Page 39 of Hushed

Levi

Ispent last weekend moving into a tiny apartment in the middle of nowhere, Virginia. It’s one of those small towns that peaked somewhere before World War II and has been declining ever since. The downtown, which extends to the University, is all pre-War brick buildings with thick walls and abnormally huge windows. But the studio I’ve rented is my own.

And I’m lonely. Not only for my brothers in the Army, but for Bastien. I’ve looked everywhere. He told me he was a teacher, so I’ve been through every school district staff page I can find. I’ve combed through social media. Nada. Maybe I’m spelling it wrong, but I’ve tried about twenty different variations of his name and none of them have come up with anything. And I’m starting to doubt his last name, too. The one time he said it was in that quick, sure way of his. And it could have been Sajak, with that lovely zh sound in between. Sure, there’s a Bastian Sajak in Salt Lake City, and a Bastion Sajack in Orlando, Florida, but one is about sixty and the other is a Black woman, so my attempts at cyberstalking have ground to a halt.

I shoulder the same backpack Momma bought me, with much grumbling, on the first day of ninth grade with the proviso that this one’s got to last, y’hear? It makes me feel like a child.

The air feels muggy but the campus is alive with students, most of whom are just as lost as I am. Almost all of them are way too young for me. For the first time, I understand how Bastien felt around me. The discomfort is almost visceral.

My first class on Monday is Psych. I wish I could say that I registered for it in honor of Bastien, but I finalized my schedule back in April in accordance with my major, and they have a strict timeline in which almost every class builds on the one last semester and there is almost no room for error.

My major. I’m a college student now. I don’t feel like one yet, except for resentment that I have to take this class with a lab. What the fuck are we supposed to do in a psych lab? Mix together anger and resentment in a test tube and see if it forms a yellow precipitate over a Bunsen burner? So if that’s what feeling like a college student is, fine. I’m there. Grumpy and undercaffeinated. There’s only one halfway decent coffee shop on the way to class, and judging by the line of people clustering in, I’m going to have to be awake at stupid early o’clock if I want my fix before that. I resettle the cap that Bastien gave me on my head as I trudge down Chancellor Street.

Fairhaven’s campus is smallish but pretty. The hallways ring with people changing classes and amassing for the 9 AM classes. I choose a seat in the third row and boot up my laptop. My phone buzzes. Fuck, I need to silence that.

I take it out. Kevin has texted me:

Kev

Hello from Japan!

Did you know that Fairhaven, VA, has 2nd highest per capita gay population in country?

In nineties they called it Queerhaven.

Shit. Their old mascot used to be the Drunken Honeybees.

I’d pay good money for some drunken honeybee merch.

Good place for broken heart, all I’m saying.

The girl in front of me hands a copy of the syllabus over her shoulder. I take one and pass it behind me.

Dork.

I want to tell him that the boys I’m seeing are literally just that, but decide against it.

“Hello, class!” the professor calls from the front of the class, and I freeze, not daring to look up from the phone. Because I know that voice. The accent is wrong, almost entirely American. I can’t get my hopes up. Not like this. Not only a random voice from a professor who’s probably about fifty and not my Bastien. I try to look out of the corner of my eye, because I don’t dare let my head lift. I pull the syllabus toward me and read Professor Sébastien Saint-Jacques: [email protected].

“My name is Sébastien Saint-Jacques, or, as the Registration office still calls me to this day, Staff. Welcome to Psych 1101, Introduction to Psychology.”

I shoot a glance up at him under the bill of the cap he bought me, but he’s looking at the other side of the class, following the distribution of the syllabi. He’s wearing a navy-blue suit paired with a gray vest and a navy tie.

My heart feels like it just turned a backflip. I have to press my hand against my chest for a second to make sure it’s still in place.

“So what is Psychology?” Bastien says. “It’s the study of the soul, if you know your Greek etymology, which I’m sure you all know, but let’s dig deeper, because that’s a little poetic and not very useful. Psychology is the study of who we are, who we think we are, who we present ourselves to be, and the tension that arises between those factors. It’s the study of human behavior and what influences us to do the things we do, both internally and externally, and how we manifest those decisions.”

I stare, unthinkingly. I know every inch of that body in front of me. I swallow hard to keep the joy from exploding out of my throat.

“But first, there is a short survey pinned to the back page of your syllabus. It’s all about how to contact you, what your name and pronoun preferences are, and some other basic things that can help me to understand where you’re coming from. I want to know what your baseline is. What has been your experience with psychology? What does it make you think of? How does it—and yes, this is the stereotypical question, but, how does it make you feel? Please take a minute to start filling that out, and then we’ll start with the first proper lecture.”

I hear the rest of the class rustling through to that last page. I lean back, take off my cap, and lace my fingers behind my head, and just wait for him to clock me. I don’t even care to disguise my smile, because this is what triumph feels like. I’ve found you, Bastien Saint-Jacques.

He steps back, letting his gaze sweep across the class. This is a man in his element, in complete control, and I have to admit that it’s sexy as fuck.

I see the moment that he sees me. His smile falters. He stops the scan completely and grows still. His brown eyes widen just a little bit.

I grin as cheekily as I can. He looks like a rabbit caught in a snare.