CHAPTER 13 – Starry Starry Night (2)

Armand lived in Burbank, meaning he effectively drove past CSULA on the interchange from the I-10 East. Past 9PM, the rush was back to being laminar, shrouding Armand and Eppie in the perpetual glow of headlights and brake lights.

In the back of Armand’s uncle’s van sat her new painting, still wet, meaning it would sit in the painter’s airing rack until the paint cured.

The ride took almost forty minutes, and Eppies made the best of her captive audience to discern the rumours she had heard about Luciana Mio. Armand, a natural story teller, confirmed the general gist of the conflict between Luci and Valorie, but also confessed to being an outsider—since the art Seniors were largely confined to their studios.

Hugging her legs, with her bare foot on the leather of the car seat and her wet shoes in the trunk, she also took an interest in her saviour, the painter who had leapt down a flight of stairs to pull a girl out of the surf.

Armand Amar, with his clean shaven square jawline, was of Persian descent. He was a straight A student and lacrosse teamster, until he joined LAPA’s art stream to pursue his dreams. His family lived in Burbank, and they were reasonably well-to-do, at least compared to their migrant peers. His father, almost typically, was a Civil Engineer for Caltrans. Mr Amar’s dream was for Armand to be an architect. His mother, Armand said with far more gusto, was an Art teacher. She was the source of his love of art, and this brought on his father’s ire.

Theirs was an arranged marriage from the old country, and though his parents had been good friends, the artistic pursuit of their son—the first to be born in America and thus the inheritor of their hopes and dreams, was a ticking bomb.

At 9:55 PM, they pulled into the lot at Stratford-upon-Avon to be accosted by Josefina.

Josefina had a wooden spoon.

“Ave María Purísima! I knew it. I hear a squeak like a dying possum and I see you stepping out of a suspicious van! What is this then? Who is this young gentleman?”

“Josefina,” Eppie stepped out. “This is Arm—”

“AEEE—!” Josefina’s shriek rang out across the front rotunda. “Virgen de la Altagracia, ayúdame! Eppie, look at your feet! Your skirt—it’s soaked! You look like you crawled out of a swamp!”

“The ocean, actually, I—”

“I can see your bra! Dios! Are you a Siren? Who is responsible for this? This young man? He is not wearing shoes. NEITHER ARE YOU! What have you done? She is a child!”

She advanced on Armand with the spoon.

“I fell into the ocean, and Armand pulled me out! He’s a Senior from the Arts department, he offered to drive me home! I can’t catch a bus dressed like this! Can you imagine?”

Josefina stopped.

“Is it true? Mr Pintor? You did not bully our Eppie?”

Armand nodded, his eyes still on the paddle.

“Hmm,” Josefina grunted, her voice losing its jagged edge. “Fine. Thank you, Mister Pintor. You understand, I hope. These girls, very young, very… young. They have their heads in the clouds—en las nubes—all day with their Antigone and their acting. They forget that the world is not a stage. The world is not kind.“

Armand nodded, slowly this time.

“She drink?” Josefina interrogated Armand.

Armand shook his head.

“You drink?” Josefina interrogated her.

Eppie made a defiant face.

“Okay. You smoke?” She raised her paddle at Armand.

“Mama Josefina!” Eppie put her bare foot down. “Please!”

“Hmmph—” her dorm mother huffed. “Alright, come inside. Not you. You.”

“Mama,” Eppie raised her hand. “I still need a minute. I need to do something for Armand, and then I’ll be right up.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Ay, Dios mío…” Josefina muttered as she palmed her face. “This is only the first week. Alright, birdie, I keep the door unlocked. Five minutes. Nothing more. I am warning you, Mr Armand. I know your face now.”

Before Eppie could clarify, her dorm mother was gone.

“Let’s make this quick,” she motioned for the oval just over the retaining wall east of her apartment. The walkway was made of fine concrete and soft grass, and the sunken nature of the athletic field meant they had plenty of privacy.