JACQUARIOUS

"Jacquarious, dear—would you mind staying after for a bit?"

I snapped my head backward as Mrs. Cabot called after me, falling out of step with Grey, Dash, and Brayden. "I'll...see you later, guys," I mused, giving a slow wave as I backtracked toward the front of the room.

Dash nodded and headed for the hallway, the other guys following his lead.

"So sorry," Mrs. Cabot said, a knowing grin creeping into her voice. "I didn't mean to wrench you from the clutches of your newfound friends." She hazarded a glance in their direction. "Though they can't reasonably expect me to let them keep such a brilliant writer all to themselves."

I chuckled. "Well, I...I'm just glad I was able to help them out."

Mrs. Cabot gave a soft smile. "How wonderful of you." She sashayed over to her desk, sliding the strewn pages that topped it into some semblance of order before powering off her computer. "I know that it's early, but I wanted to let you know that I have some business to attend to later today—and that you're more than welcome to come along."

"Business?" I gulped. "What kind of business?"

She chuckled. "The kind that involves meeting with my husband to discuss your next article over lunch. How does L'Atelier d'Or sound?"

"...The restaurant?"

"Well, of course. What, did you think I would trouble you for the time without feeding you?" She stared swiftly to the ceiling, dainty fingers stroking the edge of her jaw. "It's always a bother choosing between the chateaubriand and the filet mignon...oh, and you'll have to practically wrestle Warren away from the bouillabaisse—"

"Uh, Mrs. Cabot?" I winced with uncertainty.

Her gaze returned to me. "Yes, dear? What's wrong?"

"Well...I'm not exactly sure I can just...you know, ditch school like that."

"Oh, come now. You won't be 'ditching,' just...getting a little fresh air. You'll only miss lunch and a bit of sixth period, and it really is the best we can do given the circumstances. If you're going to keep writing anonymously for US & The World, you can't be seen with me outside the context of your time here at school." She smirked. "Taking my best essayist to meet my husband about 'internship possibilities' is easy enough to dismiss as an over-eager teacher with nepotistic tendencies. But were you to meet Warren alone or be spotted at the paper after hours...well, I trust you'd understand the optics of such a thing."

I nodded, giving a soft sigh. "Alright, I...I guess that makes sense, but...I still haven't come up with a good pseudonym yet. Do you think your husband will be mad?"

She let out a light chuckle. "Darling, of course not. He's just happy to get to know you. Warren's a bit...personable in that regard. He likes to know all his people, and he looks after them. The way he sees it, you're doing all of us a favor—and you really are." She tilted her head to stare off into space again. "Come to think of it, he's probably even more impressed that you're willing to do all this writing and go unnamed. It takes a lot to wear all those masks, you know."

Huh? "Masks? What masks?"

"Journalism, dear—it's nothing but masks. You're the writer, the purveyor, the scholar, the thinker, the reporter...you wear too many faces to count. And you must; there's no getting around it. Otherwise, no reader would give you the time of day." She bent over to her desk, fished through the drawers to find Hall Pass slips.

"...Yeah," I mused, my mind wandering as the faint pattering of footsteps clopped out behind me, a new set of students beginning to shuffle in for the start of second period. "I guess you're right. It's all about faces—which one you'll wear to get people to listen to you."

The tearing of a perforated slip brought me back to the present; Mrs. Cabot handed me a hall pass with her signature scribbled across the bottom—Regina, it read.

"I'll see you at lunch, dear," she whispered as more students poured inside the classroom. "Be well."

****

I'd been to L'Atelier d'Or before with my parents, but only on special occasions. "Having money doesn't mean we need to spend it" had always been my mom's justification; and even the times when I begged my dad, a firm and gentle "Listen to your mother, Son" had followed, his refrain timeless.

It was definitely a garish place—no one could deny that. A small part of me still got giddy inside whenever we'd visit, but the accented wonder of the French ambiance had mostly faded by the time I made it to high school.

Perhaps it felt too muggy, an opaque setting that nuzzled all too close without deigning to the intimate. Walls with airbrushed charcoal smoothed into waves, lurid Impressionist paintings adorned in gilt frames, crackling embers of bronzed tangerine flickering through a nested furnace—and an ensemble of waitstaff toting curated portions on exquisite porcelain plates, a lustrous golden trim to match the tabletops' speckled sheen.

Mrs. Cabot had secured us a curtained booth along the outer walls—as absconded from windows as from the eyes of the other guests, those who'd be eyeing anyone other than themselves.

I sauntered over to the booth with my English teacher's arm around my shoulder, nodding at her husband as he pulled back the curtain to welcome us inside the draped enclosure flecked in painted sparkles.