Chapter 2 The Deceiver

KANE ALEJANDRA can be gratified for an instant, plunging her gaze on the screen of her desktop computer above her desktop table. There are accumulated files at the top left corner, while a cup of Mocha coffee on the opposite side.

She is relishing her aloneness perhaps. Even though the window beside her, curtains clasped at the standpoints of it, a speck of apparent daylight illumine the somber chamber, a furrow transpired on her delicate forehead.

The ostensibly wintry breeze whacks inward, snatching Kane on glancing at her coffee, not forever warm, flattering some moisture, and took its hand in a flash.

It's this aroma, the exceptionally distinctive flavor of her Mocha coffee, that she puffed. Its coziness propels her to the brink of her thinkings, shaded by a particular location on her mind, but still, she closed her eyes. Every eternity she savors coffee, it always turmoils her, gives rise to her mourn, and shudders her inner equilibrium.

"I think I need to loosen up first," she indicated to nobody but herself.

Spreading her arms, leaning on her swivel chair, perking up to the canopy, catching sight of the turned-off bulb lights, she snickered for a moment.

She bridged her thighs and a yawn pullbacks from her mouth. A while previously, she admits she's been way too wary on working on a sketch for her lesson plan. It's been an hour of exhausting herself.

"Teacher! Teacher!" a female pupil's voice called inside, a similar tone of a child she knows- then something occurs in her- her mouth twitches close, her mind remembering why she can't figuratively breathe, her awakedness perplexes.

Kane eyed the innocent youngster in front of her, across the table, looking at her with a wimpy face. Her brow lifts as her index finger disembarked on the side of her head to massage herself.

"Yes, Shane, may I help you?" she mellowly addressed. "Is there something wrong? Aren't you supposed to write your name on your paper, and why are you-"

Hence, the kid didn't listen. She's just pouting, her arms crossed, and Kane can't be ascertained why Shane unexpectedly needs to discuss a circumstance with her.

Does she have difficulty with her handwriting? Kane wondered. No, that can't be. There must be another reason.

She keenly observed the wimpy kid, remaining on how Shane poses, grimy blue eyes rolling, and crinkled eyebrows. Kane smiled, a usual reaction whenever she discerns the typical dilemma of her young students.

"Are you arguing with your classmate?" she inquired. "Shane, that's bad."

"But, Teacher Kane!" Shane grumped her blond pigtailed hair, shoulder-length, a bit messy. "It's Cassia's doing!"

"Did you fight with her, Shane?" Kane Alejandra heaved a deep sigh, soothing herself, freeing an intense pumping of veins in her sanity. "That would never solve anything," she wobbled her head a few times, "and you know that very, very well."

"Uh! I hate her," Shane retorted, groaning. "I'm just gonna go back to my chair then."

Mouth agape, Kane watched the kid withdrew to her seat, arms stayed over Shane's chest. Her stares dulled a little, and she anticipated the outcome beforehand.

She has brought back herself to the present. The walls are painted in lustrous yellow, the calendar at the other side of the room marked with the fifteenth of March, 2019, her dress uttering profanity at her with a sovereign sad vibrant, matching her two stilettoes with the comparable aquatic color as her outfit.

Her ears abruptly perceived the noises chiming in one another: the kids' chuckles, the silent disagreements, the kids reading a storybook, the quiet dialogues, the vehicles outside. . . .

Kane bit her lower lip.

"So much for today," she spelled in the wind.

It's almost done. This. Her teaching. After the end of this school year, at least, she's not going to see these insolent kindergarten learners. Therefore, certainly, another batch will show up.

It's similarly disputable without any questions. Whenever she ponders of these children, from well-known families, she assumes that this is the world's utmost. Vicious.

She hoped to transfer to a kindergarten school where she can be teaching lessons to those who are in need, who earns to learn, and not with these kids that have parents who can't even respect her endeavors regardless of what she can do, what she can provide, and how she adapts.

They are spoiled. Kane made a sour curtsy. And mean. Definitely mean. But she expects more of their behavior, of their attitude.

As a teacher who shall comprehend and cope with the entire surrounding she's uncommon with, she realizes she's still lucky to be with a family who has not been perished from wealth, from money and all.

Kane resumed her task for that day, definitely about her lesson plan. She's been doing this for weeks, doing tons of target population of students who have to know the basics of learning: coloring, counting, shaping, and letter recognition, phonics, basic personal hygiene, and social proficiency such as dealing and associating with companions. Her hazelnut eyes glanced at the watch on her wrist and read the time she has spent for her daily requirement, an update to submit every weekend.

"Almost two hours," she uttered to no one in covert, "and it's not that. . . bad."

Kane struts before her swivel chair, closing the file on her desktop and shut it down when she has saved the document and exits all the tabs she has opened.

"Okay, class." All eyes gazed on her heavenly face, and all ears listening, judging how she sauntered in front of them, going beside the blackboard. "Are you familiar with the story of Peter Pan?"

"My mom told me that, like, a hundred times, Teacher Kane!" a male answered with an American accent, smiling as he's on his seat. "It's a bedtime story I'm willing to hear until I get old."

"That's good to hear, Jonathan," Kane praised, flustered an admiring and deemed curve on her scarlet lips. "Can you please get the book on our mini bookshelf?"

"For you, Teacher Kane, I will," the white boy in his uniform responded and chuckled as he trots toward the bookshelf at the left corner of the classroom.

"And be careful!" Kane looked around the room. "Does anyone here, except Jonathan, heard the story of Peter Pan and his fairy tale into the land of-"

Kane is suspended by uttering when knocks are slamming the door heavily. She paused for a while, a curious crumple is apparent on her face, asking herself who may it be.

"Class, be quiet, okay?" she ordered. "I'll list down the naughty and noisy kids. You'll have no recess if your name's there. Do I make myself clear?"

The slamming persisted.

"Yes, Teacher!" the kids lengthened their answer, almost an earsore for Kane, the reason she has to less her reminders to her class. Youngsters tend to do this as if they are wearied with answering.

She paced forward the closed door, and the insensitive visitor, whoever he or she is, that bothered her teaching, has made no sense at all. She grips the damp knob of the door as momentarily as she's closer, then dragged it, and an unknowingly unforeseen response has been expressed when someone she doesn't have the trivial of likelihood to visit is witnessed by no one but herself.

Her hazelnut eyes flickered, titillating rosy lips partway distant, head shortly angled, and a thought appeared on her mind. Had this guest not be in front of her, she won't be this flabbergasted. Had this not taken place, then her lesson must have been resumed. She shouldn't have to open the door if she only focused on her class.

She shouldn't have seen him.

"Hazel," she gasped, "what are you doing here?"

"Teacher Kane, the book is now in my hand. What shall I do next?" Jonathan queried behind her. "And who is that guy?" he asked, takes a glimpse of the man outside their room. "Why don't you let him enter?"

"Hush, Jonathan," Kane ordered, never averting her focus on the ebony irises spiraling a profound chilliness in her entirety. "Go back to your seat. Hold the book. And be quiet."

She heard a tenfold of footsteps. Perhaps it's from Jonathan who has abided by her authority. She didn't bother to look at the back of her.

The man, Hazel, whistled, hands in the pocket of his jeans, a grin visible on his narrow and soft lips. "Do you have some time to spare? We need to talk."

"Talk about what?" Kane with a hint of madness in her voice quickly retaliated. "You know what, you should go."

"Na-uh," Hazel winked to tease her, "that's so wrong of you to make me do such a thing and just make me go."

"You're still the same brat kid of the Lair Hides Low Sanctuary," Kane reprimanded with resentment. "You never did change. Barely kind."

Kane viewed a peek of what is behind Hazel, just the corridor, then she has heard the engines of vehicles outside for her room is near the gate and the parking lot.

"And so are you, the Vice Leader of the Sanctuary."

Hazel's stares deepened to penetrate her more. "But there's something I have to confess to you."

"You know you can just say it to me now," Kane claimed with her pitch quivering. "Seriously, do you have a problem with me, Hazel? Can't you see that I have a class to resume?"

Hazel takes a deep breath. Possibly it's the discussion that goes on, that certain matter he has to deal with before he even comes to visit Kane.

"We've only met for once this year, Kane," Hazel unleashes through clenched jaws. "Can't you appreciate my effort?"

"Is this an effort?" Kane sarcastically stammered. "You've only visited me after a year and this is what your response will be, speaking that this is an effort?"

"I doubt you are the Kane from before as of this juncture." He shakes his head at infrequent times. "I apologize for my very impression after a year of visiting you. However, just something to remind you. If it's not for this urgent matter, I will not be here."

"You often aforementioned about this urgent matter, but you can't pray tell me what exactly it is." Kane leaned her shoulder to the side of the doorway, arms folded. "Let's end this. Go on, speak."

"You're but merely entangling things," Hazel swiftly brushed his hair, pissed, "and can I remind you that even though I am that brat kid from before, I'm still a member of the Sanctuary. I'm still-"

"You're still whoever you should be," Kane intervened. "You act so highly of yourself just like the genes of the different races in the village. And don't bother to tell me you joined the force because you wanted to, but because you had to."

"It was you who have said that," Hazel ventured, almost a murmur. "Anyway," he stepped backward, "it's about your lost journal."

"Wha-"

"First, proceed with your class." Hazel glowed not so absolutely as an inkling of satire is scarred in it. "Meet me at the Wensylvanian Cafe after your residing classes. I'll wait there. . . for hours or a day. . . for friendship. I'll loiter for you. Just be there."

SHE DIDN'T INSINUATE to be impudent, but it came about to her that the man she withstood was the liar she's furious at. She recognizes his duty when they were both in that village. She can't shirk the distressing lies he bestowed on the seeming truth behind an individual's departure.

It took about three hours to wrap up all three classes until midday, the breadth of the daily schedule is described in consideration of their limiting capacity as young learners.

Thereupon the duration when Kane Alejandra equipped herself to convene Hazel, she has ambled from uptown, since the school is beside a highway, at the right corner, to downtown where Wensylvanian Cafe is located, more than ten blocks away from the establishments at the left corner of the school. Hence, it's not inconceivable to hike in an elevated avenue with stilettoes three inches lofty, mainly as to the point that the owner itself is used to this kind of set up. Still, walking can be a fraction of the exhaust.

Since last year, she has self-taught herself how to handle the exceptionally high heels of hers and be a professional wanderer around the district of Eli Bethsaida.

The coffeehouse is adjacent to the clinic, as an alley is detaching the two. There are four blocks of grocery stores inline with the latter but are the first ones in their column. Across the alley, beside the two corners of the hospital, is sections of the infrastructure of numerous forms: urban houses, boutiques, and pharmacy stores.

"What is the problem, Hazel, to the extent that you are desperately conveying the journal in our discussion earlier?" Kane maintained her stern voice, chin held up, grasping a cup of black coffee in her hand.

It's broad daybreak outside the haven they are staying at, crouching at the top middle, and near them is the transparent wall of glass imaging the conscious day of the passengers trudging, prancing, and drifting the flock of slender pedestrian lanes with the automobiles quelling, hastening, and ceasing in the sliver of the summertime. While on the contrary corner, another wall of glass is present, reflecting the spirited hours of the pavements and parking lot, doctors and nurses in their white coats, sprinting back and forth inside and outside the hospital.

Furthermore, the cafe is awestricken microcosms; selves as the planetaries, coffees as the streaks of dust-like luminaries, and tables and chandeliers as the solar systems. Other walls, dismissing the walls of glass, are smudged jet and pearl as if a mosaic to obtain the substantial textures in the billow. It is artistically constructed that most of those who nurture the grandeur of crafts will honestly laud the notions preserving itself in the borders that can't recite.

"As distant as I can confide, the meant thing is misplaced long ago, nearly eight years from the present time," Kane added, puckering her eyebrows. "So it firmly stunned me, Hazel."

Hazel huffed a sigh of dismay, his pointed adam's apple moved up. "You are," he crinkled his faultlessly full-figured pointed nose, "always this conventional to me. I hate it."

Hazel has this particular atmosphere that encompasses him, a sympathetic and nonchalant type of a guy that everyone can be delighted to be with. He has the tenderness of a soul lounging his central stillness into him and brings about the equivalent sensation he possesses.

Kane whimpered, "I loathed you more!" Teary-eyed, she clasped her hand on the cup of the semi-cold coffee.

She did despise the man, because currently for her, Hazel is a person who is flawed by his past, by his deceits, and nobody can rectify Kane's impression toward him. He's a wicked man who has broken someone's trust, and he still didn't explain himself even after that event that transpired in the village- their village.

Nol Magno.

"You could have confessed that he's leaving! That he's never gonna come back!" Kane whined silently, a tear whirled down her cheek. "You didn't, remember? You lied to all of us- to me. It's not easy to just. . . just forget."

"We're not kids anymore," the only words that are mouthed by Hazel. "Until when will you loathe me, huh?"

They unnerved neither the presently lacking warmth from the coffees on their table, the busy noises outside the walls of glass, the giggles of youth in the cafe, nor the struts of shoes of various styles, sizes, and colors- greens, blacks, blues- as Kane and Hazel stared intently at each other, peers locked and sunken. They appear to be in another time and dimension, governed by their past.

"That day you're the only one who can speak the truth, because who's to say the truth, the mystery, and the story? Who's to say we'll all be consumed by our crestfallen days?" Kane placed her elbows above the thick table, her palms fondled the sides of her head. "We could've been so closed. The three of us. But you're the traitor in the group. You sure annihilated the seven of us, the Sanctuary."

"No one's to be blamed, Kane." Hazel gave an assuring yet bitter taste of truth from his beam.

It's the most confusing part for Kane. She, herself, can't point her finger to who's at fault, who needs to be condemned. She's way too emotionally drenching, her anguish can still recollect these days.

Yet that moment, she can't condone her emotions, because she has three unstable spots that every time they are spoken of, Kane will shatter into slabs. She has a drawback for the sanctuary, the Nol Magno's group, and the village itself. That whenever they are the cause of the dingy absurdity in her, she'll be frazzled by the concept of sorrowing.

"Let's bring back our topic to your lost journal," Hazel began, his eyes are at the cup of chaí tea latte at the table.

Kane wiped away the very tear that she didn't portend to circumvent. Her lips commence to tremble, her eyes squinting quicker. She didn't say a word as she's prudent on paying attention to what he's about to notify.

"He has written it."

Kane shudders down her spine, stiffened.

"Your journal," Hazel added, serious.

Queries come to be a surging creek on her mind, mentally drowning her in her gang of questions. Who is he? Is he the thief who stole her journal, or the one who found the journal and wrote about her misadventures in the village? Why is all of this happening to her?

The corkscrew chandeliers, even though they are steadily dangling on the ceiling, emerge with pastel glistening, its illumination darkened the room. The disturbances lulled in deafening rest, that although Kane's royal blue stilettoes are caressing the green-carpeted floor of the cafe, or that although there's an obvious nuisance in her, Kane can't accept.

Could there be a possibility that he returned? Kane asked quietly. When, where, and why? She reckoned that he flees to his hometown in Los Angeles, but why is she feeling this? Why is she marveling at him?

She's sheer ridiculously theorizing that he is around all along.