Oscar Cameron moved to South Korea at the age of sixteen. By eighteen, it has been decided that he was to go for business studies - except his grades were absolute shit.
That's how she came in.
She got him into university.
She took the blame when...
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I rushed down with my heeled boots slamming against the tiled stairs, my hands gripping the metal railing to prevent me from falling onto the ground.
Class had ended just five minutes ago, and I bolted without a second looking back, making a mental note to tell Donatello to text me the assignments later.
Stepping out into the sunlight, my phone buzzed manically, and I leaned over to catch my breath. Giving myself a minute of composure, I answered it to hear Oscar's mother yelling hysterically. It was the type of hysterical where she was just screaming out and demanding for answers despite knowing I had none to give her.
"The letter came over to our house! He had dropped out! He... dropped... out!" Mrs. Cameron emphasized each word as if I would understand it better if she did. "How do we fix this? H-How do you fix this? How much money do you need?"
There it was: the ultimate solution for the Camerons.
"Mrs. Cameron, I don't know where Oscar is. I haven't spoken to him..."
For a while, I thought. How long has it been?
"Find him!" she cried out. "He must be on drugs!"
Funny how that was the conclusion – never blame your child, blame everything else.
"You must know where he is! I've heard he stays with you.... Did you... Did you make him do this? I hear things, you know. Are you and Oscar.... Toge—"
"Mrs. Cameron," I began firmly, beginning to feel impatient with the woman's rambling. "That is nonsensical. I got him in university. Pray tell, why would I ever encourage him to quit?"
I skipped her half-asked question on whether Oscar and I were together.
Were we? To a degree, we were.
After telling her that I'd call her if I got any news, I racked my mind of where Oscar could be.
I went to his apartment, just a small walk away from the university and stopped by the gate. The sixty-year-old guard smiled when he saw me, familiar with my face from the many times during Oscar's first year when I would drop him off after many of his drunken parties.
"Hello," I greeted, bowing my head slightly. "Have you seen—"
"Foreign handsome boy?" he asked, giving me a toothy grin.
Whenever someone called Oscar a handsome boy, my heart swelled with pride. I had no idea why that was – maybe I knew it to be true.
"Haven't seen him," the guard said, shaking his head.
I tried anyway. Too many possibilities. He could have gotten home when this guard was not on duty. Entering the apartment complex with an access card given to me by Oscar, I pressed onto the eighteenth floor.
In front of his apartment room, I pressed my ear against the door while rapping my ears against it simultaneously.
