Chasing River: Chapter 4 – Pandora’s Box

Pandora’s Box

OVER THE course of the next few days, I much preferred to eat my meals in solitude or in the confinement of my bedroom curled up with a book. I had read through a total of seven complete works of fiction in one week alone, and if that did not speak for itself of how much time I’d had on my hands, I was not sure what else would. I had been whispered tales of beauties who tamed beasts, people with both sense & sensibility or neither, girls who fell down rabbit holes and went mad as hatters, secret gardens and kisses electric enough to breathe life into another. I had read it all.

Earlier that morning, I passed by the student lounge and took notice of Geneviève seated opposite River; I watched as she conversed with him, her face full of expression and eyes full of emotion, while he simply nodded, seemingly bored by her. But they still talked nonetheless, something about black coffee, itchy sweaters and Vincent van Gogh’s starry night.

Later that night, I lay staring up at the ceiling with my mind swimming with images of a beautiful god, images of River Kennedy. His presence electrified something through me, something I’d never felt before and couldn’t quite explain. I traced my finger over the spot beneath my chin he’d used to threaten me with a pencil. I was being entirely too ridiculous for my own good, far too obsessive.

I never quite learned how just to like something; I always allowed it to attach itself to me, become my very own parasite. Nothing ever merely tickled my fancy. I let it consume me entirely. I fear that I may have not been entirely truthful with you. It is important to remember that, above all, I am my mother’s daughter. When I love, I love hard. When I hold on, I never let go. When I give it a try, I give everything. Et je n’ai pas de regrets.

I have no regrets.

His words echoed in my mind leave, and just like that, I did what he asked without even thinking about it. It was almost mechanical. I had no say in the matter. I wasn’t used to feeling so…inferior. I was so caught up in my thoughts that I barely even noticed when Keomi walked in, with a troubled expression on her usually radiant face. She tossed her bag on her bed and plopped herself down on the foot of my bed.

‘Are you sure that you can’t possibly find a way to get over this?’ She asked, her voice tired and drained of all its usual enthusiasm.

‘No, I don’t think I can, Keomi,’ I replied honestly, ‘But don’t feel pressured to tell me anything you’re not ready to, okay?’

‘No, Armani, you don’t understand I— I have to talk about it because it’s been eating me up from the inside out.’ She spoke, and at that, she caught my attention, and I immediately sat up in bed.

‘I’m here for you, I promise,’ I assured her by placing a hand on her shoulder. She was tense but relaxed under my touch.

‘It wasn’t always just the five of us…’ Keomi began staring straight into the distance.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked,

‘There was a sixth member of our group, Jace, but he’s gone now.’ She confessed, and I was taken aback. I would’ve never guessed it.

The way Keomi and her friends behaved and conducted themselves when I first met them, you’d never have thought that it wasn’t always just them. But in a way, I could feel it. I could feel the void. It was the empty seat at the lunch table that no one dared glance at or sit on. It was how sometimes there were gaps in conversation, as if awaiting an opinion from a silent voice. The emptiness, it was there. It was unavoidable.

“Are you familiar with the Greek myth of Pandora’s box?” Keomi queried, and a beat of silence followed,

“Yes, I am,” I assured her, recalling the hours I put into tenth-grade mythology.

“When Prometheus stole fire from the gods, Zeus exacted retribution by bestowing Pandora upon Prometheus’ brother Epimetheus. Pandora was given a box as a wedding gift and instructed never to open it. Unfortunately, eventually, curiosity got the better of her, and she opened the box, releasing death, evil, and misery into the world.” Keomi explicated, and I stared at her in confusion. “However, the last thing in the box was hope and ever since, humans have clung to it.”

“Yes, I hear you.” I assured her, “But what does any of that have to do with this?”

‘This entire situation is like Pandora’s box. We locked it away, made a pact to never talk about it again, to never bring it up. But now you’re here, Armani, and you’re opening it all up. There might be hope in the box, but with it will also come misery.’ She told me as she grabbed a copy of Gone Girl from her locked drawer and took the picture out, handing it to me with tears in her sad brown eyes.” therefore you must be certain that you want to know everything, if it’s worth it.”

“I am,” I told her, and she nodded silently.

‘I remember that day like it was yesterday,” She narrated, referring to the photograph, “Merilla had never been to the Eiffel Tower so Jace suggested that we should surprise her with a picnic there. She was so happy,’ She smiled, tears spilling from her eyes, ‘We were all so happy, especially RK.’

‘RK?’ I asked,

‘Stands for River Kennedy, which is what Jace would call him all the time, and it eventually caught on with the rest of us.’ She reminisced with a sad little laugh. “He’s our friend. Have you met him yet? He should be in your art class?”

“I have, but he looks so different here.’ I noticed he was smiling— his eyes were brighter than they were when I’d met him. So much so that it was almost as if I was looking through a window into a parallel universe. ‘Did you talk to him?” She asked, her eyes hopeful.

“No, not really.” I told her with a slight laugh, “He’s rather reserved.”

‘Yeah, he is now, but that’s not the same River that we knew. He and Jace were really close— so when he died last summer, it was like half of River went along with him.’ Keomi told me, her tone was serious.

‘What are you saying— that he’s like still grieving?’ I asked, and she scoffed.

‘That’s the exact problem, Armani. River isn’t grieving. He never even cried at his funeral.’Keomi said with a hint of anger and frustration.

‘It’s okay, Keomi he probably just-‘

‘No, it isn’t Armani, Jace Monet was his best friend, and he’s dead. River barely talks to anyone anymore, let alone eats lunch with us. He built up these walls, and no matter how hard we try, we can’t break them down.’ Keomi disclosed, and I could feel what she felt. I could finally see what she saw, and it was heartbreaking.

‘It’s a shame that that’s the version of him you’re going to know.’ She sighed in disappointment, shaking her head.

‘I’m sorry about Jace Keomi. I’m sure he’s in a better place, a happier place.’ I apologized feeling obligated to do so. ‘Come here.’

She took a seat beside me, and I pulled her into a hug. Her mind was a hurricane sweeping up everything in her path. I whispered comforting words to her, not bothering to ask any more questions. She’d been through enough. She’d had enough. I decided that I wouldn’t push her for answers anymore. Perhaps it was not my place. I wanted to focus more on being a good friend to her. I knew what it was like to just need a friend.

Night fell over St Katherine’s, and my spirit was more restless than ever. I worked on my art homework and completed it within an hour or so. I opened the door ever so carefully so I wouldn’t wake Keomi up, then proceeded to venture outside. I made my way off-campus, and the summer midnight air caressed my skin.

I couldn’t possibly get used to walking the streets of Paris because it always felt so dreamlike. The lights made me feel less alone. There was a man by the bakery playing Baker Street on his saxophone, I tipped him, and he wiggled his eyebrows in approval. The Café was still open, and only a few people were perched outside, mainly couples enjoying each other’s company with a late-night coffee.

Just as I was about the walk past the quaint little Café, I saw him, the candles reflecting in his stern, cold blue eyes as he sketched. He wore a white, almost see-through button-up shirt with a gold lock and key necklace beneath it. I stopped in my tracks and made my way through the Café doors. I was greeted by a friendly waiter to whom I lied and said my friend was already there. I stopped and thought, how dumb could I be? He obviously didn’t want me around, and yet here I was anyway, chasing him. Drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

I drew out the chair opposite him at his table and sat down. He didn’t even look up at me. He barely flinched. He acted as though my existence didn’t even occur to him.

‘How do you do that?’ I asked out of curiosity,

‘Do what?’ He replied, still not looking at me.

‘Act like you don’t care.’ I clarified, and he let out a bitter chuckle before finally looking up and making eye contact with me at last, I didn’t realize just how much I craved to have his attention until then, and it frustrated me. “I’ve never quite mastered the art.”

“I can tell. Your every fleeting emotion is painted on your face for everyone to see.” He revealed condescendingly.

“No it is not.” I refuted with a pout, and he gave me an incredulous look.

“It is.” He argued,

“What do you mean?” I asked, and he paused.

“Par example, right now, your eyebrows are furrowed, and you’re leaning into me with your eyes, so I know that you value my opinion.” He spoke, “Which is rather pathetic, considering we don’t know each other.”

“You think I’m pathetic?” I scoffed in offence,

‘Look, I don’t know you, and it’s better that you don’t know me.’ He said, his eyes burning into mine so furiously I couldn’t help but look down. I got the feeling that this was what he wanted me to do, he wanted me to fear him and cower under him like everyone else, but I wasn’t going to, not this time.

‘You probably act like you don’t care because you care more than everyone else,’ I told him, folding my arms.

‘Wow, congratulations, you’ve got me all figured out. Am I that transparent?’ He mocked.

‘Yeah, you are.’ I spat back, and the pencil he was using broke when it touched the paper, and I couldn’t help but flinch slightly. “I guess I’m not the only one having trouble concealing my emotions.”

‘Why don’t you just leave? I don’t want you here.’ He deadpanned.

‘I want to be here,’ I confessed, but this time it was him who couldn’t look me in the eye.

‘Why?’ He asked, looking down.

‘I don’t know. I guess you’re a good artist, and I wanna see what’s so damn good about you.’ I said, averting the topic from where it was about to go.

‘So you basically want to use me for my art? that’s a very bad thing for a good girl like you.’ He said with a slight smirk.

‘I’m not a good girl,’ I replied. I hated being called that. I hated titles.

‘Right.’ He said, grabbing another pencil,

‘My intentions are clear, River. I want to learn. I want to see your work.’ I conveyed,

‘And what makes you think that I’d waste my precious time on you?’

‘Because if you don’t, I’ll go on believing that you’re all bark and no bite.’ I taunted, tracing the steak knife up and down the table, closer and closer to him.

‘You can’t hurt me.’ He said, grabbing the opposite end of the knife with his bare hand. He lifted a condescending eyebrow.

He was testing me, and I was trapped. If I pulled the knife forward, it would cut him, and if I pulled it back towards me, It would hurt me. The question hanging in the air was, how badly did I want this? How badly did I want to take a step further into his fucked up world? I wasn’t going to let him win. I couldn’t let him win.

I pulled the knife towards me, and I felt the sharp end of it pierce my soft skin. I stiffened my jaw, so I didn’t let out a whimper and River’s eyes held this sense of disbelief. He didn’t expect me to do this, did he? He expected me to let go and cower. He let go of the knife at the same time I did, never breaking eye contact with me as he handed me a serviette so I could clean the blood dripping from the small cut on my hand.

‘You think you’re going to break me, River Kennedy, but that’s where you’re wrong,’ I assured him, grabbing the knife from him and wiping it clean.

‘How so?’ He wondered,

‘Because I’ll have you know that if it ever comes down to it, I will be the architect of my own destruction,’ I informed him, mimicking his body language and nonchalance. ‘Let me know if you’ll be willing, m’kay?’

I stood up from the table, my mind spinning from the events that had just taken place. I had to be losing my mind. The second I was out of his sight, I leaned my head on the cool concrete of the building and took some deep breaths. I looked at my hand and thought, nothing rubbing alcohol and a bandage can’t fix. Just then, the perky waitress from before followed me outside with a folded piece of paper in her hand.

‘I’m sorry, are you Pandora?’ She asked, and everything inside me was urging me to say no, that he was fucked up and not worth it in the slightest. But I needed to know more.

‘Yes,’ I replied, and she handed it to me.

I opened up the paper and was surprised to see a light sketch of a girl with thick dark curls with her back turned, walking out of a café. Oh my God, it was me. When did he even find the time to draw this? I turned to the back, and it wrote:

I was convinced that I was losing my mind, that I was spiralling down a rabbit hole that I wasn’t going to be able to get myself out of. Everyone knows that the only way out of the rabbit hole is to taste the poison, River Kennedy was my poison, and I couldn’t risk tasting him without ruining myself in the process. This boy, whom I barely knew, had me so fascinated by him. I wanted more than anything to know him despite the fact that it seemed as though he wanted nothing to do with me.

‘Miss Nnandi, the class takes place in here, not out there.’ My French teacher scolded, folding her arms and catching me staring out the window.

‘I’m sorry, miss.’ I apologized, and I swear if I could do that, I’d be blushing right now.

‘In French!’ She insisted, and I nearly jumped out of my seat.

‘Désolé mademoiselle.’ I apologized once more, looking down.

‘You must have confidence, Miss Nnandi. They name the most powerful storms after women for a reason.’ She told me, and I smiled sheepishly.

I had never been that girl that was loud or even remotely outgoing. I’d never been the girl with a lot of friends or the girl who everyone liked and gravitated towards. I had made peace with that fact. It was strange for me because, at Clearwater High, I felt no different to the air around me. Everyone knew I existed, but it was like they saw right through me. St Kathrines was different, it was almost as though it’d be impossible for someone not to see me, people all around me looked and stared like there was something worth seeing, and I did not hate it.

After French was History with my adorable elderly-looking teacher Mr Robinson, he was kind and patient and nothing like my last history teacher, who had a bizarre interest in defending Germany when it came to discussing the Second World War. Mr Robinson went on and on about the developments in the Greek theatre as everyone (half asleep) took notes. I had always been a good history student. There was just something about the events of the past that happened to fascinate me. I’d wanted to be a history teacher if my art career so happened to flop, and I’d like to think I’d be a good one. After History, I had my first break, which I spent talking to Fabian in the corner of the massive library. Keomi and Merilla were studying for a math test they had later today, which left me time to get to know Fabian better. I wanted to know that there was more to him than just a ‘Mr nice guy’ with a classic smirk and a charismatic personality.

‘So tell me, Fabian, do you like olives?’ I asked him, and he shot me a puzzled look.

‘Yeah…why?’ He retorted curiously, and I smiled.

‘Because I hate olives, and that means that we’d make good friends in the long run,’ I told him, and he let out a chuckle.

‘Now, which crackhead told you that one?’ He teased, and I shoved his shoulder playfully.

‘First of all, don’t you dare disrespect the olive test. Second of all, if you must know, it was my grandmother,’ I admitted. “And I heard it again in an episode of how I met your mother.”

‘Oh shit, I’m sorry.’ He apologized, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

‘No, it’s okay, really. My grandparents met at a little vineyard in Cape Town, where her papa worked. She’d always hated olives because she’d grown up around them— but my grandfather always loved them so much, the rest is history,’ I told him. I’ve never told anyone that story. I’ve never felt close enough to anyone to tell them my stories.

‘Ahhh, I see.’ Fabian chuckled, leaning his chin on his knee, “I haven’t seen my grandparents in a very long time. They live on the other side of the country.”

‘It creates a balance.’ I clarified, “Because you have different pallets, different tastes, and somehow it means you can meet in the middle.”

‘Your grandma, she means a lot to you, doesn’t she?’ He asked, curling his feet up onto his seat.

‘Yeah, she does, even though I haven’t seen her in so long,’ I confessed,

‘My grandpa and I used to be close too before he passed on. We’d go down fishing at Canal St-Martin every Sunday. I um I— never caught anything, but he always made me celebrate even the little accomplishments.’ He told me seeming slightly embarrassed as my gaze caught his for a split second, and I could tell, I could tell that this moment meant more to him than it did to me.

The next class I had was art, and we turned in our pieces. Monsieur said everyone’s was good but that River’s was great— but it didn’t portray any real emotion. Of course, River wasn’t happy about that and proceeded to argue that an artist could be exemplary without his art being all sappy and pathetic. I noticed something about River Kennedy. He doesn’t like it when people criticized him, he did not like being judged, and he sure as hell hated it when people gave their opinions on his work. Which had me curious as to why he was even attending an art academy in the first place if he couldn’t handle criticism. Geneviève was in my specialist art class, too. She swapped seats with the girl that was sitting next to River. She talked to him, and he laughed, and when she placed her hands on his, he never moved away or told her to stop. That made a spike of hot jealousy shoot up my spine, and my throat burned with envy. Why was it that River seemed to get along with everyone but me? What was it about me that he found so incredibly repulsive that he could barely hold a conversation with me without nearly screaming at me?

Just then, I realized that I’d been staring because his eyes caught mine, and he glared at me, looking me up and down and then proceeding to talk to Geneviève once again like I didn’t even matter. He pissed me off. He frustrated me in the most pleasurably tortuous way imaginable. I knew that I promised my parents not to get involved with boys, and I did intend to keep my word, but It was getting harder and harder to deny myself those things.

These things that most of the girls in this room had already experienced, most of them in high school. These secret things whispered in circles between friends, about how falling felt like soaring through the sky till your heart bones shattered at the seams, about near misses and feather-light kisses…I knew nothing of it all. There were times when I thought about how I missed out on so much of my ‘ultimate high school experience’ because I was so headstrong about my art career. And yet there I was, I made it, I knew I’d achieved more in my life than most people my age but I couldn’t help but feel like I was missing something, like I’d always been missing something.

Our next assignment, which was to carry on for the next two weeks, was to paint something that genuinely captured the thing that we feared the most. I heard the chatter around the classroom. People were planning to paint things like spiders and their fear of heights. But I knew that Monsieur was looking for something more profound than that. He wanted something real, something raw and honest that spoke about who we are as artists. Soon classes were over. I’d planned to stay behind to ask Monsieur a few questions about our assignment, but unfortunately, it looked like River, and I had had the exact same plan. So I pretended to pack my equipment away slowly while I waited my turn.

“I would like to request a different assignment.” River declared, running a hand through his dark hair in evident frustration.

“May I ask why, Mr Kennedy?” Monsieur Etienne queried, humoring him.

“Because from my point of view, this is a class about skill and precision, it has nothing to do with…inner emotions.” River protested,

“It has everything to do with your inner self and how you’re able to project that into your art. There is no such thing as art without feeling.” Our teacher expressed, but River seemed almost offended.

“I refuse to participate in this—” River began but was immediately cut off.

“Then you will leave the class,” Monsieur warned.

“There is no class without me, and you know it.” River scoffed with a wicked smirk. He turned and faced me, his eyes fiery as though he didn’t know I’d been in the room the entire time.

‘Hey, maybe it won’t be so bad,’ I suggested, trying to reassure him that the assignment wasn’t that difficult and that apparently he was a good enough artist to complete it. “Sometimes we tend to make things harder in our minds than they actually are.”

‘I was not fucking talking to you.’ He said nastily with his eyes shut, as though if he were to open them, they’d scorch us alive. I feared that he was far too upset at that moment to engage in conversation with anyone, let alone me.

‘I know you weren’t, but-‘

‘Do you ever stop talking? You’re nothing but an ameuter riding on a scholarship that could be taken away from you in a fucking heartbeat.’ He burst out, and I felt like I’d been shot twice in the chest.

‘Why are you being so cruel to me, River Kennedy?’ I wondered, shaking my head in disbelief, “You said it yourself that we barely know each other and yet you’ve somehow decided that you utterly despise my existence.”

He moved closer towards me, and I looked up to look him dead in the eyes. River was tall— and much taller than me. He was being cold and mean, and he scared me when he got like this. But deep down, I knew there was no changing him, God. He was irredeemable. If what he wanted all along was to push me away, he sure as hell had done it that time. He placed his thumb and index finger on my chin and tilted it upwards. For a second, I thought I saw a glimmer of remorse in his eyes for the way he spoke to me, but I was wrong.

‘You can’t keep dancing with the devil and then ask why you’re still in hell.’ He told me, clear as day.

And that’s when I realized that I deserved better than that; I deserved better than to be spoken down to and treated like a bother, better than to be seen as nothing more than a nuisance. That was when I realized that he was not worth it, and I walked away.