BAD LAD

7. Katherine

I’m so tired... I can’t do this anymore!

I contemplate Father Stephen smiling at me with annoying compassion, taking deep breaths that I expel quietly through my nose to calm my nerves.

He just suggested for the umpteenth time that I go to confession and here, right now, I want to break something on his head.

“Not interested.”

This is my most polite and respectful tone, the last gram of self-control I have left after this exhausting, unproductive conversation we both just had.

His expression softens again and now I’m downright clinging to the arms of the chair I’m sitting on.

He serves this verbal stew to Julie, anyway, she wants to become a nun. But damn, I wish he’d stop trying to convert me too!

He begins to repeat his long speech on the fact that talking about my faults would relieve my heart and soul, and that we all need forgiveness, blah blah blah and I sharply draw my breath.

I leap to my feet.

“Excuse me, but I have to go. I have to apply for a job.”

“One second?” he tells me in a tone of reproach. “You know that if you wished, you could stay here even after having reached majority, and continue your studies as usual.”

And die of neuronal anaemia? Thank you!

I offer him a hypocritical smile.

“I’ll manage.”

He smiles doubtfully then I repeat, teeth clenched:

“I’ll manage.”

Ten minutes later, I’m finally free. I automatically get out my mobile from my hoodie pocket and think about Chris’ proposal.

Live with him and Mel... it would give me a certain freedom of movement and I wouldn’t be bludgeoned with Father Stephen’s sermons. Julie gets along with all the girls in the dormitory and the nuns love her... I can step back a bit and use the time to find an apartment, a car, and put money aside.

Living with the tattooed thug... a shiver runs down my spine. I don’t like the look of that damn misogynist, but maybe I shouldn’t count the teeth of this gift horse.

I press the Call key and close my eyes while listening to the ringtone. A sleepy voice replies at the end of the fifth ring:

“Yeah.”

“It’s Kate.”

“Who? Oh yeah.”

Son of a b***h.

“It still stands?”

My stomach twists just at the idea of needing his help.

“What?”

In a moment of self-doubt, I seriously think he forgot, but a little something I picked up in his inflection alerts me and right away gets on my nerves.

“Me... put up,” I mumble, barely restraining myself to add ‘asshole’.

I listen to him force some sort of grunt; kind of what we do when we stretch.

“Yep. Do you need me to come to get you... well, your business, all that, or sort this out yourself?”

I want to tell him that I’ll manage, but carrying my boxes on the bus doesn’t particularly appeal to me and I’ll ask nothing of Father Stephen.

“If you don’t mind.”

I continue to clench my teeth at the thought—so much so that I will eventually find them embedded in my gums.

He chuckles, compounding my bad mood.

“I didn’t hear the magic word!” he dares to joke.

“Please.”

I’m going to throw up.

“If you like? Let’s see... Okay. Send me the address by text, I’m coming.”

I did so after hanging up. My next goal is to prepare my meagre belongings.

When I hear the horrified screams trying to screw up my eardrums, somewhere inside me I immediately guess the origin.

Christopher Farwick passes through the door of the dorm room and the few girls present comically huddle against each other. How did he manage to get in and find the way to the dormitory? It’s a big mystery.

He’s wearing a black tank top just tight enough to emphasize every muscle in his torso, happily revealing the many tattoos on his arms. On his worn jeans is a studded leather belt decorated with chains, and the heels of his biker boots bang on the floor. He casually sticks his hands in his pockets while a charming half-smile stretches his lips. Before arriving in front of me, he pretends to approach one of the girls and she backs away with a frightened cry. Inevitably, such a reaction yields a burst of laughter from him.

I can’t deny that he’s attractive in a way. Some girls might even find him hot.

When he finally stops at my hideous little bed, he releases one of his hands to lower his glasses on his nose and offers me his grey eyes.

“You’ve not finished packing your stuff?” he asks rhetorically.

I indicate with a thumb my suitcase lying on the mattress behind me, then announce:

“In a minute.”

He falls heavily on the bed which loudly expresses its displeasure.

From the corner of my eye, while finishing putting my things in one of the boxes, I watch him take a look round at his surroundings. He strikes his palms one against the other, forearms resting on his spread thighs.

“You sure you want to break out of here,” he whispers.

His thinking makes me smile.

Then, as if he suddenly thought of something specific, he freezes and asks:

“What made you decide, anyway?”

“Father Stephen and his obsession with confession.”

At that moment he doesn’t say a word, but the next second, he laughs uproariously.

“Ah! Holy s**t! You just kill me!” he says, holding his sides. “Holy s**t! I thought that went out with Starbucks and Madonna.”

I nod, still smiling.

“What did my sister say when you told her I was coming to live with you?”

“I haven’t had time to talk to her.”

He just answered me in a perfectly indifferent tone and I choke a curse.

“She won’t like it,” I grumble.

“She doesn’t have to like it. It’s my apartment, I do what I want. Anyway, I know how to release her tension.”

He finished his sentence with a smug smile that leaves no doubt as to the nature of the method used. I shake my head.

“Serial womanizer,” I joke, in a whisper.

I freeze, feeling his warm breath on my ear:

“Yeah,” he whispers. “And I’m good, Katherine.”

“Is that a fact?”

He stands behind me and slightly to my left because he has one of my two boxes.

“You want me to prove it to you?” he insists.

I sense his smile in the inflection of his voice and I stiffen.

“No, thanks.”

Mine has an obnoxious sour emphasis that triggers a little manly laugh.

“You’re too young, anyway.”

I don’t know if he said it to himself or me, but I deliberately ignore the note of regret that I detect in these words.

“I’m glad to hear that! Imagine if you were a perverse satyr with a preference for Lolitas on top of everything else!” I say irritably.

“You’re not a Lolita,” says Chris taking the second box. “A f*****g miniature Rambo, yeah!”

I stop walking toward the door to turn to him with a raised eyebrow:

“I have the same face as Stallone?”

He frees a hand and grabs my chin to rotate my face and scrutinize it.

“There’s something in the profile.”

“Son of a b***h!” I shout freeing myself with a shove to continue towards the exit.

He laughs.

Once outside, I’m relieved not to have met Father Stephen or one of the dormitory sisters. I’ll call Julie at the end of her classes to warn her, but gently sneaking off is by far the best way to make sure everything goes smoothly.

Chris’ car is in his image:

“A 1969 Pontiac GTO Judge... Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

He gives me a surprised look.

“You know about cars?”

I shrug, admiring the orange colour typical of this classy vehicle while its owner drops off my stuff in the trunk.

“Come on, little Pontiac fan!” he smiles as he settles himself at the wheel of the sublime machine.