Page 18 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
I lay on my back, running my shaking hands down my face. I wished I knew more. I wished I had insight into what to do now. Did something need to be done?
If someone had asked me to explain what triggered my interest in Mr. Wicked, what sent me crawling over the edge, it was his sadness.
I fell in love with his sadness first.
Chapter 5
Phoenix
“Courage is the first of human qualities because it is the quality which guarantees the others.”
~Aristotle
Iarrived at class early the following day to find Mr. Wicked seated at his desk. Mulling over what I guessed would be his lesson for the day. His indigo blazer hung from the rack by the door. He’d slip it on once everyone else began filing in—company and all that.
“Mr. Michaelson,” he said surprised. “You’re here early.”
“I was hoping to catch you before class started. I stopped by your office first.”
He worked his way to the coat rack. I would’ve smiled inwardly when he reached for his jacket, but I needed all my brain cells to prevent the saliva that pooled in my mouth from escaping at the corners. “You work out.” My eyes pinched shut. I could’ve kicked myself. Surely I’d gone green, because the nausea was ten-fold. I knew he worked out. Of course I did.You’ve seen him naked, idiot.
“Ah, yes.” He stared at me like he wanted to check my temperature. “Are you all right, Mr. Michaelson?”
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “I’ve been thinking of working out too.” No, I hadn’t. And before I made an even bigger fool of myself, I jumped into my purpose for being there early in the first place. “Have you had a chance to review my essay for the Logics course at the university?” Getting accepted into Denwin wasn’t an issue, I had the grades. It was the course that my father had taught that tied me up in knots. The decision would come down to my essay.
He moved back to his desk. I followed, leaning against the other side, tugging the straps at the end of my backpack. “Yes, I have.” He remained standing, pulling a manila folder from his bag. “You wrote your essay on Pythagoras.” He flipped it open, fingering the printed papers inside. “I would’ve guessed Plato or even Aristotle to be the more obvious choice.”
My palms flattened against his desk. “Aristotle, Plato, and even Socrates were all influenced by Pythagoras. They wouldn’t be, had it not been for him.”
“Pythagoras may have planted the seed, but certainly you know who watered the soil. He believed in the immortal soul. Upon death—”
“—The soul enters into a new body.” I wouldn’t deny that hoping my father had another shot at this life, that dying wasn’t the end for him, influenced my decision on what to base my essay on. Mr. Wicked understood that. He of all people would.
“His beliefs are based on mathematics andsymphony,” he said, sliding the folder to the wooden surface, inches from my hand. “I took you more for an ethics based on the principles of human nature type of scholar. Appealing to the decision committee’s humanity might win you more points, Mr. Michaelson.”
I bristled at his implication that numbers and music couldn’t reach the heart. That something couldn’t be learned from it. Obviously thatseedhad influenced many greats that succeeded Pythagoras. I didn’t want to take the expected approach. I wanted to be accepted for being different. For taking risks. And Mr. Wicked would either understand that, or I’d take my chances on my own. “He was the first man to call himself a philosopher.” I tapped the top of the desk with my index finger.
“Yes, but—”
“‘—And to know the son, we must be on a first name basis with the father,’” I recited, ready to take this battle as far as it needed to go. I was proud of my work. Confidant in the route I’d decided to take. My father would be proud. I wouldn’t be swayed to write something seen as a “sure thing.”
Mr. Wicked picked up the discarded folder, then raised his eyes to mine, gifting me with his slow smile. My favorite of the two. The other was awkward, like an old suit being dusted off, but beautiful all the same. “Your essay is amazing, Mr. Michaelson. It’s original, it’s riddled with conviction and poise. I read it twice.”
He handed me a sheet of paper from within the folder. My brows sprang to the ceiling, mouth falling open as I read his name at the top of the reference letter. I had to will my weight to my feet in order to stay grounded. “Thank you.”
“It’s well deserved. You have the most fascinating mind, Mr. Michaelson.” He said this as if it pained him to. Like my brain brought up an old painful memory. “By far my best student.” The moment felt frozen. The ticking of the clock on the wall was my only proof that time moved forward. He observed me with admiration and it made me feel like I could move mountains.
We were interrupted by the students entering. I hurried to place the letter in the folder and held it close to me. I hesitated, teeth pressing down on my lip. “See you tonight?” I whispered. The question had become my ritual. Each night I left him with the sinking feeling that he was onto me. Possibly because I always said something that made him fall back on the use of my last name. Something that made him hammer a nail into a loose wall. So I asked the same question every day before or after class to be sure we were okay. My heart paused for a millisecond, and then he gave a sharp nod with a bowed brow.
I took my seat, feeling euphoric for all the wrong reasons.
I got home to another note from Mom and dinner sitting on the stove. I bypassed both and headed for my room.
Dropping into my chair and booting up my computer, I gazed through my window to see all the lights off at Mr. Wicked’s. It was still early, the sun still high, but I wanted to get through my homework as soon as possible in preparation for his arrival. I wanted as much time with him as possible. The thought scared me.
My phone vibrated. A text from Theory reminding me about my date with Mason that weekend and threatening me with bodily harm if I wore a white button-down and khakis. Her idea of leather pants and steel-toed boots received a veto from both Danny and myself. I responded letting her know he’d either accept me for me, or we were over before we began. I tossed the phone on my bed, aware of the hypocrisy of that statement. For Mason, I wasn’t willing to change who I was. He could take me or leave me. For Mr. Wicked, I’d be willing to turn myself inside out. That wouldn’t be required of me, I somehow knew, but it unsettled me to know how far from grace I’d be willing to fall if it meant I could…Could what, Phoenix?
My phone buzzed again. I ignored it, thinking it was Theory biting my head off.
