Star-Crossed (11 page)

He kissed me, I kissed him back, and without protest I let his hands timidly explore the clothed stretch of my body; denim and cotton, small patches of naked skin.

Beyond the bedroom, his mother was in the shower; the sound of water beat down against the paper-thin walls.

He looked down on me like we were moments away from death and this was the last kiss he would ever have; there was a painful hesitation, his chest heaving, and closing his own eyes he rolled from my frame and onto his back, lifeless.

“
And with a kiss, I die
.”

He drove me home with the speakers beating like hearts or wings or other living things. The noise was so rattled that I kept my window down; letting my hair fall like ribbons while drowning myself in the static wind.

When we reached the house, parked in the cobblestone driveway, Tyler's jaw dropped.

“Your house is like a castle,” he gasped. “Places like this don't really exist.”

I smiled uncomfortably, and we slipped around the corner, walking together to the garden gate; his eyes, two darting beams of green light, were dancing everywhere.

“You want to come in?” I asked.

Tyler appeared hesitant.

“Like, inside your house?” he asked. “I don't know, honestly.”

“Is something wrong?”

He shrugged, nodding in the direction of the balcony; Marius was standing, his body just a black blur of shadow.

“Just the garden, then,” I suggested. He nodded, and I pushed open the heavy iron-wrought bars with the same wince-inducing scrape.

“I can't believe it,” Tyler muttered, as we made our way around the cherub fountain and into the labyrinth; crawling walls that sometimes I purposely got myself lost in. “I mean, I always wondered how the other side lives, and you see things like this in magazines. But not in real life.”

His words made me feel slightly guilty, and slid over my skin like oil. I was coated in a feeling of general
malaise.

“I liked your home, though,” I insisted. “I like seeing different things.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, running a hand over one of the roses that grew through the thickly-fleshed leaves; his fingers traced over the barely-parted petals like flesh. “But it's just a game to you, though.”

“Excuse me?”

“I'm not trying to sound like an asshole or anything, ” he said quickly. “It's just, you're not stuck living in some shit-box where the availability of hot-water for your morning shower is a crap-shoot at best. Black mold in the bathrooms, questionable characters hanging around the hallways. Over-worked, over-exhausted parents. But for you, no offense, it's like watching a television show. You can turn it off whenever you'd like.”

He paused, raking fingers through tousled hair.

“I hate it, Kait. Sometimes I just fucking hate it.”

I could have said something. I could have told him that living the Manhattan-socialite lifestyle had its downfalls; that not everything was as lustrous as the wide-screened cinemas and printed magazines wanted to portray. I could have shot down his idea that because the water in my glass was filtered and my clothes tailored, I was incapable of understanding the trials and woes of human suffering.

But I didn't. I kept my mouth shut and watched as his eyebrows slowly rose from their furrowed position into soft, straight lines; his eyes, momentarily dulled, lit up with that unmistakable exuberance.

“All is well, Kait,” he said, just three words. “All is well.”

We walked around for awhile in silence; Tyler's eyes wide, absorbing everything. I offered again for him to come inside, but he declined.

At the gate, we said our goodbyes while divided by iron bars.

“I just want to thank you for earlier,” I told him. “You know, I don't remember the last time I've laughed. Like real, stomach-ache-inducing laughter.”

Tyler ran a palm down the shaft of one of the bars, vaguely phallic. He smiled, touching my hair through the gaps; his face was marbled from moonlight.

“If I had my way, I would always see you laughing,” he said. “It's a good look for you.”

He waved; I watched him pull out of the driveway, music vibrating through the windows as he sped off into the street.

In my bedroom, Marius was laying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. He wore a pair of slacks and nothing else; his stomach caving as he arched his back and gave a heady, loud yawn.

“How were things in the ghetto?” he asked.

“Don't even, Marius,” I said. “Tyler's a good guy. And his mother was something else.”

“In what way?”

“You could tell she cared,” I told him. “It was all over her face.”

Marius sat up, sighing.

“Yeah. It sucks our respective biological parents are pieces of shit.”

“Something we can agree on.”

Marius, also, was mostly a piece of shit; and I was definitely no princess. But when it came to lost parents, we both shared that gaping wound. The cuts were all over us: arms, legs, mouths. They poisoned our words and infused our bodies and brains with a distinct penchant for destruction. All of the things that material items and the most polished vernacular couldn't protect you against.

“Your father never noticed you were gone, you know,” Marius said. “They're both thoroughly intoxicated. They're still downstairs, finishing off the last of the Cognac, I presume. A few of the gents from your father's company came over to discuss something I didn't hear, nor really give a flying fuck about.”

He stood, walking over and tilting his head to the side.

“You're beautiful,” he said. “You know that? You've got that just-fucked look in your eyes. Even though I know you haven't sealed the deal yet. Unless, of course, you gave it up to the Brooklyn boy.”

I shook my head. Marius' smirk was both sweet and disturbing.

“When I win, I'm going to use some of that blood-money to hire the best hit-man in New York. You better watch your back,” I told him.

“
If
you win,” Marius touched my cheek, fingernails barely catching skin. “There's no certainty in this game.”

I thought about Mr. Tennant, and how he'd walked away from me without a second glance through the Trinity doors; everything bleached and garish.

“Don't hold your breath,” I chose to say. “You'll suffocate.”

He pulled me close, breath like a warm cloth against the nape of my neck. His hands moved down my hair, my shoulders, my torso and waist.

When he shoved me away, my heart was pounding.

“I'll be in the library,” he said. As if I would ever need him.

And then, like so many before him, he was gone.

I took a shower, scrubbing the spot where Mr. Tennant's name was still etched on my wrist. The skin went red, raw, and in the end it was still there. Still staring at me; calling me out on my complete insanity.

In the sum of things, it echoed the truth that these revelatory moments, when you are young, ignite and burn out like cigarette ash. Their fleeting clarity is quickly muddled by the hormones and other dirty, worldly things that prick our minds and bodies like pins. Their resonance nothing more than a fleeting howl to the moon.

I was no exception to this. Staring at the ink, I reminded myself that the apprehensive, anxious feelings I had would not last the next time I saw Mr. Tennant. I would jump into his arms at the very first beckoning; a sad child that squelched in the delight of an older man with a spectacular smile and an equally-unquenchable thirst for the dark and deadly deed that we hadn't even yet exchanged. It was remarkable.

I imagined us in the classroom: Mr. Tennant seated at his desk and watching me with a sullen expression; lips pursed and arms crossed. We'd make love against the whiteboard; our naked bodies acting as an eraser to the words that were already engraved to begin with.

Standing in front of the mirror, naked and dripping on the cold tile, I looked at my reflection. My legs, long and limber, were a shade paler than ivory. My dark hair dripped beads of water down my breasts and stomach. I suppose I would call myself pretty, in some fashion or another - not that even my own analysis of my physical qualities meant a damn thing. Attraction is so subjective that there's really no point in trying to assess someone on a scale of 1-10. Someone on the street that would succeed in tipping my scale might send another running for the hills.

I thought about Tyler, and how he was the kind of person that you just want to shower with everything they could ever want. Even I, in all of my shortcomings, would have broken down and bought him a mansion on the moon if I had the means. He was just so full of suffering and yet managed to smile and talk as if there was something great waiting for him; and surely, maybe there was. Maybe he'd get into Stanford. Maybe that would be his ticket out of slinging drinks or waiting tables.

I thought about his mother, and my mother, and how everyone talks about maternal love as if it's this thing that binds a mother and child together in a near-intrinsic kind of way. The kind of way that was so apparent with Tyler and Laura, and so utterly
not
what I had experienced. My mother was a modern-day Daisy Buchanan; beautiful, selfish, a complete fool.

Still, she was alive and living somewhere. Last I heard, she was vacationing in California. Likely spending her days on some private beach sipping cocktails and practically broadcasting the contents of her wallet to the public to display an array of shiny, plastic cards.

Downstairs, there was the tinkering sound of liquor-laced laughter; my father's, of course, being the loudest. I wondered what it was like in other homes when the sun went down.

Some were probably nestled on the couch, the electric television glow subduing them with scripted comedy and violence; cut to commercial, cut to the end credits, change the channel to find the next fix. When the bedtime hour struck, children would be tucked under blankets depicting solar systems and Disney characters; stomachs full and smiles contented with their simple, budgeted and carefully-calculated existence.

Parents would spend the evening hours relishing the time between work and children; maybe pour a drink, maybe start the grocery list. Perhaps they'd watch another television show, or decide to slide their bodies beneath cool sheets and make love to their respective partner whose body they've known longer than I'd even been alive.

While none of it might be perfect, it was familiar and full of the beautiful moments that made up scrapbook photographs and home videos. There was a distinct bright and wonderful essence to it all; and as I stared into my own reflection – a young woman of privilege - my face burned with envy over the memories of Tyler's mother, and how she looked at him. How no adult had ever looked at me with the same soft-smile gaze of adoration. Not my father, not my mother.

I didn't intend on breaking something - but when my fist hit the mirror, the impact was enough to craft the prettiest of spiderwebs.

Blood rose and spilled from cuts; red watercolor staining the porcelain sink.

Wrapping the gash in a towel, I curled on the floor, and wept for the first time since I was that same small girl who had said goodbye to the woman who should have loved her, should have cared.

Shattered metal was scattered over black marble; I hugged my knees to my chest.

There was nothing to be done about it.

TEN

Three weeks passed before Will finally opened up about anything other than the stage production or class activities. In between, there was only one brief instance; which, given that he didn't even have the gall to make eye contact with me, I refused to include. It was after practice, while Tyler was waiting for me outside. He looked at my half-concealed hand, which was still throbbing beneath the bandages, and then turned to the floor.

“What happened?” he asked.

I shrugged, half wanting to shake him down for some kind of answer and in the same breath, wanting to tell him, right then, that I understood. I understood why he walked straight out the doors without looking back. A last attempt at sparing me from the heartbreak of circumstance. A last ditch-effort to spare his own inevitable misfortune.

“My face was looking at me the wrong way,” I said quietly. “So I punched it.”

He didn't laugh; rather, his lips parted like he wanted to give me some kind of explanation right then, but simply couldn't find the words. So I left, and as I was turning away, he said to me:

“The Smiths.”

“What?” I asked, still facing the door. It was only then I could feel him looking at me; he just didn't want to meet my face.

“You asked me a while back who my favorite musician was,” he said. “It's The Smiths.”

Tyler was smiling at me like a total git; his hands pressed against the windowpane. If he hadn't been looking, I would have a stayed a moment longer; but I didn't want to risk raising any avoidable questions.

“The Smiths,” I said when we were in his car, en route to his place. “Tell me you know them.”

He did, and we spent the entirety of the ride listening to his favorite tracks on an old, brick-sized mp3 player. Tyler kept replaying
There Is A Light That Never Goes Out
, which as we drove through the plum-kissed twilight, felt very appropriate.

“What did Tennant want?” he asked. I chuckled at the fact that Tyler addressed Will as
Tennant
minus the title.

“Just to ask about my hand,” I said. Tyler fiddled with the track-listings, disinterested; I'd lied and told him that my scraped-up knuckle was a result of tripping on pavement. “He was concerned, I guess.”

“Gotcha,” he smiled at me from the driver's seat; long arms stretched out to accommodate the distance between himself and the wheel. It didn't adjust, so he was stuck forever straining himself. “You know, he really is probably one of the best faculty members that Trinity has ever managed to score. It's like, even though I'm not that good at writing papers, his criticism is always so constructive. Not snarky or anything. He's smart and witty without being a total asshole about the fact that he's way over our heads.”

The song ended. Tyler hit the rewind button. It started replaying.

When we finally reached his apartment, he kept the music going for a bit longer.

“I forgot how much I love this song,” he said, a certain appreciation in his voice.

I met his father that night; a tall, chestnut-haired man with the most incredible Celadon-colored eyes. He hugged me the same way that Tyler's mother had; as if we'd known each other for a long, long time. I spent dinner listening to old stories about when he was a young boy, and had done all of this international traveling. Prague, Venice, Thailand, Iceland.

“Back before everything got real,” he said. But just like Tyler, he met even the somber confessions of his struggling life with an infectious grin. “But you never stop living. There's all sorts of things to be grateful for. For instance, this woman right here,” he motioned to Laura. “Don't ask me how I managed to bag her.”

She waved her hand at him, embarrassed. They both laughed like real lovers. Like soul mates. “Sometimes you're really too much.”

I wondered silently to myself, remembering that moment when my mother had jumped into my father's arms, why my own parents couldn't have weathered the storm like most normal couples. At the same time, I understood; Tyler's parents had struggled together. That struggling had brought them closer.

My parents had never struggled together. They were spoiled in more ways than one.

After the dishes were cleared, Tyler and I steered off into his bedroom and did some homework together. We talked about
Lolita
; reading some of the paragraphs out loud, and eventually I asked him what his opinion was on age gaps.

“It's not right,” he said without hesitation. “We're kids.”

“Age is subjective, though,” I said. “I mean, do the numbers have to matter? I'm just playing Devil's Advocate, here – but what if they actually care for each other?”

He shook his head, repulsed.

“Sex might be one thing. I guess I can understand why some old guys – and, I mean, women too – lust after younger people. I get that it might be something ingrained; evolutionary and all boiling down to us being animals,” he shrugged. “But love? Really? Like, why would a thirty or forty-something be romantically interested in a teenager? It's fucking weird.”

“You can't help who you fall for,” I offered, chewing on the tip of my pen. I felt ill. I felt nervous.

“We're kids,” he said mildly. “Even if they did care, that doesn't make it alright to screw around with a child. Infatuation shouldn't work as just some loophole or golden ticket that permits you to do whatever the hell you want. Wanting someone is one thing. Love is another. What do we really have to offer? ”

Youth
, I thought. A vision of the world that was untainted from the spotted, blemished replacement of adults.

“I don't know,” I finally said, defeated. Deflated. “I don't know.”

Putting away our notebooks, we ran some lines from the play. I let him kiss me against his bedroom window; my back against the cold glass, his hands timidly on my waist. We agreed that it was appropriate for the two of us to get used to kissing one another; but there were moments, like then, where I knew it was just slightly more than theatrics.

“Can I ask you something?”

My hands were on his shoulders when he pulled away, our noses still touching; his breath smelled like cinnamon.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

“What's the most you've done with a girl?”

He froze briefly.

“Are you asking if I'm a virgin?” he said. When I nodded, still pressed against the window, he drew away.

“I guess I am,” I told him. “But I mean, it's totally your business. I really shouldn't have asked.”

We sat down on the bed, and he seemed to wrestle with himself for a while; it almost made me wonder if I should have asked.

“Yeah. I've never even gotten past, well,
this
,” he said quietly. “You're sort of my first kiss. I mean, I kissed a girl back in middle school, but it was just quick one.”

He really was the perfect Romeo. Everything was new; every kiss and touch a cathartic feast for the senses.

“Have you ever been with anyone?” he asked.

Outside, someone was yelling. The sound shook through the walls; the yellow lamp-light blanketed Tyler's bed like Caution tape.

Hesitant, I shook my head. Tyler swallowed.

There was a brief moment where I acknowledged that Tyler Dawson and I could have had sex, right there in his bedroom. His parents, dropping in briefly, told us that they were running to the Corner Mart for sandwich bread; ten or fifteen minutes would have been enough time. We could have done it.

Tyler looked down at my hand, touching the ring.

“I've seen a few girls at school wear these,” he said. “But they aren't symbolic. They're just things.”

“I know,” I said.

“Why do you wear it?” he asked. “I mean, I don't know, I'm just curious.”

I sighed.

“I just like it, I guess.”

It was a small lie; but in my delusional head, it wasn't one that really mattered.

I took a cab home that night, insisting that Tyler should stay in and finish his homework; that I would only serve as a distraction, which he agreed with after a few minutes of protest.

The mirror in my bathroom had already been replaced. A note was stuck to the glass:

Saw the wreckage while passing through this morning. Was able to run out and wrangle a replacement before your pops saw the damages. Don't worry about the cost – I chalked it up to a business expense.

You're welcome.

-Colby

Folding the paper into a tiny square, I reminded myself to thank him, stripped out of my clothes, and because I didn't feel like wearing silk or satin, I sat out on the balcony covered in nothing but a blanket. The Smiths streamed from my laptop, and with my cell phone in hand and the memory of Mr. Tennant's lowered eyes, I snapped a picture of the distant gate.

Listening to The Smiths
, the message read.

Minutes passed. I was convinced, honestly, that he wouldn't reply.

The phone vibrated; my heart jumped beneath the blanket. I was a quivering mess.

I opened the message, my insides rattling.

You're killing me
.

And then, hours later, long after I was in bed and sound asleep:

I miss you.

Piper approached me en route to the theater that Wednesday morning; appearing behind my locker door after a particularly loud slam.

She flinched. I sputtered a hemorrhage-worthy apology, but she looked too preoccupied with her own concerns to care.

“Have you seen Marius?” she asked, tucking white hair behind two elvish ears. She was dressed meticulously-as-usual; her uniform jacket and tie having managed to withstand any fading or tarnish. “He was supposed to accompany me to chapel this morning; however, he's nowhere to be found. I already tried the restaurant and courtyard.”

“Try the library,” I suggested. “It's kind of early, after all. He's probably sleeping between bookcases.”

She nodded, a slow look of relief settling across her face.

“Perhaps you're right, then,” she said. “Well, thank you.”

As she was walking away, I wavered; wobbling back and forth on the heels of my uniform shoes.

“Piper,” I called out to her. She turned slowly; not entirely, but enough so that I could just capture a snapshot of her perfect profile. “I just – I feel like I should apologize about the play. I really hope that it didn't upset you.”

Grabbing my backpack, I skipped over the tile until we were face-to face. Oddly enough, she looked sincerely unphased.

“It's just, I didn't intend on trying out,” I added. “It was sort of strange, unexpected series of events.”

Piper smiled, her perfectly sloped nose crinkling just a bit.

“Oh, no, darling,” she said. “I didn't actually
want
to be a part of the production. You can understand that I'm in a bit of a muddled situation when it comes to being – well – the Headmaster's daughter.”

“Certainly,” I said.

“It was an expected thing for me to try out,” she smiled blandly. “It's important for me to appear involved here. Frankly, I was just doing my best to appear excited. I'll admit that I was partially hoping that perhaps your brother and I would be paired together as the two leads. But when he was cast as Tybalt, I didn't quite care either way.”

Her wispy voice raised, vaguely sharp.

“And on that note, I think I'll go check the library.”

She scurried off, flipping her hair to the side.

I watched her go; realizing that yet another change was taking place in my broken body. When, upon watching Piper turn the corner, a piece of me felt compelled to chase after her and inform her that Marius wasn't worth her time. He didn't like her. He certainly didn't love her.

But she was already gone. And the thing of it all, was even if I could have ran, even if I could have reached her physically – she was too far gone in that pretty head of hers. A shot into space; oblivious and bathed in a heavy dose of denial.

The theater parking lot was empty, the pathway a barren stretch of space between the school and Mr. Tennant. I wrapped my uniform jacket around me tightly; loosening my tie, trying to swallow and breathe while finding myself entirely nixed of the ability to complete the most basic human functions.

When I stepped inside, Mr. Tennant was on stage, seated at his desk; the sound of his pen scratching against notebook paper had become something familiar and sweet.

“Hi,” I said quietly. “Mr. Tennant.”

He snapped up; rigid, startled. The way he stared, as I stood below him on the floor, with the raised stage rendering him slightly more intimidating – was indescribable.

“Hello,” he said softly. There was nothing formal to it; he sounded younger. Vulnerable and full of conflicting ideas and that flogged against the sides of his brain; whipped, aching.

He shoved the chair aside, running down the steps; he could have jumped, but the fall into the orchestra pit would have ended in broken bones.

I could barely breathe as he grabbed my hand, and the two of us ran like naughty children looking for a place to play Hide and Seek.