Some Girls Never Learn Ch. 02

Emma stood in the loud hallway as the other students shuffled by her and through the open door. Her heart clenched, and she glanced towards the stairwell that led to the city outside, the peace of a place away from him. But, she'd already missed four days of classes.

Thank God for Miriam and her total disregard for rules and authority figures.

Miriam found her sitting on the curved stairway that led to their small lofts. Her knees were pulled to her chest, her eyes puffy and swollen. Her cousin sent away the guy she'd brought home to screw and took control of the situation.

She reassured Emma with constant affirmations: "He's an asshole." "Don't worry about that old fucker. You can do better." "You were sleep-deprived and hungry, Em. Don't worry about what he thinks."

It did little to comfort her, but it was nice to hear.

Mostly she was grateful when Miriam posed as the concerned mother she'd never had, calling the school to say how she'd shown up at home with a terrible case of the flu. Normally, the very idea of even her pretend mom dealing with a problem was reprehensible, but now it just didn't matter. She wasn't ready to face him.

"Well, let's get this show on the road," Noah's voice echoed out the still-open door to the quieter hall.

Her boots felt glued to the floor. It required actual effort to lift one foot and then the other. She watched her reluctant feet as they took her to the place she least wanted to be.

Noah's stomach dropped when he saw her moving slowly around the back of the classroom to an empty space. A mixture of relief and sickness stopped him in his tracks. When he realized he was staring, he quickly occupied himself with straightening the note cards he'd carried with him to the front of the classroom.

She'd returned. He'd worried after a couple days. He knew it took courage for her to come back. In an odd way, he felt proud of her, even though she looked pale and defeated. He despised the fact that he'd done that.

"Asshole," He didn't realize he said it aloud until one of his most attentive students asked all too loudly, "Who?"

Noah's mind traveled slowly to the boy at the front of the class and said, "Who? What?"

Benjamin cackled and asked again, "Who's the asshole?"

'Dammit,' he thought, wishing some people weren't so intent on his every word, forgetting for a moment that he was their teacher.

He muttered, "Sorry, just thinking of the guy who cut me off in traffic this morning."

Ben nodded, "Yeah, Noah, man, it's a jungle out there."

He smiled at the boy's look of empathy.

She was afraid to look at him. Tears seemed to dwell just beneath her breached shell at every conceivable moment. She hated it, but it was true. His words played in her mind for the millionth time.

"Oh, baby. You don't mean that. You're just...honey...that feeling isn't...real...It's just a chemical reaction to sex. It happens to everyone, and then it fades away."

He tried to be cool about it. But, with every passing moment, her shame and her heartbreak grew. Not real? A chemical reaction? Happens to everyone? It had never happened to her. That his every understanding, kind word left her more crushed, that was real. She tried equally hard to forget the never-ending car ride back to the store.

He'd tried to talk music as she stared out the window. He'd tried to talk art as she stared out the window. He'd tried to touch her face again as she stared out the window. Finally, he accepted her silence and her distance and didn't say a word when she got out of the car. She shuddered again remembering the feel of his stare as he waited by the curb for her to open the door. She'd dropped the keys twice. Twice.

His voice brought her back to the present, but she had no idea what he had said. When students started to shuffle around the room, she thought for a moment that maybe, just maybe, the universe was being nice to her and that he'd dismissed class early. She began to gather her things when the realization struck her. They weren't leaving. They were pairing off. Two by two. Nineteen students. She sat alone and closed her eyes.

It was Vaughn who tapped her on the arm. For the first time ever, she was grateful for the sight of him.

Her sense of gratitude was fleeting as he said, "I guess you can work with Noah, huh?"

She realized Vaughn had migrated to her table in pursuit of a thin blonde named Lacey.

Her eyes flew open, and she stuttered, "No, I can work by myself."

She was sure the urgency in her words sounded inappropriate and stupid.

Vaughn shook his head and answered, "You are one strange chick. How are you going to do this assignment by yourself?"

Emma looked around the room. She couldn't answer because she hadn't heard the assignment. She saw Noah out of the corner of her eye moving through the room, between the tables, stopping at each self-selected pair to drop off a large piece of rough, cheap paper. His movements to her table were slowed by the constant tugs at his shirt; they all wanted his attention.

'What a bunch of four-year olds,' she told herself.

But, for the first time, she secretly understood why they wanted to tell him their ideas and see the approval in his eyes. They had no idea the things she'd seen in his eyes.

He caught her eye as she turned to look at the door. Abject fear and pain. She looked away quickly. He swallowed hard. Of course she'd be the odd man out. Before he'd have been thrilled to be paired with her, to share a dance with her creative mind and skilled eye. Now, not only did it feel uncomfortable, he felt true pity for her. She was young, passionate, emotional.

'Asshole,' he said it again, this time silently.

A small part of him wanted her to bolt. Most of him hoped she wouldn't. She was still his student, and he didn't want to add her failure in his class to his ever-increasing guilt.

Emma waited and waited. She fought down the desire to run as the minutes ticked. She knew she'd have to face him sooner or later. As often as she'd considered it in the previous week, she wasn't leaving college. He'd most likely be her professor for three more years. She kicked herself for not having considered that before she got on her knees, before he moved inside of her, before she felt what she felt.

She sighed. People camped outside the night before registration to get into his upper level classes. For the juniors and seniors getting their names in his roll book was more exciting than scoring front row tickets. Her mind drifted to a land where he was a rock star and she was a groupie.

She smirked to herself, 'Well, I should have an 'in' now.'

It was the first time in days she'd heard the smart ass inside herself speak, and it felt good. The feeling was destined to be brief.

"Well, Emma, I guess you're stuck with me," Noah smiled and tried to sound friendly.

In reality, fear had crept into him. She wouldn't make a scene, would she? It didn't seem her style.

Emma stared at the paper he laid down in front of her and refused to look up when he took the stool opposite her.

She muttered, "I didn't hear the assignment...do I have to have a partner?"

Vaughn snorted somewhere nearby, "Why do you even come to class if you're not going to pay attention?"

His desire to humiliate her and increase Noah's respect for him was a dismal failure. Emma said nothing.

His professor, fighting the urge to say, "Shut the fuck up!" just shot him a dirty look.

When Noah reached to the center of the table, she took note of the large, wide bowls of paint for the first time. Primary colors. Red. Blue. Yellow. She looked from the grade school-like paper to the paints and finally to him.

He looked her in the eye and said, "You and I will...play off one another. I put down a stroke. You put down a stroke. We create together. Yes, you have to have a partner."

She stared. Words wouldn't come. Looking into her eyes, he wished he could walk around the table and pull her close. He wanted to apologize. He wished he'd called. But, at the time, he was afraid it would only make things worse.

He forced himself back to the reality of the present by stating, "We're finger painting."

"Finger painting?" Her cocked eyebrow and the hint of disgust in her voice almost made him smile.

That was the Emma he knew. Although the two words were her only comment, he found them infinitely encouraging. He dipped his finger in the red poster paint and, without thought, drew a large red curve. Until he looked up to see the confused look in her eyes, he didn't think about its half-hearted appearance.

She said nothing. She dipped her index finger into the blue paint and drew a dramatic, wide slash where the center of the heart would be if it were complete.

Admiring her own gesture, she said, "Too bad we don't have black."

He grimaced. He wanted the old Emma back; he didn't want her to despise him.

The epitaph, 'Love and hatred, two sides of the same coin,' flashed through his mind's eye.

'But, she doesn't really love you,' he reminded himself.

Her presence, what radiated from her, was confusing on a many levels. He tried to focus on the work in front of him.

Neither looked at the other for the remainder of the class. Each concentrated solely on the movement of fingers and the display of color and form. The paint dried quickly, allowing layers of expression to pile one atop another. Several students appeared at his side. Some stayed a moment. Others watched intently. He never acknowledged them and gradually each gave up and returned to his or her seat.

Emma felt entranced. There was no particular form in their paint for the longest time. Just a free flow of lines, slashes, dots and dribbles. A few minutes into the process, she'd inadvertently added her yellow atop his blue a little too soon and created green. It was as if a light bulb went off for both of them. They were no longer bound by the presumption of rules. Red, blue and yellow became purple, orange and green and the occasional brown mistake. And, mistake or not, it added its own charm.

The room was oddly quiet. People spoke in hushed voices and whispers. When the appointed time arrived, they milled from the room slowly, each couple hanging their creation on the wall to dry.

They'd covered the entirety of the page and were adding details when the others left. When Vaughn not so accidentally bumped into her on his way out, she broke her concentration for the first time. She shook her mind away from the page, away from the movements of his long fingers and went to reach for a paper towel. His hand on top of hers stopped her.

"Emma, stay," his voice was quiet.

The room was deserted now. She looked at the blurry fingerprints he left on her skin and her breathing became more erratic.

She bit her lip and answered, "I should go."

Noah looked towards the door. The class was empty. No one lingered. It was a Friday. This was the last group for the day. And, he knew, it was exactly a week since the night she'd been in his bed. As he considered this, she finally looked up into his eyes.

She whispered, "I'm sorry for what I said. Can we just pretend that night never happened?"

He stood and walked quickly across the room, closing the open door, leaving a blur of paint on the handle before he answered, "I don't want to forget it. It was wonderful, but like I said before...don't be sorry. I'm the one who needs to apologize."

Emma got her hands on the rough, brown towels that sat at the end of each table and wiped away what she could of the paint. Her face twisted into a strange expression, and he worried for a moment that she would begin crying. She didn't.

"You didn't do anything wrong. I just..." She stopped and mimicked Miriam like a Myna bird, "I was tired and hungry, and you were probably right. It was just the sex. I'm sorry I freaked out on you."

She seemed to have submitted herself to a sense of embarrassment.

He watched as she stood to stretch her legs, leaning back against the table, her shoulders slumped slightly forward.

He asked, "Want to go to my office and talk for a little while? I don't want you to feel bad about what happened."

He was sincere in the statement.

Emma appreciated the caring tone in his voice, but on some level, she wished he truly were the asshole that her cousin proclaimed him to be. It would be easier to let go of him that way.

Her own attachment to a man she barely knew didn't make sense to her. But, in a place inside herself that she didn't know existed before Noah, she was certain that she did know him. She wanted to ignore the idea, the feelings, but she believed with her whole heart that he just couldn't see her for who she was: his other half, his soul mate, his.

After a few deep breaths, she answered, "It's okay. I need to get going. I have to work."

Still wanting some time to sort things through with her, for his own peace of mind, he asked, "Do you need a ride?"

Emma smiled a little as she gathered her things, "Nah, turns out Stew does more than write poetry. He got my car running again."

He opened the door for her as she juggled the backpack and portfolio. He couldn't stop himself from standing in the hallway and watching her disappear into the stairwell. He still thought she had a gorgeous ass.

Emma glanced at the bank clock and cussed. Traffic. She was going to be late again. She started to sweat a little inside the skin of the jacket. Most people had already given up their winter coats. She clung to hers for as long as any common sense or far out excuse would allow. She thought she might have another couple of weeks.

Sitting with the windows down, stuck three blocks from where she needed to be, not a parking space in sight, she knew she'd have to hang it up. Frustrated, she finally wrestled the damn thing off.

To her, the pale skin of her arms glowed neon in the sunlight. There was no such thing as a tan for a redhead like her. She cringed at the idea of the coming Georgian summer sun. She occupied her thoughts with fantasies about being a brunette or living in a colder climate. Anything to not think about Noah. At last, traffic began to creep forward.

He sat on the concrete floor and stared at the oversized stretched canvas. The whiteness of it had overwhelmed him for months. He hadn't painted since the beginning of the fall semester. It had been almost two years since his last big show, and he knew he had resigned himself to his role as professor.

He taunted himself occasionally, 'Those who can't do, teach.'

He wasn't sure he believed it, but during the other times when he'd sat in the same spot where he sat now, he felt it.

Something was different this time. Something inside of him. He stood and moved the table with tins and tubes of paint to his side. He picked up brush after brush and ran his fingers over the smooth sable hair. He closed his eyes a moment, and the picture became very clear, vivid and alive. He willed away his doubt, and he painted.

Emma sat Indian style at one corner of Miriam's open futon. Mary Beth sat at the opposite corner. The squat, heavy-set woman laid tarot card on top of tarot card and bade her to concentrate. Emma could kill Miriam. She concentrated on that as she glared across the room, willing her cousin to meet her eye, but Miriam knew that it would be best not to make that particular contact.

"Oh, yes, I see a dark-haired man," Mary Beth touched a card and looked into Emma's eyes as if she'd made a particularly important discovery.

Emma forced a smile and nodded. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Miriam grinning as she stirred the pot of ramen noodles. The smell of the cheap spices thickened in the air.

"Emma, ooooh, baby, oh, wow," Mary Beth tapped a card furtively, "You have to stay..."

Miriam cleared her throat loudly and chimed in, "...away from him!"

Mary Beth turned, shaking her head, "No, no, I'm sorry, Miriam. You have to stay close to him!"

She turned her attention again to Emma who felt surprisingly dumbfounded by the neighborhood psychic's insistence.

She muttered, "Okay, well..."

"No, No, no 'well!' You do like I say, sweetie! You have to!" The serious glint in her eye took both girls back.

When the ludicrously bejeweled woman left to give an evening reading for which she was actually being paid, Miriam turned quickly and said, "You know she's a fake. Fucking ignore her."

She smiled and assured her cousin she would. At the time she meant every word of it.

At one o'clock in the morning, still tossing in her small bed, she couldn't get that look she'd given her out of her mind. Finally, she pulled a black bound sketchpad from a shelf over the bed and dug in her backpack for the plastic pencil box where she carried her Conte crayons.

Slowly, in a rote manner, she sketched one eye and then the other. She laid her things aside and rolled out of the bed. She dug in the desk crowded against one wall until she found a pushpin. Ripping the page from the book, she tacked the eyes at the foot of the bed. She sat and stared into them.

She asked the universe, "Why?"

He was exhausted when he sat down in an old office chair that passed for furniture in his studio. He exhaled slowly and wheeled himself to face the product of many hours' work. It was most assuredly her, her red hair cascading across the pillow as she lounged in his bed. Despite the fact that she'd done no lounging during their one night together, it was how he saw her. And, now, how the world would see her through his eyes. He stared into her recreated green eyes and wished things had gone differently. He thought about grabbing a beer, but he couldn't seem to let go of her gaze.

"This is ridiculous," Emma said aloud to herself, as she shivered inside her car, "Just go home."

She looked down at the cut-off gray sweatpants concealing such a small part of her chill-bumped, ever-pale legs. She wrapped the flannel work shirt around her exposed belly. She'd forgotten how she'd pulled off the bottom three buttons when she was wrestling a large piece of plywood up the stairs. At the time, it was a tiny sacrifice to her art as the wood was to become a huge canvas.

She reached for the paper bag in the passenger seat and took a long drink of Night Train. Cheap but effective, that's what she thought when she bought it. Happily, Junior, the night clerk who thought she was "hot," didn't card her.

'Hot?' She couldn't see it.

If his light had been out, leaving might have been an easier thing to do. But, it beckoned her. He was still awake. Maybe he was thinking about her, too. She closed her eyes and reminded herself that no matter the psychic's words, the feelings were entirely one-sided.

She took another drink and reached behind the seat to retrieve the earlier discarded leather jacket. She pulled it over her body like a blanket and stared up at his light. It was a new moon, making it seem to glow even brighter.

She closed her eyes and remembered his kiss both when it was soft and when it was deep and full of passion. She didn't realize that sleep had finally come until the loud rap at her window caused her to jump and hit her leg against the steering wheel hard enough to bruise.

Noah almost rolled off the couch where he'd crashed when the knocks reverberated off his front door. It took a moment for his eyes to focus. Four a.m.

'Who the fuck?' he asked silently, his thoughts still blurred from sleep.

He stumbled to the door and opened it with the chain intact. A cop? He closed the door enough to release the chain.

When he opened the door wider, he saw her there. And, she was a sight.

He would have laughed if it weren't for the serious, deep tone of the police officer's voice, "Does she belong to you?"