Star-Crossed (17 page)

It was the first time I had ever shared a bed with anyone; and of all people, I was sharing it with my teacher.

I closed my eyes, and drifted into sleep. And in all truthfulness, I would have been more than alright with never seeing the dawn break. I would have been perfectly accepting of that night being my very last on Earth. In the arms of a man who I should have never even seen beyond the bounds of desks and homework scribblings.

Here he was, in my arms; in my arms, and etched somewhere deeper. Into my bones, my brain. Into the space that only months before I had sworn off existing: my heart.

That morning, I left before daybreak, careful not to wake Will. As I quietly dressed, I noted the ring still on my left hand, and smiling, slid it off.

Kneeling beside Mr. Tennant, I kissed his forehead and placed the ring on his pinky finger. He forever had a piece of me now.

I walked through the empty, harrowing space while trying to ignore the persistent pain that caused me to walk more carefully.

Marius was in the library, asleep at the desk, his head cushioned by his journal. When the door opened, he blinked and raised his head. His eyes fell.

“Where were you?” he asked, sitting up and glancing at the enormous clock that hung above the doorway. It was gilded in bronze. His hair seemed darker in the shadows, his face like white marble. I could see every outline, softened by the absence of the sun that was still catching up to the moon. “It's barely four in the morning.”

My hair was still damp, the strands falling cold against my shoulders. Mr. Tennant's cologne and the fading smell of herbs still lingered in the fibers of last night's clothes. As I approached Marius, still sore and nearly stumbling, I knew that he was already aware. His eyes were on the marble floor; a swirling gray. He looked as if he were about to weep or send his fist through the window; a simultaneous sound of both choking and laughter fell from two barely-parted lips.

“Just say it,” he said, clenching both hands into fists. “Don't waste my time standing here with that smug look on your face.”

I took his face in my hands, and kissed him on the forehead.

“I win,” I said gently. “The game is over.”

FOURTEEN

I kept the check in the second drawer of my dresser, right beneath a folded arrangement of tops that I very seldom wore. It was a small pocket of comfort, seeing the piece of paper neatly folded and tucked away safely. A reminder of my conquest that was not over Mr. William Tennant, but rather Marius.

Consequently, Marius wouldn't speak to me. He spent his time locked up in his bedroom, blaring angry music until my father shouted for him to silence it. His choice of self-torture was both loud and mutilating; occasionally I would find him sitting with his face in his hands, wisps of hair stuck about in disarray, and I would wonder why he was behaving so dramatically. He would play the piano for hours upon hours - the same tune, the same drizzle of notes that I could only hear if I stepped out onto the balcony. The roses were particularly still; hanging with the beads of water from April's ceaseless cascades of rainfall. May was fast approaching; sending a warning in the form of a constant collection of gray-cotton clouds.

I thought of all the things I could now do. I was excited beyond words over all the possibilities that were now at my fingertips. Obviously, at some point, I would have to confront my father about the fact that I wouldn't be attending Yale in the fall; however, it was of little worry to me.

Marius had left to my dispense, scrawled in barely-legible handwriting, a check for an unspeakably obscene amount of money – six digits.

And yet, that was only half of the full amount that he had stashed away in his personal trust. Not counting the unfathomable amount that he would be making after leaving school behind and following his father's footsteps up the same chain of wealth and hierarchy.

“Why only half?” he had asked. His eyes, that morning, were pink-rimmed and bloodshot. We were seated in the Great Room on opposing ends; he remained at the piano, fingers still on the keys. I was seated by the window, tapping a finger lazily against the glass.

“Because I don't want all of it,” I answered. “I'm being generous. I'm leaving you something.”

“I don't need it,” he answered bleakly. He refused to look at me.

Still, I smiled.

“You could thank me,” I suggested.

He didn't, of course. Marius simply stormed out, slamming the doors behind him, and I stowed away the check until I could find a moment to take care of the financial matters discreetly, and without the adults taking notice. Thankfully, the trust was left to Marius from his father, whose only stipulation was that Marius be eighteen before being granted sole responsibility of the account. As it stood, with Marius having passed that single threshold, all potential risk of prying-eyes had been smoothly severed.

Still, direction only served as a loving companion in the throws of my chaotic disregard for all things moral; but again, the thoughts of potential consequence were only fleeting. Overthrown by fits of overwhelming joy at any prospect of being in the arms of my teacher, my paramour. My only regret or concern was how long it seemed to take for the hours to pass before I would be back in the classroom, watching Mr. Tennant write notes on the board and talk about all the things he knew that I had not yet learned; truly, his knowledge of things written in textbooks thick with scripture-thin pages was vast. Factoids of information, some of it useless, bubbled from him with an adoring intensity that we were all at once swept up in. Basking and bathing in the light that only served to highlight a tenderly moving hand or coy, quick grin.

In the theater, watching him read lines was a treat; he read each word with a furious passion and understanding; which was frustrating and fascinating. I longed, constantly, for the moments where I could catch a glance of him smiling in the direction of my desk or seat or passing spot in the hallway. Each minute without him dragged by sluggishly; an unbearable circumstantial request.

In the classroom, he wore the ring on a silver chain that hung around his neck. Always safely beneath his shirt, but the glimpse alone of the chain was enough to make me smile from my desk; reclined and watching him with a melting fondness.

I had never felt anything like this before. It was frightening and apocalyptic all at once. It was all enough to even bring Tyler to notice the gradual change in my disposition.

“You're all googly-eyed,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “You've been spacing out like every five minutes. What are you staring at?”.

We were in the theater early, about fifteen minutes before practice started. While Tyler and I were sitting in the far-back,
I found myself glancing Mr. Tennant each time he cut a look down at his tattered copy of
Romeo and Juliet
. Will busied himself on stage with the props, occasionally fiddling with something and knocking it over.

I giggled. Tyler looked up at me, eyebrows raised, visibly perplexed.

“Are you not impressed with the stage props?” I offered, pointing a finger at the erected castle that was situated right in front of the curtain. “We've really outdone ourselves.”

“Yeah,” Tyler said, shrugging. “But that's not what you were looking at.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mr. Tennant,” he said, though it came out softly; the name crackled like carbonated liquid. “You're staring at him.”

My mouth went dry. On the stage, Mr. Tennant was preoccupied with kicking a mannequin's head around; dropping it into the orchestra pit with a loud clatter. More chuckles resulted; trickling in from a few girls that had popped in to steal a passing look. A quick glance at Will.

“Everyone stares at Mr. Tennant,” I said quietly. That sufficed to shut him up.

Marius was on stage first, reenacting the scene where Marius feuds with Mercutio in the streets of fair Verona. After succeeding in taking Mercutio (a lanky, auburn-haired actor named Scott) down in less than a minute flat, Marius suggested that Will try his hand.

He tossed him a sword, and the sound of metal against metal was immediate.

Mr. Tennant won, sending him spiraling into a prop that proceeded to fall backward with a resounding crash. Marius' face twisted into something humiliated. When he stepped down from the stage, Will called Tyler and I up to run the masquerade scene yet again; but when he attempted to start the line where Romeo first sets sights on Juliet, Mr. Tennant interjected.

“Might I offer a pointer?” he asked. Naturally, Tyler nodded his head. “Have a watch and then follow.”

Mr. Tennant then stepped to the left, instructing Tyler and I to dance as he ran the line.

Did my heart love til' now? Foreswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty til' this night.

I could already hear the audible swoons from the audience; sighs and chairs creaking as a few of the girls – simple watchers, not players – leaned forward.

And I, hidden in the shrouds of dim stage-light, suppressed a sigh; leaning in and feeling as Tyler's heart quickened, his hands tightening around my waist.

When Tyler echoed Mr. Tennant, proceeding in a flurry of claps from the few students who were watching from their seats, Marius followed with a slow eye-roll.

“Good,” Will said, smiling. His arms were folded; a bit of hair stuck to his forehead; his toes pointed in arrow formation. He wore jeans that afternoon; a pair of black Converse and a shirt comically covered in a slew of Shakespearean quotes. “Very good. You two can have a seat. I'd like to see Mercutio and Benvolio up here now.”

Mr. Tennant snapped his fingers, and the two actors hurried up the steps. Tyler and I watched their banter with a light interest, sharing his headset (Snow Patrol's
Chocolate
crackled through the ill-fitting ear-pierces) and occasionally twirling the red wires absentmindedly between fingers.

After the song ended, Tyler gave me a sideways glance.

“Hey,” he said, staring at the stage. His eyes were glued on Mr. Tennant. “Remember that time you came into chapel smelling like cologne?”

My skin grew hot.

“Yeah,” I said. “And do you remember what I told you? They practically bathe in the stuff here.”

“I mean,” he paused, plucking the earbud from his ear and staring at the mindless piece of plastic like the fuzzy noise somehow held his missing puzzle piece. “I was walking through the hallway this morning, right?”

“And?”

“
And
,” he started. “I saw Mr. Tennant helping Mrs. Grier with a bunch of papers that she'd been carrying back from the library. Well, I knelt down to help her out, too, and I noticed something.”

He stopped talking. Just like that.

I looked at him, eyes narrowed, bile rising in my throat.

“What did you notice?” I asked, vaguely sharp. “Is Mr. Tennant fucking Mrs. Grier? Because that would be only slightly revolting. She's married.”

He shook his head with a disarming softness; his eyes fell to the ground. It was then that I saw it: a mix of disbelief that seemed to be layered as his eyelids slowly rose. He had an inkling, that was certain; but there remained a part of Tyler that didn't want to actually know. That wanted to believe that the little, lingering glances between Mr. Tennant and I were nothing more than moments easily summed up by fatigue and feeling muddleheaded. That the way we stood on stage, the way his toes were constantly pointed in my direction, was nothing more than a simple stance; a simple place to stand.

“You smelled like him,” he said, looking at me. “The cologne. It was the same.”

There are moments in life when you realize that your only option is to skewer the truth. To lie straight through your teeth in that jaw-clenching sort of way that leaves you with a hateful, pin-prickling realization that you are, inescapably, a liar. That in that lie, that single lie, you are confessing something greater and darker and deeper than even you might be willing to admit.

I had only a second to decide what the right words to throw together were; did I altogether dismiss the notion of Mr. Tennant and I? Did I disregard it entirely?

“You're crazy, Tyler,” I shoved him playfully. “I mean, yeah, it was his cologne. He gave me a hug that morning; I was bent out of shape about my dysfunctional family and he was just trying to be empathetic.”

“You never told me you guys talked about anything. And why not just come to me? He's a teacher. That's sort of weird.”

Maybe. Maybe it was weird. But it didn't feel weird; nor did it feel like any of the other listless number of ugly synonyms that others would undoubtedly pelt us with – a hot sting of bullets – if our relationship was discovered. The shame that slickened each forbidden word - each kiss and caress - only served to heighten the intensity of each encounter. It was a melancholic cocktail of lust and languish, and even in the constant awareness that I was teetering on the ledge of potential disaster, I had no desire to walk away.

I was fine, really, with the idea that it might seem
weird
. But the truth is, nobody goes into these taboo affairs really caring about what other people think. Even when seeking out supposed advice, it's never because the affected individual is really looking for a morsel of information. They are solely seeking affirmation; the notion that their actions are acceptable. That's all it ever is.

I thought about the check sitting in the drawer of my dresser, and how, if nothing else, I had the ability to make all of these temporary surroundings go away, anyway. Nothing really seemed to pose much of a threat.

The music was stopped-short as Tyler pulled the plug from my ear, his eyebrows stark-straight.

“Because I didn't want to be all in-your-face with my problems, and he asked,” I said numbly, shaking my head. “Jesus. I don't know, Tyler. I didn't tell you because I didn't want
this
to happen. You questioning things when there's nothing to question.”

He raised an eyebrow, and I bit my tongue.

“Don't tell me you
really
think that there's something between Mr. Tennant and I,” I said. “Because believe me. He's not the kind of teacher that goes around fucking students. He'd lose his job. I'd lose everything.”

Tyler's features fell; a single hand swept through his shaggy head of hair. He nodded, his shoulders rising and falling with a dismissive heaviness.

“I'm sorry,” he finally said. “I'm just feeling weirdly cynical about everything lately. Like, my life. My family. And Stanford – I mean, for Christ's sake, what if I don't end up being able to go to college? What if I end up working some bullshit service job for the rest of my life?”

I stared at him, alarmed. Startled.

“I'll die poor, and lonely, and miserable like my mother.”

He was silent after that. I reached over and touched his hand; he flinched, wincing and turning away. I knew that he wanted to cry; that there was still this throbbing, vulnerable animal that cowered inside his jail-cell ribcage.

“I'm just scared, is all,” he added, barely a mutter. “I'm scared.”

“Don't be scared,” I told him. “I'm here for you, friend.”

Tyler gave a weak half-smile.
Friend
.

I smiled, too.

We watched Mr. Tennant, who sat with his legs crossed on the single chair that was situated center-stage; the rest of the cast watched him intently; eager, each of them, to hear what he would have to say next. They hung on his words, smitten with his accolades and his accent.