By Ali Hussain
“So, why do you want to go to Harvard?” the interviewer asked.
In all honesty, I had almost forgotten she was there. I was looking instead at the wallpaper behind her. An array of chocolates, sweets, and cakes were strewn upon the walls upon a background of brown Burtonesque swirls. They lay there, coaxing anyone who entered into ordering at least one, just to try it out.
I tried to look at her face. She was actually pretty attractive, which I hadn’t expected from Harvard. Her hair kind of shimmered and was simultaneously a chestnut brown and a fiery red. The chestnut part of her hair blended in with the Burtonesque swirls behind her. Somehow, hers was a face that I both wanted to look at and turn away from. She reminded me of someone but I couldn’t really place who it was.
I apologized to her copiously for being distracted so easily by the wallpaper but even as I said this, my eyes rested on a mint swirl on one of the chocolate ice creams. As my mouth began to water I thought that I at least deserved a little. The interviewer had said that I could order anything I wanted to at any point so I technically had permission to.
I ordered two. The waiter seemed shocked to hear that, which I could understand of course since they seemed pretty large, but I needed to extend the courtesy to my interviewer, didn’t I? The waiter asked again to clarify while he picked up the menu, at which point I slapped him and told him to bring my ice creams or he’d hear it from his boss. He silently cleared up the table and shuffled meekly back to his chef.
My interviewer and I had a good laugh at the way he waddled out of the room as if he were a penguin. He also looked the part, the interview interjected, noting the black vest and white shirt he had on. I found that quite funny and ended up giggling for a solid five minutes. I realized then who the interviewer reminded me of. There was something about her laugh that made her sound like Elena, the girl I’d had a thing for in high school. It wasn’t just the laugh, though; it was the hair. Elena had chestnut hair, too, and I think it was styled the same way, as well. And I won’t lie, there definitely were other things about her that made her so enjoyable to look at. I’d spend the entire class time either admiring her face or tilting my head just a tad lower. That’s why I was so bad in Philosophy class. But I stray, what I mean to say is that my interviewer, surprisingly enough, had the same set of assets.
I don’t know why I did it but I told my interviewer about Elena and why I had a thing for her in the first place. My hand crawled across the table to find hers. I told her I loved her. I knew she didn’t of course but she said she did. She reached across the table and kissed me. No – she didn’t do that – not truly – that’s not how it actually happened. She got up from her seat and sat on my – no, that’s also not how it happened. I can’t really remember what happened. All I remember is that she said she loved me and then did something. She did something.
Not Elena. Not the interviewer. It wasn’t them. It was someone else, someone from before the interviewer, someone from before Elena. It was a woman, a French woman. She was – she was my teacher, my high school French teacher. She had brilliant red hair. She wanted me to stay after class. She told me that I was a good boy, that I deserved a little treat. She said she liked me – no, she said she loved me. She made me do things for her.
“And what was it like, Richard, when she made you do these things?”
“It felt bad.”
“Was this only the one time she did this?”
“No, she did it more times. Sometimes she’d make me do it after school, sometimes it would be during. I couldn’t tell you her name, I was never good at French and called her “the red-haired woman”, but what I can tell you is that she was scary but she was also pretty. I’d always come back to her and she knew it. I’d make up excuses not to go to school so I wouldn’t have to see the red-haired woman. But when I did that, my parents would send me anyway but I’d be late. Those days, the red-haired woman was mean. She was harsh and happily left marks.
“I see. And no one found out?”
“One time, I showed Mama one of the marks. She said that I was impossible and that she was a teacher and that I should respect her more. She said that I should stop lying about her.”
“Tell me, was the interviewer you imagined a complete mix between Elena and the red-haired woman?”
“Yes, yes, she was. But how is this relevant?”
“Did you enjoy your coffee?” Richard nodded. “Thank you, Richard. You may leave now”
Richard dropped off the side of the sofa. He had trouble at first trying to get his legs to stop shaking so that he could walk out. For the first time in forever, he had talked about the red-haired woman – and he was already forgetting everything he had said.
