Charlatan Charm

1: The Lie

Whenever people tell Charm that she'll go places, all she can think of is jail.

Not for homicide, assault, arson, trafficking, nor laundering. She'll be thrown behind bars for something simple and stupid like stealing pink hair dye in a*****e, obsessing over an actor until he files restraining orders which the girl will ignore, or fraud. One thing's for sure: she has a crime waiting to be committed.

Charm Harlow has always been a slick little thing in the context of getting her way with everything. At multiple points in her life she wondered whether or not she's a psychopath, and although the answer is still unknown, it won't change anything. A diagnosis will not stop her black and white lies.

Many people will say it's unhealthful. Some people wonder if all the falsehood stack like pressure on her shoulders, someday shall be heavy enough to sink the woman to hell. That's when the psychopath self-assessment slips in because no, there is no pressure at all.

A girl does what a girl needs to do. On multiple occasions, Charm needs to lie, so she does so—at least once a day.

"Does the pie taste good?" asked Aunt Trish.

When she lifted her head, her eyes fell upon a woman with striking resemblance to her mother. The older woman is a sweet and hospitable host, and Charm loves her with all her heart, but her pie tastes like horse s**t, the green kind, thought the girl.

Charm forced a smile, "Yes," she cooed, "As good as the last time I had it."

The answer pleased her aunt and that's what mattered to Charm. She continued to dig into her serving, the tines of her fork only choosing the crust because its taste is most bearable. Not a while later, the front door sounded, indicating that France had arrived with the rest of Charm's luggage. There was bumping against furniture followed by unstable footsteps. Once the commotion was over, the young man emerged panting into the kitchen.

"Thanks," Charm said to her cousin—her favorite cousin, and that one's no lie. The others are as shitty as Trish's pie, Charm settled.

"The rest of your stuff's in your room," spoke France as he walked to the fridge for water, "Along with my old art supplies."

Charm was thankful. She's a sucker for kind gestures, the ones done by others with initiative—the ones she doesn't need manipulation for. She expressed her gratitude with a smile that reached her bright oak-brown eyes.

"I'll go finish the laundry," Aunt Trish excused herself.

"This art workshop thingy," Charm began, waving her fork in the air, "Are you sure it won't be as bad as last year?" she had to ask after their time-wasting encounter with Mr. Fredrican, a senior who made them color within lines for three whole sessions roughly twelve months ago.

France, the twenty-year-old art enthusiast, nodded eagerly. He grabbed a chair and sat across the girl, "They got new instructors. These ones are younger, thank f**k," age discrimination, thought Charm, but let it go. Younger doesn't necessarily equal better, though older does not guarantee anything either.

"I hope it'll be worth the money," she commented. The program is to be held by one of Endren's private schools and private schools charge more than necessary. Charm hopes to learn a handful of tips. If not, then at least meet a cute boy in class.

France smiled and offered verbal reassurance, "I'm sure it'll be great."

It was enough for Charm to drop the remaining worries regarding expenses. Her parents had left her more than enough money. She mentally shook her head at the thought of mom and dad. The lovebirds have fled to the Abacos to celebrate their twentieth anniversary and then some. Despite Charm's insistence that her eighteen-year-old self can live well and alone in two months, Karl and Maggie Harlow wanted their little girl in good hands—in Trish's hands. The decision was one of the few things that her lies could not manipulate into changing.

France stood, "Just remembered that I have errands to run," said the boy. With a smile and a wave of his awkward hand, he left Charm to fend for her own.

While no one was looking, she wrapped the remains of Trish's pie in kitchen tissues before dumping it into the trash. After washing her plate, she sauntered into the guest room where a big bag sat on a spring mattress. The room is not the best bedroom in the house, but it's better than what others have to offer.

Charm took her time unpacking and organizing her clothes in an antique dresser. She didn't have anything else to do. Summer is limited to tropical vacations (though in this case, her parents have spared her), art workshops, drawing sessions, dull parties, window shopping, and impulsive trips to McDonalds for nuggets and floats.

There's the mandatory summer fling, but Charm is yet to discover who this season's boy will be. She's convinced that she'll meet him soon—soon being the next day. Charm is not the best seductress in the world, but liberation is not in her dictionary. s*x is s*x. The young woman isn't one to complicate it with love and marriage despite the millions of elders expecting the youth to.

When she was done with clothes and supplies, she laid like a limp veggie on her bed, only one thumb moving to scroll down her accounts. The usual posts took over her feed: people showing the good things, the bad ones hidden in real life.

Charm was unproductive as time passed, though did not feel guilty in any way. She saw the whole day as a grace period. At around seven in the evening, Aunt Trish had called her for dinner, and the roast beef was the opposite of her pie. Charm had three servings.

An impromptu movie night had slipped into the dark, France thinking it would make Charm feel comfortable and welcome in their humble abode. The idea settled warmly into Charm. The girl doesn't have siblings, but had always wished for one. When her mother turned forty-two, all hope was lost.

France, on the other hand, has three step-brothers, though none of which are open to the idea of France being their father's first-born. Living with only his mother made him appreciative of the occasional guests.

When the moon ascended the navy blue stairs, Charm had succumbed into slumber on the couch across from where her cousin laid. Donnie Darko is France's favorite, and the character which the movie's named after reminds Charm of France himself, minus the mental issues.

It was Aunt Trish's signature strawberry waffles that awoken Charm's senses. She either makes a perfect meal or one that deserves to be eaten by none else than worms. There's nothing in between.

Along with strawberry syrup, what also woke up the sleeping girl was the excitement you can only get from starting a new adventure. It wrapped its vines around Charm as she snored softly, the thorns made of courage to face the new day, the green as green as summer's trees. At eight in the morning, it had suffocated her into awakening.

The young woman stretched and met the dining table with a yawn. Aunt Trish was in a hurried state, blabbering about how she'll be late for work. Once the older woman was sure that Charm had settled, she zoomed to her esteemed local flower shop.

France kicked Charm's foot under the table, "We'll leave at eleven," said the boy, "We'll grab lunch on the way. The thing starts at one."

That meant that Charm Harlow had a long three hours to get ready. After a quick chat about art which may or may not have been boring, Charm washed the dishes and walked into the cottage's only

bathroom. It made her miss her own one at home. Small as her personal T&B was, at least she had it to herself. There's something pressuring about knowing that there are other people who might need to use the lavatory as you're using it. With that, she limited her time.

In the guest bedroom, she laid out three tops and two bottoms, going back and forth with which looks good with what. Several wears and removes later, she settled with a muted purple ruffle top and jeans. A pop of color goes a long way, thought Charm, though later recognized the irony of her medium being strictly charcoal—black and white only. That's one reason why France's art contributions are not of much use and they both know this.

By the time metal hands pointed at eleven, the two youngsters had gathered themselves in the living room. Charm's tote bag held all of her necessities, both for canvas art and face art because the girl never leaves without touch-up essentials. It's not that she's insecure—she's picked herself up from that lump and vowed to never fall again. Charm just loves to look nice. Most times, looks contribute to a lie's strength.

"Ready?" asked France as he searched for his keys in an old cookie jar. Just to be sure, Charm looked through her bag again. After a nod, they were out.

Lunch came first at a local restaurant. Charm's stomach swallowed two big burgers. Then, the trip to Endren's number one private school took thirty minutes, though they would have arrived quicker if France hadn't gone with the minimum speed. p***y, Charm thought.

The young woman only passes the big academy when her family opts for lunch in her mother's favorite restaurant just at the outskirts. Coral Grove Institute, however, looked different from the last time she saw it, whenever that was. Charm noted that they had painted their walls a light orange, an odd choice since their school colors are red and blue, but it sure did make the buildings pop.

"I'm going to a different class," France blurted out once that had parked.

"What?" she asked, "I thought you agreed to try—"

"My eyes love color, Charm," he said as he fiddled with the wheel, "Grays won't work for me."

"You decided to just tell me now?" the girl crossed her arms in front of her chest. She glared. Charm knew that the glare won't do anything; the program's already been paid for.

"Yes?" he cringed as his thin shoulders bounced up. After a brief stare-off, Charm sighed in defeat. Then, she let herself out. Side-by-side, they walked through CG's open doors. Charm scanned the occupied hallway for a sign, wanting things to get over with.

For every class, there are only ten students max. Because of this, the focus circulates in only a small circle. Everyone gets their money's worth, Dad's words, not Charm's.

That's one reason why Charm can never hate her parents: they're supportive. Protective, but supportive with her passion. She made a mental note to call them later that night. That is, if they're not busy, she thought and shuddered right after. Although Karl and Maggie can get overly protective depending on the context, Charm believes that she wouldn't have learned how to be a sneaky girl if her parents were not the way they were.

France found his registration table right away, but first led Charm to hers. A middle-aged woman was manning the setup, her form sitting upright on a foldable metal chair. Upon scanning the list, Charm found sixteen people signed up in the advanced section, seventeen once she wrote her name. There are a lot more participants this year, she figured.

"Starts at one, dear," said the woman with an outfit as colorful as a rainbow. Charm smiled and hoped that her beam reciprocated the lady's energy.

It was the summer of freshman year when Charm first considered taking summer art classes. She found it overwhelming, especially when these sessions can be listed as experience—one other than her loyalty award from middle school. Even if she does not learn much in some classes, at least she's gaining credit. Since then she took more and more sessions outside of her own high school. Some were real helpful and some were corny. She can only hope this one's not like the latter.

The girl checked her phone for the time, finding herself with fifty minutes to spare wandering around. "Let's look around?" she asked France who was about to ask the same thing. France's little fault had softened in Charm's heart. She's never the type to let anger boil.

As they walked the halls, Charm could see people rushing for last-minute preparations through ajar doors. Coral Grove has three music rooms and this summer, one has been allotted for drums, another for classical instruments, and the third for guitars and pianos. On the other side of the wing was the vocal lessons. The number of participants had Charm wondering if they all came willingly or if their parents had pushed them into a new hobby. She's met a lot of examples in the past.

At one point, France excused himself to the bathroom. Charm promised to wait in her spot and she didn't know why she cracked an unnecessary lie. She kept walking, eyes scanning signs on doors until she reached what she assumed would be her room. The door was slightly open, though that's not the reason why she peaked. Upon hearing yelling, specifically two males, Charm had no reasons why not to eavesdrop on a few strangers.

She stood behind the slab of wood, breathing slow and feet ready to retreat to a few meters away; ready to pull her phone out and pretend she's been occupied the whole time.

"Tucker, damn it!" yelled one voice, the younger one, "I'm this close to backing out," he huffed.

"It won't be that bad," said the other in a tone that fit his statement—passive, sounds like a jerk, thought Charm, "At least it's a challenge," she realized that almost any conversation can sound s****l when it lacks context.

"You're an ass," the other replied, the younger one again.

"Luke," said the older man, "You either deal with it or have Rowella take your place. I don't give a s**t. We're trading, they already said yes."

"Without my damn permission," said Luke.

Tucker emphasized his words, "Deal with it."

Charm heard a heavy sigh followed by silence. Her gut made her take quiet steps to the end of the hallway where she pulled her phone out and scrolled mindlessly through her gallery. Not a while later, a man had stormed out the same door. Charm kept her head down.

From the corner of Charm's eyes, she saw the man pause to look at her, almost as if he was caught doing something he shouldn't be doing. Then, he proceeded to walk in long, quick strides, frustration dripping from his form. Before he could pass Charm, the young woman looked up and she's glad that she did.

I found him, she thought, though after further analysis realized that he's not her type—he's her new type.

Charm smiled tightly, the awkward smile you give to strangers you lock eyes with. The man, Luke, she assumed, dismissed her cooly with a bow of his head. Then, he disappeared, rounding a corner. Charm exhaled with the air that had caught in her lungs.

Fuck, she cursed to herself. She found her boy. Rather, she found her man.

Something settled into Charm's core. It was a heavy feeling of temptation and excitement. Sure, she found older guys hot from time to time, but she never dared to try for them. This one, on the other hand, wasn't just right up her alley—he brought her to a new alley and boy, did she love the change of surroundings.

Luke, if that is his name, is challenge Charm just had to take. He's not what she prepared for, but that doesn't mean she'll back out—like Luke and whatever the hell they were talking about in that room.

Listen to yourself, Charm, she thought as she walked down the same hallway where the man had fled, he's a stranger and he might even be a father, for f**k's sake.

The argument in her head, however, was no use. Charm can sense the perfect prey and Luke was the perfect prey. When Luke's eyes landed on her just seconds ago, Charm swore she saw interest flicker beneath his angry mask. When a prey sees its predator, there's a distinct glow in their eyes. One may say it's only fear, but there's more that lies underneath: amazement. It might not always be the good type, but it's there—amazement of seeing a creature so different to one's eyes. Dare they say pleasing.

That same look in Luke's is what had Charm trailing discreetly, focus on the back of Luke's head. For starters, Charm had never been with a man with copper hair. It's not that she doesn't like them, it's just that she prefers black haired boys, oddly enough. As she thought earlier: he's her new type. That's how strong Luke's impact was, and they haven't even talked yet.

Maybe it wasn't just the looks. Maybe Charm could see the skills, the passion, the love for art in his heart that's attractive from the start because when Luke reached the facilitator giving other facilitators their IDs, he received one.

Charm gulped. A bit of hope's been crushed. He'll be teaching, you dumbfuck.

Charm looked at his hands, wondering if he plays instruments; hoping she can distinguish a musician's fingers from a non-musical virtuoso's. When her brown plates did a distant observation, she found herself licking her lips. Those are some goddamn sexy hands, thought the young woman.

"Charm," someone called. She didn't have to look to know it's France, "Charm," he said again, hand wrapping around his cousin's to pull her out of her mid-day reverie.

"What?" she almost snapped.

"Where have you been? I'm gonna go to my room, it's almost one," the boy said, "You know where yours's at?"

Charm spared France a look before dragging her eyes back to Luke who still had tension on his eyebrows from his little argument with an older facilitator, "Yeah," she said, "You go ahead."

"I'll see you later, okay?" he replied, "Text me when you're done." 

She nodded mindlessly. This Luke guy, he's got her enticed and it's both good and bad. Until the last minute when people were filing into their designated areas, Charm was hanging out in the hallway where Luke was talking to a fellow moderator. It took her a lot of self-control to pry her eyes when she'd stare for too long. Creep, she told herself.

Her phone read one o'clock, saying that it's time to go. Charm vowed to figure out Luke's class once sessions end for the day. With another surge of self-control, she turned and headed to Medium: Charcoal (advanced).

This is where I first saw him, she thought when she went through the doorway, could it be? she wondered when she noticed the absence of their instructor.

The same excitement from earlier coursed through her veins, the blood thick with anticipation getting to her head and occupying her entirety. If he is who she thinks he is, there'd be no excuse for Charm not to shoot her shots.

She grabbed a seat behind a metal easel, a black bag for holding supplies around two legs. Charm glanced around the room and counted a total of eighteen people, some younger than her and some older, though all advanced. She controlled her breathing, pushing her excitement from her stomach to her toes.

Her foot tapped a tune against the floor, though human chatter masked the annoying sound. When a man walked into the room, the tapping stopped. When Luke followed, it was her heart that stopped. s**t, s**t, s**t, chanted Charm.

The noise subsided and the man who was not Luke spoke up, "Good afternoon, everyone," laced with a thick western accent, "A warm welcome, ladies and folks. Thank you for choosing to spare a fraction of your summer with us here in CG," the fellow smiled widely, the outer corners of his eyes wrinkling.

He continued, "I'm Joel Barton and this," he patted Luke's shoulder, "Is my good friend Mr. Lucan Hendrix. You can call me Joel and you can call him Luke or pretty boy," he teased lamely, but there were people who laughed.

Lucan Hendrix, Charm tested his name in her head and on the bed in her head.

"Since there are eighteen of you in advanced charcoal, we'll be splitting the class into two," Joel held up two fingers and wiggled, "People above two decades of existence, you come with pretty boy. Young lads and gents, come with Joel."

Luke rolled his eyes, "Nineteen below, you're with Joel. Proceed to the other room," he spoke cooly. He sounded bored too. Charm's never gotten wet just by a man's voice. Not until she heard Lucan's.

She didn't have to think. The decision to lie came naturally. Charm stayed in her seat. After a beat, as if he could sense her gaze and all the interest that came with it, he looked at her. Lucan looked pleased after seeing her stay. The upward twitch of the corners of his mouth was a good enough giveaway.

Seeing no reason to be timid about her interest since she'll shoot her shot eventually, Charm grinned.

Joel said a few more words, but Charm was too immersed with the sight of Lucan Hendrix—casual boy next door in light-washed jeans, a white shirt, and an olive green flannel, sleeves bunched to his elbows. Charm let her thoughts run wild.

One thing about artists, Charm specifically—imagination is evocative.

She licked her lips as she unpacked her materials. The faint sound of the door closing sounded through her ears and it made her excitement flicker. Charm is aware of students crushing over their teachers, but she's never experienced such a thing. Lucan Hendrix is her glimpse into that common fantasy.

He clapped his hands once, catching everyone's attention. There are eight of them in the classroom including Luke.

Mr. Lucan? Charm thought with a hint of naughtiness. Sadly, there's no desk to be bent over on like what they do in those shitty porn roleplay videos.

Her high over Lucan Hendrix was pushed to the ground after his next words, "I hate teenagers, they're full of themselves."

The girl fought her initial urge to cringe. It was then she knew she had gotten herself into something—not exactly trouble, but something. It may become trouble, but in all her power, she'll prevent such a thing from happening.

"My name's Lucan, but I hate Lucan so just call me Luke," said the man. But Lucan is sexy as f**k, thought Charm Harlow.

"I'm twenty-nine and I teach art here in Coral Grove Institute."

Charm's insides fell. This man is thirty, she thought with a mix of worry and exhilaration. The combination was like a drug, and one common fact about drugs is that they're addicting.

She's heard of bigger age gaps, but since this is her first time with a man much older, an age of something close to twenty five would be the perfect warm-up. Thirty, however? 

They were asked to introduce themselves one by one, funny enough for Charm. She thought Luke is one to hate those types of introductions. She caught on, however, to the man's true motive for such a boring activity. His series of after questions for the girl screamed interest.

"I'm Charm Harlow, twenty-one," she spoke with ease, "I've been drawing since I was three. That's all."

"College? Fine Arts?" asked Luke as he folded his arms in front of him—a fine sight indeed.

Charm nodded eagerly, "Third year. Hillview University," and smiled.

Lucan slipped another query, eyes boring into Charm's face, "How's that going for you?"

Again, with ease, she answered, "I've adjusted well. That's probably because I've taken a lot of workshops before," a decent amount of boasting. Because let's be honest, it's natural for people to throw credentials, she believed. It added to the naturalness.

"I miss my college days," said Lucan, "Stress, rest in the summer, love in the summer, love, more stress."

She took the opportunity he clearly presented. Charm spoke, feeling giddy deep inside, "Rest. Just rest right now."

Luke licked his lips nonchalantly, "I see," before proceeding to the next person.

Eventually, they were provided with little kits that contained bristol vellum, kneadable erasers, and three thick pencils. Everyone in the room knew that the kits were s**t—Luke's word for the shabby materials. As expected, people opted for their personal tools.

Charm's materials were of high class and this is, once again, because of her dear parents being supporters. She used to draw with charcoal pencils, but after trying its compressed version in sticks, had switched to the latter and kept using ever since. Charm has a lot of square and cylindrical sticks, but her favorites are in a separate metal case, the one she chose to bring along.

They started simple, but simple to describe their little exercise would've been absurd to a beginner.

Luke constantly checked on everyone's work. Unlike in her early art years when she'd cover up her progress, Charm let him peak when he wanted to peak. She didn't fail to notice how Luke would check on her more than he checked with others, and he checked on others a lot.

Whenever the older man would stand close behind Charm, her skin would ignite with anticipation—the skittish feeling motivating her to work better. She wanted to impress Luke Hendrix.

After a minute of watching behind her, Luke spoke, "All I can do is to remind you people of the typical techniques. Art is art and we have our own ways of expressing. If you want, though, you may ask for my opinion and I'll give it whichever way you like: honey-coated or blunt."

And Charm already knew that he was referring to an overly light spot on her heavily-toned work. She meant to make it that way.

The first session would've been the most peaceful first session Charm has ever been to if it wasn't for Lucan Hendrix looking like s*x incarnate. When it was time to wrap things up, Charm's hands and wrists were decorated with black smudgy spots. The motif was animals, emphasizing the patterns of their outer coverings. Charm went with snakes.

The girl took her time packing her belongings. She knew that Luke knew it too. When the last student said his goodbye to Mr. Lucan, Charm slipped in her metal case into her bag. She slung it over her shoulder and walked to Luke whose eyes were already set expectantly on pretty girl.

She lifted her chin, "How'd I do?" asked the young woman, voice chirpy. Her insides turned to mush.

"Pretty great," commented Lucan, "I'll be honest, though, I'm not great with black and white. I was supposed to handle oil painting."

Charm pouted, "Is that what you were arguing about?"

Luke smirked and f**k, it was sexy, she thought. He replied, "Yes, right before you started following me."

"Excuse me?" Charm, for once, made no effort for a Grammy-deserving act. Her expression was playful and Luke found it adorable. What he also found adorable was the black smudge on Charm's cheek that she was not aware about. Charm, thought the instructor, lives up to her name.

"Excused," muttered Luke, "You were almost late by staying in that hallway."

"Good thing you're my instructor," Charm told him. Maybe you can be something else for me too? she thought.

They had a stare-off then, and if Charm and Luke had doubts about each other's attraction, all doubts came flying out the window when their faces flickered with the same equal desire. Charm trailed her eyes down Luke's form, seeing that it's okay to check him out after their silent confirmation.

Lucan Hendrix is a man, a contrast to Charm's usual. That itself was a big opposition to her previous preference.

Lucan did the same. The man's sight slid from Charm's face—pretty, innocent, and all smiles. He then took in the sight of her body and the clothes that wrapped around it. After a slow sweep, he looked at her face again.

"You got some, uh," he pointed at the smudge on her forehead.

Charm reached to wipe it, but her hands stopped mid-air. Her hands were dirty. They both knew that Luke would have to wipe it off himself, and they both anticipated the small contact. After a second, he did just that: Luke brought his hand to Charm's face, his thumb brushing the spot and the soft skin beneath. It was not a big gesture, but it had the hairs on the girl's neck standing.

Lucan, after a good mental push, blurted out his invitation, "Wanna go out with me?"

Hendrix isn't desperate for a lover, but Charm had caught his interest, probably because they love the same thing: art. Plus, the woman isn't bad on the eyes either. In fact, Luke feels like his eyes have been blessed with the vision of Charm.

"Yes," Charm answered, "I do," she laughed to ease the bubbly feeling that had her knees turning into paper—the shitty mixed media kind.

There was that feeling again: the feeling that she for herself into something. Not exactly trouble, but something.