4. Nyssa

4

NYSSA

DEMI GOD - KIMbrA FEATURING SAHTYRE

"Nyssa darling, lovely you're here," slurs Mrs. Driscoll. The recently widowed woman totters over in heels she's unsteady on, clutching a wine glass that's been refilled many times. She presses her warm cheek against mine in a kiss hello. "It means so much you could be here for the funeral."

I return her slurred greeting with a polite smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Driscoll… and may I offer my sincerest condolences. Mr. Driscoll was a treasure to the community. He will be missed."

…by no one.

"You are sooo sweet. I'm always telling Heather, why can't she be more like you?"

"Heather's great on her own," I lie, my smile frozen on my face. "But I haven't been able to find her."

Mrs. Driscoll scoffs, the red wine sloshing precariously inside her glass. "Who knows with that girl? She could be off screwing the help for all I know. "

"I'm sure I'll find her," I say, keeping my tone neutral. "She's probably speaking to some of the other guests."

"Mhm, I'm sure. Don't forget, dinner is at five." The widowed matriarch looks wholly unconvinced as she gives me her best bleary-eyed, tipsy smile and then sashays away.

I watch her go, amazed by how the lush can make her wine glass as fashionable as the designer black dress she wears.

Others have noticed she's had a few too many, though no one dares say anything. They're here for the social cred they'll earn by being invited to such a private family affair by the Holly Driscoll.

Thanks to her husband's death, she's now the wealthiest person in the community. Which means it's social suicide to admit she may have a drinking problem.

Not that it's anything new. Mom's told me all about how Holly Driscoll—maiden name Bunton—was big on the party scene during her Castlebury University days.

The degree was just for show. Holly partied while students like my parents worked hard, and when she graduated, she went on to marry a man a few decades her senior in Kane Driscoll.

I've always preferred older men myself, but usually men who aren't knocking on death's door.

"Babe, there you are," Samson says. He appears at my side, planting a wet kiss on my cheek. "You're like a ninja sometimes."

"A ninja?" I raise a brow, thrown by the comparison.

"Yeah. Appearing and disappearing. You were beside me at the funeral. Then I looked over and you were gone."

"Ladies room," I answer, picking up a glass of sparkling water. "I couldn't find you when I came back."

Samson's suspicion fades thanks to his short attention span. He's noticed we're alone at the refreshment's table and decided it's the perfect opportunity to make a move. His heavy hand creeps onto my hip, squeezing the flesh like he wishes my dress would disappear into nothing.

"How about we head back to my place? Nobody'll notice."

I break his hold by taking a wide step to my left. "Please tell me you're kidding. This is Heather's dad's funeral."

"So what?"

"She's my friend."

"She hated the guy," he grunts. "Everybody hated the guy. Even my dad only golfed with him 'cuz he had to. They were both on the board for the school and?—"

"Shhh," I hush, glancing around. "The answer's no, Samson. I won't go back to your place to fuck you."

A glower spreads on his ruddy face. "There's always an excuse with you."

"Maybe if you were around more and not always at rugby practice, we could spend time together."

"Or maybe there's nothing I can do to satisfy you."

Before I can even think up a rebuttal, he's gone, shouldering his way through the parlor. I roll my eyes and cuss him out under my breath.

Typical Samson Wicker.

He's more petulant child than grown, college-aged man. Spoiled rotten by his old money family, he's never been told no .

…until he started dating me and realized I wasn't going to buckle under his pressure. Samson views me as a conquest while I view him as a means to an end to achieve my goal. He won't be satisfied 'til he gets inside my pants, while I'm more concerned with using our relationship to access the right circles.

But the funniest thing about him is that he's like everyone else in this narcissistic community. Oblivious to the fact that I'm not the new face he thinks I am. I've simply returned after fifteen years, fully realized as a young adult woman. He has no idea I'm the little girl he tormented so many years ago.

"Nobody likes you or your crappy family!" Samson cackled. "Why won't you go away?"

I slid out from my desk and rushed toward the classroom door. The rest of the kids were watching in interest, several guffawing along.

When I passed by Samson's desk, he stuck his foot out. I came crashing down hard on my stomach, my chin colliding with the tiled floor and my breath leaving my body. The pain that throbbed through me was so intense, I could barely scramble to my feet to make it the rest of the way to the door.

Ms. Zhang, the second grade teacher, shook her head at me, pity in her eyes, though she never made any attempt to help me.

She made no attempt to stop them…

The chorus of their laughter fades out for the background chatter buzzing in the parlor.

To this day, Samson's touch makes me sick to my stomach. He thinks I'm being a frigid bitch when really, I'm repulsed by him and everything he represents.

I'm only able to tolerate him because of the finish line that waits for me. The day I finally get the revenge I've worked so hard toward…

"Nyssa," chuckles his balder, fatter, penguin-shaped father, Mr. Jackson Wicker. He grabs onto me much like his son had, wrapping an arm around my shoulders to squeeze me against his side. "I saw my boy charging off. Have a fight, did you?"

"Mr. Wicker, hello. I didn't see you coming up."

"Say the word and I'll knock some sense into that son of mine. He's been in a mood since he flunked senior year and is having to repeat his classes. He better be treating you right… or you should find a real man who will." He winks not-so-subtly at me, allowing his hand to drift from my shoulder, lower down my back.

"Right," I say, so stiff under his touch my revulsion should be obvious. I scan the room in desperate search of someone, anyone to escape to.

Instead, all I see are vapid faces mingling with others equally as narcissistic and vapid.

All wealth and prestige and zero substance.

Mr. Wicker's hand is dangerously close to my ass when a savior finally arrives. Among the sea of funeral attendees, Professor Adler appears. He's wandered into the parlor with his glasses and permanent scowl fixed onto his face, his floppy, ruffled dark hair charmingly imperfect. He's in a suit and tie, though he couldn't look less enthused to be here.

He's searching the room much like I am—for an escape hatch.

"Excuse me, Mr. Wicker," I say graciously, "I see my professor and need to ask him a question about class."

Mr. Wicker parts his lips like he's about to object, though I'm gone quick enough that he doesn't get a chance. I weave in between Dean Rothenberg laughing with Veronica Fairchild and cross to the other side of the room.

Professor Adler's at the french doors, peering out the glass cutouts to the terrace. I give a soft clear of my throat, slowly approaching at his side.

"Hello, Professor," I say, hoping my sudden nerves don't give me away. "I didn't realize you were attending the Driscoll funeral."

He glances over like he doesn't recognize me at first, so entrenched in his head, then he nods. "This was a one-time favor to my father. He couldn't make it today, so that unfortunately means I'm the Adler representation."

"Your family has quite the history at the school." When his thick brow lifts slightly, I quickly add, "From what I've read. I've read your bio. All of my professors' bios. I… I remember from yours, you graduated from Castlebury U yourself. Top of the class. But you weren't the only one—it's your family's alma mater going back over a century."

I'm rambling by the time I trail off, realizing how silly and overeager I must sound. My heart is pitter-pattering inside my chest as I cast him an unreturned smile and clutch my glass of sparkling water like it's a lifeline.

Damn it, Nys. Chill.

But my scolding's countered by my more understanding, sympathetic half.

It's not my fault he's so… so him. I can't help that I admire him!

A moment of uncertain silence passes between us where I'd rather sink through the floor than risk rambling on any further, and Professor Adler's gaze hasn't left me. His eyes, dark and fathomless, feel like hot coals on my skin.

I force a shuddery breath through my lungs, then say, "If I'm interrupting you?—"

"You really read your professors' biographies?" he interrupts sharply, almost accusatorially . "It sounds like you have mine memorized."

Face warm, I rub my neck with my free hand and give half a shrug. "I… erm, I like to be prepared. "

"I see." He sticks both hands in the pockets of his suit pants and returns his attention to the glass cutouts in the french doors. "But, yes, you're correct, Miss Oliver. Every Adler in my family has gone to Castlebury. It's something of a tradition. And your family?"

"Oh… it's not," I stammer. "I'm the first of my family."

"That would explain why you're so sharp."

"I'm not sure I… I don't understand."

The edges of his mouth quirk, framed by the stubble on his jaw. I can't help thinking about how sexy he'd look with a full grin on his face. Something tells me they're extremely rare.

"Look around you, Miss Oliver," he says. "You're surrounded by legacy families and trust fund babies. People who have never truly worked to earn a thing they have in their lives. Everything has been handed to them. That includes their Ivy League education."

"But what about?—"

"That includes myself," he interrupts. "My family is no better. I'm no better. The difference is, I'm aware of my privilege. Honestly speaking, it's probably why I can't stand being in rooms like these. Why I can't stand people like these. So I do everything within my power to stay the hell away from them." He turns to me, his body angled partially for another studious look at me. "I suggest you do the same."

I'm thrown by the candor for a couple seconds to come. Both impressed and charmed while confused and surprised he's proven what I've sensed from the moment I read his biography.

Just his biography and no one else's. Despite what I told him.

He's not like the rest.

Professor Theron Thurman Adler is different from everyone else in the room. He's the only other person besides myself who holds this distinction.

I smirk, my eagerness melting away as I hit a new comfort level. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for the quality education, Professor. But you're probably right—I did escape to you after my boyfriend's father almost copped a feel."

He goes from directing his attention onto me to cutting a glance over his shoulder. Presumably to pick out the man I'm talking about in the room. His head shifts back toward the french doors, though his jaw's noticeably tighter.

"You'll find nothing's off limits, Miss Oliver. Not in this world," he says, his voice thicker. "My advice? Avoid him if you can but make sure to go for the knee-to-the-groin move if you have to. It's an oldie but goodie."

It's the end of our little moment as he grips the door handles and pushes open the French doors, stepping out onto the terrace.

I'm still warm seconds after he's left my side. Sips from my sparkling water don't help. Neither does taking in a couple fresh breaths.

Professor Adler simply has a visceral effect on me.

Around him, I'm no better than a silly schoolgirl with a crush.

Eventually, I make my way from the parlor, preparing to leave the funeral service altogether since I can't find Heather anywhere and no one else has seen her either. I set down my empty glass once filled with sparkling water on a credenza table and start down the entrance hall.

"Nyssa… hic… Nyssa… that you, darling?"

I place the slurred words immediately.

Mrs. Driscoll's calling out to me from the ajar door that's a guest bathroom. Any fuzzy feelings about Professor Adler fade away for the determination I have any other time. This could be a moment used to my advantage…

"Yes, Mrs. Driscoll?" I poke my head through the door.

She's collapsed on the floor with a wine bottle, her dress ridden up. The toilet's filled with red-tinted bile that emits a foul sour stench in the small room.

"I… don't…" she slurs from the floor. "The wine… might've had…"

She can't even complete a sentence.

Holly Driscoll is a pathetic lush who can't even speak or stand. I'd feel sorry for her if she weren't everything wrong with this community personified. If she hadn't stabbed Mom in the back so many years ago…

"Mrs. Driscoll, you need help," I say, stepping into the room. I snap shut the door for discretion and kneel at her side. "How about we get you some water and take you upstairs?"

"My… my… hic… the others…"

"They won't have to know. No one will."

The first thing I do when I make it home is kick off my heels and hug and snuggle Peaches. My ginger girl purrs softly from within my arms and paws gently at my cheek in her own version of stroking my face.

The second thing I do when I make it home is dig out my Composition Notebook from under the mattress of my bed and turn to the correct page. My pen drifts down the lined page filled with a dozen plus names listed, then I cross off the latest update .

Kane Driscoll

Holly Bunton Driscoll

Heather Driscoll

Right below her husband but right above her stepdaughter, Heather.

The progress fills me with satisfaction. Their community is imploding with barely a nudge from me. They're destroying themselves and barely even recognize that they are.

Mom calls as if sensing the update. "Baby girl, how'd it go?"

"Surprisingly better than I thought."

"Love to hear it. Anything new?"

I'm pressing the phone into my ear as I wander into my kitchen in only my bra and panties. "You were right about Holly Driscoll. She's a mess."

"Always has been. Always will be."

"Something tells me she'll be getting the help she needs."

Mom laughs as if I've told a joke. "Sometimes I forget you're my daughter. You might just be pettier than me."

"It's not like it isn't deserved."

"But you know what's most important, baby girl. Your safety."

"And justice," I say. "Making sure everyone who did you wrong gets a little karma. I've been doing some of my own research on them too. The school library has come in handy. You know it would be even easier if you told me more about my dad. I've been trying to find him in the archives?—"

"Baby girl, I've told you everything there is to know. He lost his life because of these people. I was expelled from the school because I dared to be a young woman who got pregnant. Don't go around campus asking too many questions. They'll figure out who you really are. That's the last thing we need. This is why I worry about you."

I spend the next few minutes reassuring Mom I have a handle on everything and then move onto my sculptures in my living room.

Tomorrow's the art festival, and I'll be showcasing some of my work.

I invited Professor Adler.

My belly flutters with nerves remembering how he'd glanced down at the flyer. Curiosity had flickered in and out of his hard expression.

I wasn't imagining things. He was intrigued.

Throwing myself down on my quilted sofa and grabbing a throw pillow, I listen to Mom tell me about everything going on where she lives in Roseburg.

But really, I'm distracted with thoughts of Professor Adler.

And hope that he'll show up to see me.