"In Which Reality is an Unwanted Call to Adventure"

(Pt. 3)

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September 13

1:35 PM

Hallway, Belle Mont Prep

https://youtu.be/2qxaLqJmW50

SPLAT! 

Well, there goes some good tea – wasted. 

Though watching where the tea went, it was probably worth it.

Two strong arms hold my friend to a wide chest. 

Tia looks up as an unfamiliar good-looking male looks down at her. 

The male in question looks like he stepped out of an old Hollywood classic film — refined, charismatic, and almost anachronistic.

I couldn't help but trace his chiseled features with my eyes, from his sandy brown hair with a side part and an immaculately combed top (Omar Shariff, Doctor Zhivago* — Google it!) piercing blue eyes, and down to his lean tapered form that carried a certain amount of effortless elegance despite his simple clothing. 

Tamieke slowly whistles. "Now that is a bicycle." 

We all nod.

Tia stares at him, and he does the same – almost like they were the only living residents on this earth. 

Neither one of them even cared to address the tea stains on the man's crisp white shirt.

Tia maintains eye contact with him a little bit more when Emile clears his throat, breaking the moment at last. 

Tia pulls away first.

"Are you okay?" the unknown male asks in a deep toe-curling Southern voice. 

Tia merely looks down, her face slightly flushed. 

In all our years of friendship, not once have I ever seen Tia speechless or blush like this in front of a guy before.

She visibly gulps. 

"Yes, thank you for saving me," she says, her voice still husky from the shock. 

 Something fleetingly crosses his eyes. "No problem."

They seem to be at the point of yet another silent moment when Emile butts in. 

"Oh my gosh, Tia, my dearest friend. What on earth made you jump into traffic like that?!" he asks, concern written all over his face. 

Handkerchief on hand, he begins to blot the tea stains on the man's chest. 

"Really, earthquakes nowadays," Emile sucks his teeth, still patting on the man's chest and obviously copping a feel in the process as his hands stray from the stains and unto (what I assume) are his packs of abs. 

I elbow Tamieke who loudly clears his throat. 

This seems to be a fail as Emile continues with his generous 'patting'. "And we pay the government taxes to be updated for these things, and we get nothing!"

"You don't pay taxes," I interject.

Emile shakes his head, choosing not to hear me. "Na-dah. Thank you, Mr. Porter, for saving my friend here from turning into student bits. Even though I had made some juvenile remarks towards you," he pouts in false contrite.

Mr. Porter simply smiles, gently extricating himself from Emile's hands. 

"No offenses taken, Mr. Bryer," he glanced briefly on his phone then to us.

"If you'll excuse me" — he nods to us — "Tia," he adds, staring just a fraction of a second longer at her, before walking away to his next class.

We all gape at him — mostly on his retreating ass. 

Da-a-amn, if he wasn't a teacher, this man's ass is in serious danger.

I could tell Tamieke and the other 'mos were thinking the exact same thing. 

Except for Emile. 

He would totally go for him if given the signal.

R-RI-I-ING-G, well there goes the final bell.

"So" — Tamieke hesitantly breaks the silence — "this has been a good talk. If you'll excuse us" — he grabs Jhett's and Joule's arms — "we'll just silently sashay away."

He drags them towards a door two rooms ahead before we can even respond. 

"That went well," Emile says, clearly proud of himself for throwing his second friend under the bus. 

 He attacks Tia with a hug. 

"I love you, bitch! I have to go to class now but, just so you know, I'm dedicating my next play to you," he says, facing us as he walks backward.

I turn to Tia who has been silent this whole time. 

She didn't even react to Emile's hug or refuse Emile's promise. 

I wave a hand in front of her. "Babe, you okay?"

This jolts her back from whatever rabbit hole she slid into. 

She clears her throat. "Right, class it is. Shall we?" 

She offers her arm, and I slip mine around hers.

"If you say so," I shrug as the bell rings just in time.

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2:45 PM 

Hallway, Belle Mont Prep

I stand inconspicuously in front of the door, trying not to draw too much attention to the sign beside the door that says: Studio 101 — LEAGUE OF GAME DEVELOPERS* (lame, I know.) 

Underneath it was a shiny plaque engraved with: Proud Creators of Ender's Tale.

I roll my eyes. It's not like they were really subtle about that.

It was the mothership of the school's gaming fanatics, gamers, game designers, and game developers alike. Basically, pasty, athletically challenged geeks — or at least, that was what anyone would expect me to say.

"There's my favorite writer!"

I sharply turn my head and face Maverick Travers, computer teacher, and the LGD club's —  my club's — moderator.

I nod at him, stepping aside so that he can unlock the door. 

I catch a whiff of his minty eucalyptus scent, subtly clearing my throat as he stands so near in front of me. 

He reaches into one of the pockets of his fitted pants for the room key, drawing a perfect opportunity from some random female students loitering around to openly ogle at how his slacks are tightly wrapped around his tight butt.

He inserts the key to the lock and twists it around. It doesn't budge. 

He tries again. And, again.

He sends me an apologetic smile. "Sorry, the key seems to be jammed."

"Oh, just take your time," I reassure him.  I rather like the view from here.

It is, after all, a socially acceptable norm for a student — or any sexual person, for that matter — to appreciate the aesthetic appeal of a teacher. 

His 5th try becomes successful, and he opens the door in front of me. "Ladies first," he gestures with his hand.

He peers down at me with his thin angular eyes, his dark-framed glasses hang a bit skewed on the crook of his strong patrician nose. His thin lips stretch over his stubble-covered jaw, as he discreetly finger-combs his copper brown hair back in place.

Man, does this man even know the effects he leaves on every walking female around him? 

Without a word, I walk past him and inside the room, proceeding directly to an inner office. 

He follows behind me. 

I ignore the feel of his eyes on me as I drop my bag on my designated desk and lean against its edge.

"Avalon." 

I look up at him in response. 

There was something in the way he looks at me that unnerves me. 

Not that Mr. Travers intimidates me or anything. It could be that I was unused to being alone with him and the absence of mouse clickings around. 

He crosses his arms. "We need to talk." 

Suddenly, tension floats in the room. The silence between us is close to deafening. 

This reminds me of the unsaved revisions I was unable to add to the first draft. 

I stifle a groan, mentally reprimanding myself for my incompetence. 

"Avalon" — he walks toward me — "I think it's time I finally give it to you." 

"Oh, shit." This time, I didn't hide the feeling of dread in my voice. 

This is what happens when you make a man and a woman work closely together for months and ignore the warning signs of libido. 

I drop my head with a groan, eyes shut as the sound of his footsteps comes closer. "I knew this was coming eventually. Go on, just get on with it. I can only close my eyes for so long."

He pauses. "What are you doing?" 

My eyes fly open, registering the look of confusion on his face.

I pull away from the desk and fix my collar. "Nothing." Whew! For a minute there, I thought he was about to kick me out of the club to avoid any issues. 

It definitely did not help that I was the only chick in the club popping in and out of his inner office as I please. The first few weeks I started coming here, the news ended up on the school paper's sleazy gossip column. 

He scratches the 5 o'clock shadow on his angular jaw. "What I would give to see what's going on in that pretty mind of yours."

He says it so affectionately, it leaves me stiff like a block of stone. When my resting glare didn't change at all, he makes a low chuckle.

"Relax, Michaels. What did you think I was gonna do to you?" he asks, never losing that trace of warmth in his voice.

Yet, the ominous air around him stayed around. Every survival instinct in me told me not to answer him. And so, I wait for him to continue with what he was gonna say.

He takes a deep breath, his expression blank. "I'm just gonna go ahead and say it" — he stares at me and then pulls in against his hard strapping chest. "Congratulations, Michaels!"

I stare at him, speechless. "Huh?" 

 Still reeling in from the shock, I feel my arms hang limply to my sides. 

He pulls away and grins down at me. 

"What did I do exactly?" I ask.

He puts his hands on my shoulders. "Word just got out that an associate of our client had been looking for a young promising writer. So I submitted your work, and now, they want to meet you," he playfully taps the tip of my nose.

"Me?" 

"Yup, I gotta say, whatever you're doing — keep it up! I knew you were always going places with a brilliant mind like yours," he says, pride in his voice. 

He opens the top drawer of his desk and reaches for a tiny business card. 

He hands it to me, though I didn't bother to read it.

As much as I appreciate the acknowledgment of sleepless nights, this seems surreal. Unless I'm still dreaming. "Why would they want me?"

 There were so many questions surfing in my head. 

Seriously, I was a decent leisure writer. But come on, this is probably next-level shit. 

"I said it before, and I'll say it again. You have the talent, kid. And, it just so happens, that person from Pulse thinks so, too."

"Wh-'-P-P-Pulse?" I manage to say — well, stutter. 

I feel my lips go numb, my face pale. I shakily turn the business card and read it.

There, in its minimal and pristine design, is an unmistakable copyrighted logo.

P U L S E

 FICK!

"Like the Pulse? The publishing company who's been known for releasing best-sellers for the past decade?" I ask disbelievingly. 

There has got to be a mistake.

"Exactly, Pulse," he confirms, saying it so casually, yet I'm the one feeling agitated. 

Fuck, why do I feel sweaty?  Oh, that's right because it's fucking Pulse!

"Why— damn it! Travers, I'm" — I slap my chest — "not a writer I mean" — I cock my head — "technically, I write but for storylines. I" — I shake my head — "don't exactly have the formal training or the work ethic for this gig."

Mr. Travers grabs hold of my shoulders again. I shift uncomfortably at the contact, but I hold it in. 

"Listen, you're probably in shock. It's natural. But, think about it. Opportunities like this don't come a-knocking you gotta grab it while it's still hot. Besides, imagine how this would affect our studio. If you get to impress this editor — which you will" — he waggles his finger — "you might just open up a bigger project for us. And, with a project like that, who knows how much they're willing to pay."

I bite my lip. "Probably a lot" — I nod — "Yeah, you made your point."

"Attagirl!" —  he gives my head a fatherly pat — "Their secretary will be sending you an email later around six or eight so be on the lookout."

"Great" —  I mutter, removing his hand off my head before heading to my desk — "can't wait."

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Who did you think was hotter Mr. Porter or Mr. Travers?

Any suggestions for what Pulse's calling card should look like?

P. S. Scroll further down below for a short sneak-peek of my next chapter: "In Which Reality Involves Stalking a Greek God/Hitman".

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PLAYLIST

Where I come From — Passion Pit

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*[F/N]*

Dr. Zhivago — tells the story of Yury Zhivago, a man torn between his love for two women while caught in the tumultuous course of twentieth-century Russian history. He was played the classically gorgeous, Omar Sharif.

League of Game Developers  — a subtle nod to the famous online game, League of Legends.

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SNEAK PEEK

"So, now what?" I ask.

"Good work, hags. You see that guitar case?" Jhett quizzes.

"Uh-huh, go on," Tia waves impatiently.

"Now, there are two probabilities. Inside might be a guitar... or something else," Emile says hesitantly.

Before I knew it, my phone was snatched from my hand and into Tia's.

"Blimey! You're telling us that, now?! What if he carries a corpse, for Christ's sake!" Tia exclaims, flailing her hands and breaking character.

"Well, he did look a bit dangerous," Jhett tells Emile.

"You're throwing us to a possible killer, you mean?!" Tia points out vehemently.

"Contract your cervix! No one could be a hitman and be that dangerously good-looking," Emile reassures.

Or not —  judging from Tia's murderous look. What's the opposite of reassurance again?

I begin to count off with my fingers. "Jake Gyllenhall, Ryan Reynolds, Ashton Kutcher, need I go on?"

"They're obviously TV characters, silly! And you guys thought we were bimbos!" Jhett giggles.

"Dammit, that was exactly what we were hoping for," I mutter under my breath.

Tia nods glumly.

I grunt, rubbing the bridge between my nose. "Fine, we'll stick around until he shows any sort of criminal activity. Who knows, maybe he'll pull out a silencer and take off his blonde hair to reveal his bald head."

"AAAGHHH!!!" We cover our ears from being shattered by the high-pitched screams of homosexual horror.

"Ohh" — Tia grits in a low silky voice—"I can't wait to get my hands on your neck"—

Tia wasn't able to finish her threat when Keke tugs us both down in a low crouch.

"He's turning around! I think he spotted us!" she whispers in panic.

I try to sneak a peek behind a basket of apples, but Kiana pulls me back.

"Hags, hags" —I hear Emile calling to us — "calm down the eff down. Remember plan B!"

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Copyright © 2017  Lei André