on me.

  "Uh, hey," I say when he steps toward me, suddenly wishing I had done a little more to get ready, after all.

  "Hey." He kisses the corner of my mouth before turning to Melody. "Hello again."

  "Hey there," she says, smiling warmly at him, before her eyes turn to me. "I'll meet you back at the room, Kissimmee."

  Naz's brow furrows as Melody walks away. "Kissimmee?"

  "It's what my mother calls me," I say, shrugging. "Play on my name or something, I guess."

  "Kissimmee," he says again. "Like the city in Florida?"

  "Yep," I say. "So what are you doing here? I thought we were meeting up later?"

  "We are," he says. "I'm actually here on business."

  "Ah." I eye him peculiarly. "I guess I'll let you get to that, then. See you later?"

  "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

  He kisses me again before strolling away, heading inside now that almost everyone has cleared from the building. I stare at the door for a moment, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted to follow him inside, to watch him, to see what he's doing, but I don't. He's caught me every other time, and I know if I follow, he'll catch me again.

  Sighing, I turn away and make the walk back to the dorm.

  When I see Naz again, hours later, he seems to be in a peculiar mood. He doesn't even look at me when I slip into the passenger seat of the Mercedes, doesn't even attempt to get out to open my door. I don't expect it, or need it, but when he's usually chivalrous, it stands out to me.

  As soon as I snap my seatbelt into place, he swings the car around and merges into traffic, not saying a word. His eyes are focused on the road, darting between the windshield and the rearview mirror, never once turning my way. I settle into the seat, leaving him to his silence as we drive through Manhattan toward the bridge.

  We were supposed to go to dinner. I'm not sure where, but I dressed up for it, even putting on a pair of the new heels he bought me. But it becomes clear when he heads toward his neighborhood that we're going straight to his house instead.

  I turn to him, confused, and start to speak, when his eyes meet mine finally. The look he gives me makes me swallow back my question, the darkness telling me that his bad mood is deeper than just on the surface.

  I think I prefer the silence to what might come from his lips.

  Instead, I turn back away, staring out the side window as the houses rush past, familiar now from coming here so often. He still doesn't speak when we arrive, getting out and standing beside the car, waiting for me to walk ahead of him.

  He unlocks the door, ushering me inside. The click of the deadbolt behind me is magnified in the icy silence as he relocks the door right away. I flinch involuntarily at the sound, watching him.

  "Is everything okay?" I ask, unable to contain the question any longer. It's been a while since I've felt this nervous around him. I've grown used to him, but it feels different now. He feels different. I'm used to my relaxed, smug playboy, charming and intense, and not this wound tight, unnerving man in front of me.

  He nods, pulling off his jacket before turning to me. "Why?"

  "You just seem… edgy."

  "It's been a long day," he says. "You okay with ordering in for dinner?"

  "Sure."

  He strolls to the kitchen, flicking on the light as he goes. I follow behind, stalling in the doorway to glance around. I haven't spent any time in here, and he doesn't seem to, either, although it's immaculate, everything polished and shiny and appearing still brand-new.

  Naz grabs a takeout menu from a drawer beside the refrigerator and pulls out his phone, dialing the number on it. An Italian place, it turns out. He orders a large pepperoni pizza and hesitates, turning to me while he's still on the phone. "Do you have anything chocolate? Yeah, chocolate, some kind of dessert." He's quiet for a second before he cuts in, raising his voice. "I said chocolate. I don't know what universe you live in, but panna cotti with berries isn't chocolate. You want to treat me like a jamook, like I don't know what fucking panna cotti is, and I'll show you a jamook."

  I tense, staring at him with shock as his anger surfaces. He tosses the menu back in the drawer and shuts it before interjecting again. "Give me both of those. Yeah. And hurry it up."

  He hangs up, tossing his phone down on the counter with no regard, and brushes right by me without speaking. I stare at his discarded phone, my stomach clenching, as he heads upstairs.

  I don't follow.

  Instead, I make my way to the den, not turning on the light or touching anything. I sit down on the couch and pull out my own phone, tinkering around with it to distract myself. I'd text Melody but she's on her way to meet Paul's parents to spend Easter with them, and I don't want to burden her.

  It takes Naz a while to return. I don't hear him, never do, but he pops up in the den, switching on the light when he walks in. My eyes remain glued to my phone as I flick little colorful birdies across the screen, but I can feel his eyes.

  Now he's looking at me.

  His voice is quiet, calmer, when he asks, "What are you doing?"

  "Killing pigs."

  He lets out dry laugh. "My favorite pastime."

  I cut my eyes at him. "You play Angry Birds?"

  I can't imagine him playing games like this.

  "Sure, whatever." He sits down on the arm of the couch beside me and offers a small smile. The sight of it, although strained, lightens the air. He might be mad, but he's not mad at me. "You look beautiful tonight. I feel bad not taking you out. I should be showing you off."

  "It's okay." I set my phone aside and shift my body to face him. "I don't mind staying in. I like being here."

  "Good, because I like you being here." He reaches out and cups my chin, running his thumb across my bottom lip. I think he's going to kiss me, and my breath hitches in anticipation, but he switches focus instead. "So, how's school going?"

  "Uh, okay." We've mentioned school before, but it's the first time he's outwardly asked me about it like this. "Most of my classes are going well."

  "How's philosophy?"

  "Terrible."

  "Huh." He pulls his hand away from my face. "If it gets too bad, let me know and I'll take care of it."

  "You going to take my tests for me? Do my homework?"

  "Whatever you want me to do."

  A loud chime echoes through the house, and suddenly he's tense again, his back stiffening and shoulders squaring. He sits freakishly still, like he's been turned to stone by Medusa's stare, as the chime rings yet again.

  "Pretty sure that's probably the pizza dude at the door," I say.

  He cuts his eyes at me as he stands up, mumbling "stay here" before stalking out. I stay where I am, twiddling my thumbs, until he returns with the food. He sets the pizza box on the table with two smaller containers on top of it. Nosey, I pop them open, seeing it's chocolate mousse and tiramisu.

  "You like chocolate," he says, waving toward it as if to explain. He got them for me. "Eat up. I need to make a few calls and handle some things."

  "You're not going to eat?"

  "Not right now."

  "Afraid it's poisoned?
Because the way you talked to the guy on the phone, I might be a little worried, too."

  He laughs as he turns on the TV, turning the volume up, before dropping the remote on the couch cushion beside me. "It's safe. I'll be back in a bit."

  He walks out, leaving me in the den alone again.

  I eat and flip through channels, eat some more and flip some more, going again and again until I'm stuffed and I've been through every show a few times, settling on some reality program I'm not really paying attention to. I tinker with my phone some more before getting up and strolling around the den, once more migrating to his bookshelves.

  I don't know how much time passes—fifteen minutes, maybe thirty—before he strolls in, catching me as I pull an old, worn book off the shelf. Crime & Punishment.

  "Good book," he says, sitting down in his chair behind his desk, setting his phone in front of him. "Ever read it?"

  "No."

  I'm suddenly regretting everything I said to Melody earlier this afternoon. I want to read the damn book just so I don't look like an idiot to him. "Huh."

  I return the book to the shelf, my fingertips skimming the spines of those near it. "You have enough philosophy books I think you probably could do my work for me."

  "It's an interesting subject," he says. "When you don't overthink it, anyway."

  I turn to him curiously. "Do you believe in the death penalty?"

  "Yes."

  He doesn't even have to think about it.

  "Do you think murder is wrong?"

  I expect another emphatic answer, an outright yes, but this time he hesitates. "That's too broad of a question. Are you excluding justifiable homicide?"

  "Is killing ever justifiable?"

  "Of course it is." He gazes at me, and he looks like he wants to say more, but he hesitates again. "Have you heard of the Plank of Carneades? Santino teach you it?"

  "No."

  "Let's say we're shipwrecked, and we both see a plank floating in the water, but it's only big enough to hold one of us."

  "This sounds eerily like the end of Titanic."

  He laughs and continues. "You get to the plank first, but knowing I'm going to drown if I don't do something, I shove you off and steal it for myself. Because of that, you die. Was that murder?"