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There was a song I enjoyed as a child, which played in an unusual chord from a music-box belonging to my mother. The composition was Canon in C, and though the music box has long since disappeared, whenever I felt distraught over the course of my life I would play it over in my head. Nowadays I still hum it to myself after a long day of working the bar alongside a very well-skilled bartender I call my friend, or after I have wrecked a painting for my sheer distaste of it. And that evening after polishing the boot of a man who brought unexplainable flutters to my heart and stomach, I lay in my bunk alone, humming it with my pillow slung over my head. I was seemingly so engrossed in my song that I hardly noticed the door opening and closing as Henry came into the dorm.
"There you are," he said with relief, and I looked up from under the pillow. "I've been looking everywhere for you, Anri. All right there?"
It was the first time Henry had called me by my first name. I buried my face beneath the pillow again, letting out a derisive noise. I was confused and not at all in the mood to be around friends. I heard the bed creaking as Henry climbed the ladder and pulled himself up into the bunk next to me, patting the pillow.
"Tell me what Gallagher made you do," he said, legs swung over the side, kicking the ladder gently. "It can't have been so bad it made you cry, can it?"
I groaned from under the pillow as if to say I wasn't crying.
Henry shook my shoulders, pulling the pillow away. "Come on, Anri, talk to me…"
I looked up at him miserably, rubbing my eyes with my forearm. "He had me wipe his boot clean with a rag," I told him, not meeting his eyes.
Henry sighed and shook his head. "Is that all? You scared me for a moment… I'd wondered if he'd bent you over his desk and paddled you raw." He laughed at this and patted my back, sliding down the ladder again. I was stunned. The punishment… no, he was right, the punishment itself wasn't horrendous… however, I'd neglected to mention that the professor had purposely left his boot on and had me crawl at his feet to carry out my punishment… Was it even bad with that as well? No, perhaps if anything I wept out of shame for the unnamable feelings inside me… I shuddered and wrapped my arms around myself.
"What do you… er… how do you feel about him?"
Henry looked taken aback by my question. Rightfully so… the words hadn't come out exactly as planned. "Well…" he started, scratching his head as he undressed. "He's frightening, really. All the students are scared of him, I suppose. And I guess a detention with him would make one cry, so don't feel too bad…"
"But… aside from his attitude… why is everyone scared of him?" I said reproachfully, sitting up and pulling my knees to my chest. "If he'd only calmed down a bit and smiled more he wouldn't be so scary."
Henry laughed at this and shook his head, as if the notion of Professor Gallagher smiling more was as ludicrous as him wearing a flowered bonnet to classes. "It's only the attitude he carries, and the punishments he gives. He knows how to keep his students in line, really. That's why it's so obvious why he was picked for Willows. Course… then there's the fact he's so young," Henry added, a faraway look in his eyes. "And he's not bad to look at… he's like you, only his attitude's the complete opposite. You've got this adorable innocent thing going for you… he's this mysterious bad-ass, y'know?"
I mused about this as Henry dressed himself in his bedclothes. Yes, Professor Gallagher was not at all bad to look at… he was mysterious… He seemed very strong, and while he intimidated me, he seemed to be… strangely… someone I could trust entirely. If his anger was not upon me, it would be better, of course. And, smiling confusedly as I laid down to bed in my school uniform, I silently promised myself I would not allow him to get to me.
My stomach was tingling again as I closed my eyes.
---
I woke up to the sensation of being shaken vigorously by a strong arm.
"Up, UP, you lazy little bitch, we've missed breakfast!"
I sat up in my bed with my head spinning, watching Henry gathering up his schoolbooks and piling them into his bag. "What's that…?" I mumbled sleepily. He chucked an eraser at my head, which pegged me in the cheek.
"Wake up and get ready, NOW!" he ordered, practically hopping at the doorway with his book bag around him already.
I immediately roused myself and rolled out of the top bunk, thankful that I'd fallen asleep in my uniform the previous night. I slipped my trainers on quickly and followed Henry, running to keep up with him, which was difficult because Henry's long legs carried him much quicker.
"Why are we late for breakfast?" I asked him breathlessly, catching up.
"Because I disabled my clock radio this morning – like an IDIOT," he added, smacking his forehead several times. "Come on, we'll make it to first period if we hurry…"
We did indeed make it to Professor Yorke's mathematics class on time that morning, though my stomach was gnawing itself from missing breakfast, not to mention dinner the previous night. As we sat down to our lecture on geometry and the Pythagorean Theorem, however, I felt a stir of a different kind inside me. Memories of my dreams the previous night had flooded back to me at that point…
I was alone in a dark room like a closet, curled up, cold. When I looked up I saw a canopy of ink-black leaves above me, with a painted sun… Black crows were fluttering across the azure sky, which bled down to where I was, illuminating a tall, beautiful figure… My art teacher stood there, dressed in a black military uniform, grinning, and I fled only to find myself in chains. The dream ended with the painted trees collapsing onto us from the sky…
I shuddered and suppressed the dream from my mind. It must have only been the shock of your first day, I assured myself. It doesn't mean anything, surely… I considered turning to tell Henry about the dream, but a shrill voice interrupted my thoughts.
"MASON! What is the answer to number thirty-three in your book!?"
"If I gave you the answer, Professor, that'd be cheating."
My mathematics grades are stunning to this day.
Throughout the day I could not push thoughts of Professor Gallagher and the art class from my mind. Now that I knew what to expect, dread filled my stomach even more… but my heart was filled with an unexplained sensation I couldn't possibly describe. Was it longing, or anxiety, or apprehension…? I wanted to glimpse those cold hazel eyes, and yet escape from them at the same time. Perhaps I was just curious about what would happen that day.
"You look as if you're going to faint."
It was lunch again and though I'd been starving all day, I couldn't bring myself to eat the shepherd's pie I'd brought to the table. I pushed away my tray miserably, my growling stomach too full of mixed emotions to handle food. Henry peered at my face with a scowl.
"What's wrong with you today?" he asked, brushing my bangs away a bit. His dry fingers grazing my skin felt pleasantly cool and soft. "Blimey, your face feels like it's on fire. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," I said stubbornly, shaking my head. "I just didn't sleep well…"
"From the sound of it, you two got plenty of sleep this morning," grinned Jerome. "Or were you up all night with each other…?"
Parker groaned and turned away, obviously wanting no part in the conversation. I was confused.
"What do you mean up all night?" I asked, sticking my fork in my pie and rotating it at random places. "We went straight to bed…"
"To bed, or to bed?" he smirked, his voice twisting the second part.
Henry answered him with a laugh. "You wish, Jer," he said. "Honestly, anyone would think you get your jollies off imagining me with every boy in this school. Now you're dragging Anri in too?"
Jerome flushed a deep shade of magenta and looked away. I still didn't understand.
Once again, the dread that filled me all day dragged the class I dreaded to me in no time at all. I found myself in the U-boat of desks again, staring down at my spot, to the edge of the table where I'd tipped a glass of paint-stained water over…
My stomach leapt again as I heard the now familiar sound of heavy rubber on linoleum, and closed my eyes as it stopped inside the room. I couldn't bear to meet those hazel eyes, not today…
"Good afternoon, class," came a somewhat unfamiliar voice. It was definitely the same voice, but the tone of it had changed drastically from its harsh, bladed edge the previous day. I opened my eyes and looked up to see the teacher sitting on the edge of his desk again, a black dress shirt clinging to his frame, a white ribbon cinched at his neck, and a new pair of boots hugging his calves. This pair had zippers across the leg, and snaps all up along it, but it was no less magnificent than the pair before. Before my eyes could reach his, however, he turned his attention to the stack of sketchbooks on his desk and picked them up effortlessly, where I had struggled with their weight before. Soundlessly, but with a light smile on his face, he redistributed the sketchbooks to their rightful owners; and as he passed me, I kept my head down but heard a soft thump on my table. I lifted my head just a bit to see that the empty space had been occupied by a thick, black-covered sketchbook, with no mark or scar on its binding.
"That's yours," he said lightly, striding back to the desk and pushing himself into his chair. The spindly fingers wove themselves together under his chin, propping him up on the desk, and he glanced at us all expectantly.
"Examine your grades at your own leisure… in the meantime, continue your projects," he told the class at large. "Your materials should all be right where you left them. Talking is not necessary."
I was still stunned as we all shuffled to the cabinets to fetch our materials and papers. "What's that all about?" I whispered to Henry as we got our brushes.
"Dunno," Henry admitted, leaning close to me under the pretense of checking which paint set was his. "He's always cold as anything… But it doesn't seem like anything's really out of the ordinary, just his tone… Course that can make all the difference, you see."
His words did not encourage or comfort me at all. I went on with my painting that day, splashing dark clouds across the sky, my own mind clouded with questions. Was it a good sign that Professor Gallagher was in a pleasant mood, or was it the sort of good mood one has when one is plotting to turn his own classroom into a gas chamber? I looked up from my paints to see what he was doing at his desk…
I saw he was sitting with his boots up on the desk again, with a sketchpad spread on his knee, but he had a rather pensive look on his face. Occasionally he would scribble on the pad with a charcoal pencil, but in-between strokes he would simply gaze into space. All at once his eyes met mine and I turned back to my work hurriedly. It had only been a quick glance, but I had seen a glimmer behind the hazel irises… the usual cold stare was replaced by one almost amused by the look on my face… had I been seeing things…? I looked up again a bit…
This time it was he who turned his eyes away when he met mine. My blood ran cold… was he watching me? If so, why? Was I imagining it? I watched him continue scribbling in the pad and then my heart seized up as I saw him glance at me again. He was… I was not imagining it… but why me? Was he waiting for me to mess up somehow? I kept my head down and glared intently into my paper, hands shaking slightly. I nearly jumped as I heard his voice come again, light, melodic.
"Class is ending," he said, with the same note of amusement in his tone. "Clear your things up and put your paintings to dry. Tomorrow we'll start with your landscapes."
I breathed a sigh and hurried to clean up my space, but just as I'd finished clearing my materials, I was stopped from putting away my painting. Spindly fingers took it from my hand, holding it up to the light from the fluorescent lamps overhead, a smile playing on his face.
"You have quite a gift," he said softly, turning the page. "This is very well blended… and beautifully done overall."
My breath caught in my chest as the painting was returned to me. "Thank you," I mumbled, still keeping my head down. Through my heavy bangs I saw him return to his desk, lazily looking through a planner he pulled from his chest pocket. I'd escaped… I rushed to put away my painting and grinned as the bell rang.
"Hold it."
His sudden words stopped every student in the room from leaving, and all attention was turned to the desk. I was shocked to see he was looking at me again. What had I done?
"Mason," he said, smiling faintly. "Can you come up and write tonight's sketchbook assignment on the board?"
I hesitated but came up to the desk, taking the small piece of paper he held out to me, and went behind his desk to the blackboard to copy down the assignment. The white chalk scratched quietly against the board, peppering my fingers with fine dust. I've always hated chalk.
Draw… from… observation…
"Now, I want you all to remember to do this assignment tonight. Unfinished projects and excuses, as you know, are not tolerated in my class."
... something… seen…
"The assignment will be due tomorrow. Do not forget your sketchbooks. As always, grades will be points out of ten…"
… from… your… window…
It happened in a split second. The instant I finished copying the assignment down, something caught my ankle and I slipped only a tiny bit… but in my shock from almost falling, I grabbed hold of the edge of the blackboard and knocked over the box of chalk, which was now open… It tumbled down and spilled its contents onto the floor, and onto the black boot that was now extended near my ankle.
My heart had stopped completely. I could feel the blood draining from my face as I looked up in horror at Professor Gallagher… who was smiling strangely at me, his eyes sparkling.
"Poor, clumsy boy… Another detention, then, Mason," he said lightly. "The rest of you, off to your dorms. Don't forget your assignment."
My heart had revived and was pounding in my throat as I heard everyone else file out behind me, and the door snap shut. Tears threatened to burn into my eyes. Somehow I knew he'd tripped me on purpose… but why? To torment me? To watch me struggle? Or was there a reason he'd now kept me after class twice…?
He stood up from the desk and folded his arms behind his back, walking around me to the front of the room. I glanced at his boot, which was coated in white dust and tiny bits of chalk.
"Well?" he said presumptuously, not looking at me. "Are you going to clear up the mess like a good boy or am I going to have to punish you further for your inordinate clumsiness?"
I shuddered horribly as I noticed the cold edge had returned to his voice. My body had seized up… I was terrified of what was going to happen to me. And my brief hesitation nearly cost me…
"Funny, I gave a clear order, but I don't hear a filthy mongrel cleaning up the mess he made behind me. Have I gone deaf or does the dog want to be punished?"
At his words I hastened to obey him, picking up small bits of chalk until I could no longer extract them from the floor by hand, and quickly dumped them in the bin. I moved in front of him, looking up fearfully, waiting for my next order. That was the sort of man he was… wordlessly controlling someone by fear, something I have still not been able to accomplish over these long years. His eyes met mine beneath lowered lids, his face devoid of the playful smile he wore all during class.
"Clean it," he said abruptly, pushing his boot out a bit, arms folded over his chest. I knew immediately what he wanted, and I got to my knees obediently, hands moving to the boot that was stained with white dust… but I stopped there and looked up at him.
"Professor… er… you haven't given me a rag…" I said uncertainly. My voice wavered a tiny bit, and at this he smiled, though it was an unpleasant grin.
"First off," he said slowly, his voice strong and commanding especially compared to my own, "during these detentions you are to refer to me as Sir. Secondly," his grin widened, "You won't be using a rag this time around."
I hesitated, waiting to see if he was going to tell me anything else, about what I was going to use or where to get it. When he did not, I spoke up quietly. "Then… what will I use… Sir?" I added quickly.
His smirk widened further and he laughed softly… he reminded me of the Cheshire cat from my sister's storybook, and a chill ran down my spine. "A dog doesn't use a rag or sponge to clean himself, does he?" he said. "Use your mouth."
At this my heart dropped into my stomach, and I shuddered. "B-but, Sir," I said uncertainly. "I can't… that is… won't it make me ill?"
His smile softened and he brushed a lock of jet-black hair from his eyes. "A bit of chalk won't hurt you," he assured me. "This is the proper punishment for your… second offense." I noticed he smiled a bit more as he put emphasis on the word "second". My blood began to boil slightly, and I restrained myself from telling him that it was his fault I'd knocked the chalk over in the first place… Instead, I turned my attention to the tall boot stained with chalk dust, thinking of how all that would taste. I shuddered again. Why was he doing this to me? To humiliate me? He was doing a good job… but even then, why? For his own amusement?
"Something wrong, boy?" he smiled at me.
I hid my scowl behind apprehension. Yes, there was something wrong… there were a thousand things wrong with this picture… but I couldn't bring myself to speak up, and the longer I delayed, the more I imagined harsher, more disgusting punishments than the cleaning of a boot with my mouth. I swallowed my pride and knelt down low, moving my tongue to the hard, steel toe of his boot, letting it glide over the leather effortlessly.
At first I was reluctant to go on with this when my mouth first met the harsh material. I went slowly, hesitantly, but as I became accustomed to what I was doing, it seemed to come more naturally to me… The feeling that came next was indescribable at best, but I will attempt to depict it for you… It was as if a hand had clamped onto the back of my head, forcing me there, but it was only my own will urging me on. At the same time, there came the sensation one normally experiences when one is licking an ice cream cone and trying to stop it from dripping down the sides, the feeling of urgency and longing, but here it was paired with the flavor of blackboard chalk and faux leather. To be honest, chalk isn't as bad as I thought it would be, but it was rather bitter and dusty and hit my tongue in the wrong places. I felt the desire to spit several times, but I restrained it, knowing that if I spat at his feet I'd probably be punished more severely than anything, and instead quickly learned to swallow chalk dust without gagging.
But more than the awful taste in my mouth or the humiliation of prostrating myself at this man's feet to lick his boot clean, I began to notice myself becoming more daring with each stroke of my tongue… Instead of a punishment, it became more like a desire to clean, as if the experience was thrilling to me. I barely noticed my hand clutching his ankle, my eyes closed, sucking and lapping at the zippers and fastenings, my breath coming quicker, my face flushed… I felt a strong thought burning into my mind…
I don't want to stop…
"Enough."
His voice snapped me from my hypnotic state, fear rushing back into me, my body shaking as I knelt on the floor. I looked up to see him smiling at me gently, as if fully satisfied with my performance. The thought of this made me tremble.
He ignored my expression and turned his attention to his boot, examining it, turning his ankle this way and that. "Not a bad job," he said at last. "For your first time, at least."
My stomach lurched. Would there be a second time, or a third? I watched him return to his desk quietly, waiting for an order, a dismissal, anything… At last, he spoke up.
"Go and wash your mouth out," he said, pulling the tiny planner out of his pocket again and scribbling in it. "Be quick about it."
I got to my feet uneasily, nearly stumbling to the sink for my trembling. I turned the faucet and cupped my hand to the stream several times, filling my mouth with water and spitting it out until I could no longer taste chalk anywhere but in the very back of my throat. My hands were shaking so badly that this task was labored for me… My head spun with clashing thoughts, confusion, and, strangely, longing… for what, I still didn't know… I shook terribly and splashed icy water onto my own face, trying to clear my mind. At the same time, I felt scalding tears filling my eyes… What was this nameless pain in me? This untamable desire I couldn't understand… the longing for something I didn't know of…
"Come here, boy."
This time there was no hesitation in my stride. I moved to the desk soundlessly, keeping my eyes low, twisting my hands together to keep them from shaking. I let out a shuddering gasp as the older man seized my jaw and forced my gaze to his, looking my face over with interest. All at once he smirked.
"Good boy," he purred, running his fingers at my cheek, which blazed with heat. "Your punishment is over today. You can return to your dorm now."
I barely allowed him to finish his sentence before I tore away from his hand, throwing the door open as I rushed from the room. My mind was a blur… I was running as fast as I could, trying to escape sensations that refused to leave my body… a fluttering, a tingling, a quickened pulse…
It was raining again when I crossed the grounds to the dorms. Fatigue finally caught up to me halfway across the lawn, stealing away my breath and bringing fire to my cheeks. I bent double, panting, letting heavy drops pelt my back and shoulders. I was drenched in a matter of seconds, my face wet with tears. Suppressed sobs racked my body… why? Why did I feel like crying every time I escaped from that man…? This was only the second time I'd been alone with him… and yet I'd never felt such a mix of pain, and fear, and longing…
What is happening to me?
I trudged the rest of the way back to the dorms, unanswered questions filling my head. By the time I reached the common room, the rain had chilled me to the bone, my clothes and hair were clinging to my skin, and my runners were filled with mud and water, squelching unpleasantly with every step.
"Anri?"
I looked up at the sound of my name to see Henry lounging in a threadbare recliner near the empty fireplace, a book half-open in his arm. He rolled out of the chair and hurried over to me, looking me over for a split second.
"Good god… you're soaking wet!" he said, ruffling my hair hard so that droplets of water fell onto the carpet with the rest of what dripped from my clothes. He peered into my face with concern. "And…. Anri… have you been crying?"
I rubbed my eyes and looked away, my shoulders trembling. I had no intention of talking about what had happened in detention. Henry sighed heavily and grasped my arm.
"Come on," he said gently. "You're going to catch cold like that… we'd better head to the showers."