Page 75 of City of Love

Crossing my fingers and praying that this is Mlle Hilliard and not some weirdo, I unlock the door and then open it. I let out a breath of relief when I see my French teacher. It’s weird to see her in casual clothes; she’s fairly young, and her youth is only highlighted by the Beatles t-shirt she’s wearing.

“Lydia,” she says, her voice breathless. “What’s going on? Your call got me very worried. Has something happened with your pen pal?”

Something has definitely happened with my pen pal, but that’s not what we’re here to talk about. So I shake my head.

“Come in,” I say, gesturing to the couch and thinking longingly of the sofa at my mom’s house in Stone Springs. “Nothing is wrong with my pen pal. It’s been wonderful to meet him, actually.” I don’t tell her I thought Noel was a girl; that’s a long story I don’t feel like getting into.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Mlle Hilliard says, sitting on the couch. “What’s wrong, then?”

I take a deep breath, and I’m surprised to find myself suddenly emotional.

Like,reallyemotional. Tears blur my vision, and I try to blink them away, but I can feel their tracks down my cheek. My insides are suddenly surging.

Where is this coming from? Not once since Marcus started bothering me have I cried about it. I recall feeling pretty emotional last time I reported him to the principal, but even then I don’t think I cried.

Why am I crying?

But I don’t have to search too hard to find my answer. Because the relief I feel at finally putting Marcus behind me is swirling inside, mixing potently with my anger and frustration and embarrassment and fear. And the resulting storm seems to be more than my mind and body can keep inside.

I push aside the creeping fear and apprehension that always pop up when I think about reporting him. If anything, those feelings motivate me, nudging me forward, and I steel myself, taking several deep breaths. Then, before I can lose my courage, I say,

“Marcus Finnegan is harassing me.”

Mlle Hilliard blinks with surprise. She just stares at me for a second, and then she says, “What?”

I nod. “He’s been harassing me. This isn’t the first time. Last time I reported him to the principal. But he started again just before we came to Paris.”

Mlle Hilliard wrings her hands together, looking troubled as she says, “Please explain.”

I sigh. “He started by coming on to me, flirting with me. I block his number every time, but he always comes back with a new one. He escalated; he called me ‘sexy,’ indicated he wanted us to get together, and then started sending me pictures. First it was a picture of his chest. Then…” I trail off, handing her my phone instead of speaking.

She takes one look at the photo before turning away, her nose wrinkling with disgust. “I’m so sorry, Lydia,” she says, and she looks both disconcerted and angry. Her light brows are drawn together in the middle, and the lines around her mouth are prominent as she frowns deeply. “I had no idea.”

I feel a wave of relief at her reaction, though I’m not sure which part of it relieves me. It could be her lack of pity—I don’t want to be pitied. It could be her anger on my behalf. I don’t know.

“I didn’t want anyone to know last time,” I admit, wondering now if that was a mistake. I was embarrassed by the harassment, but maybe I shouldn’t have been. It was just so…so…humiliating, so frustrating, to have been targeted for something so disgusting. And I kept asking myself if I had somehow brought this upon myself. Had I flirted with him and I just didn’t remember it? Had I encouraged him somehow?

But I know now that’s not the case. And I know that it wouldn’t matter if I had flirted with him or encouraged him; I told him to back off, and he didn’t. End of story.

“This is very troubling,” Mlle Hilliard says, and she looks like her thoughts are a million miles away as she stares around absently. “I’ll need to get in touch with his parents. He can’t stay, of course. And then I’ll need to contact the university…” She trails off, and I’m no longer sure what she’s talking about, but Ididunderstand the part about him leaving.

More tears well up, and this time I don’t try to contain them. I don’t know what will happen in the long-term future, but I can’t deny that it will be a relief not having Marcus here.

“Lydia,” she says softly, her eyes intent on me. “Are you okay to stay with your pen pal? Do you need to come stay with me? You’re more than welcome to.”

I shake my head. “I’d prefer to stay with my pen pal,” I say.

Mlle Hilliard nods slowly. “All right,” she says, though she doesn’t look one hundred percent convinced. “Is there anything else?” She hesitates before going on. “Has he hurt you physically? Touched you?”

A shiver of fear and revulsion tremor through me. “No,” I say quietly. “That’s all. I promise,” I add at the look on her face.

She nods again. “Thank you for coming forward,” she says. “I’d like to check in on you again while we’re here, if that’s all right? I could drop by or even call, just to see how you’re doing?”

I nod, and she looks relieved.

“Good. Thank you. And Lydia”—she looks more closely at me, leaning in—“I can’t tell you what to do, but I would encourage you to consider seeing a professional when we get back to the States. You’ve clearly been very affected by this, and I don’t blame you. True manipulators know how to cultivate fear in their victims, and that fear can be difficult to shake.”

She speaks as though she has experience, but I’m not about to ask. “I’m not against the idea,” I admit, and she nods again.

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