Mr. B. Urie

8

There is no presentation. I repeat: there is no presentation! We walk into the lecture hall and it's completely empty. "Brendon?" I whisper.

"I lied." He smiles, locking the door behind us. The lights are off and there are no windows in the room. In the pitch black, I feel his hands on my waist and his breath on my face. I shrug off my backpack and wrap my arms around Brendon's neck.

"What if we get caught?" I ask, resting my head on his shoulder. He bites his lip and checks the door handle behind me.

"It's locked, no one can walk in. We're pretty safe," his lips play with my ear and move across my jaw towards my mouth.

"But . . . we're at school, and you lied. What's going to happen when they find out and start asking questions?" I point out. Brendon stops dead in his tracks, dropping his hands from my hips and stepping back. I let go of him and pick up my bag.

"I don't have a first period class, but you're late. Go before you get detention," I can't see his face in the dark, but I know his brows are knit together and his usually full mouth is a line of disdain. I turn to the door, unlock it and walk out into the empty hallway, rushing towards my art class.

"Well, I'll be! Ariella Alvos, why are we late today?" In my panic, I forget how close I live to the school and come up with the oldest excuse in the book.

"I missed the bus, Miss. Murray, I'm sorry." I sit down next to a random kid and pull out my sketchbook.

"You live two feet from the school," she sighs, placing an instruction sheet on my desk. "I'll let it slide this time, but try not to be late again."

*****

"Ariella, can I talk to you in the hallway?" Brendon says halfway through his class. I've been mostly ignoring him since what happened this morning. I nod and drop the book I'm reading onto my desk. My desk is on the opposite side of the room and it's painful to walk across in silence as everyone watches. If he was trying to be subtle, he didn't do a very good job.

"Mr. Urie," I nod curtly as we walk into the hall together. He frowns and leans against the wall.

"None of that, please." He looks behind him and then leans forward slightly. "I wanted to apologize," he says lowly.

"For what?" I ask, pretending not to remember the incident, even though it's clearly burned into both of our memories. I just really want to hear a genuine apology.

"Arie," Brendon begs me with his eyes not to make him say it out loud. I fold my arms across my chest and raise my eyebrows. "Come on, seriously?" The pitch of his voice rises slightly as he says this and I can't help but smirk. His hands dance roughly through his hair. "Fine! Fine. I'm sorry that I made you late for class this morning, and lied to you . . . And I'm sorry that I missed you, even though I had just seen you an hour before." He whispers the last part, and it makes my heart flutter.

"You can make it up to me tonight," I whisper back. "Thanks, Mr. Urie, I'll keep that in mind," I say as I open the door to the classroom.

"Oh, no problem Ariella, I thought it might be of use to you. I'm glad I could help." He plays along, closing the door behind us. "Now, class, big project idea I have for you: so, on Friday you wrote those memoirs, remember? Well, I am proposing—no, that does not mean this is optional—that we all write about a big change in our lives. For me, that big change would be the day I told my Mormon parents that I was an atheist. For you, it might be the day your dog died, or the day someone you love got cancer or the day your parents told you that Santa Clause wasn't real. Whatever,"

"Santa isn't real?" One guy, obviously a smart ass, pipes up.

"Oh shit, sorry guys! Apparently, you're not old enough to handle that big of news." Brendon rolls his eyes sarcastically. I love that he just swore in the middle of class and doesn't even care.

"Mr. Urie, the school has a strict no swearing policy," I smirk at him, making him cock his head to the side and click his tongue.

"Miss. Alvos, who the fuck cares?" He looks around at the rest of the class; they don't seem to care, but they are also a bit stunned. Most teachers are sticklers for the rules. "Can you guys honestly tell me that if I swear it impedes on your learning? I think not! Sorry, Ariella, I was only proving a point. I don't often swear at people, and I don't care if you swear in this class, just keep it at a professional level, capiche?"

The class grunts out an okay and he continues, "Anyways, as I was saying, we're going to write a 700-word memoir on the biggest change in our lives. It will be due in a week from today. Any questions before the bell rings?"

A few people raise their hands and he answers them carefully. I have a feeling that this assignment is the result of my own memoir about my mother. He wants to know what happened, and I really can't say I blame him, but I also don't want to talk about it. That part of my life—that part of me—is gone.