Star-Crossed (22 page)

Tyler was standing at the foot of the steps, my bag by his feet, his expression horrified. His face held the appearance of someone who had, at the very instant, witnessed death. The evening blue made him seem less like a boy and more like some imagined apparition.

Every part of me, down to the marrow, went cold.

“I knew it,” he said. “I fucking knew it.”

SEVENTEEN

He was speaking. He was forming words, sending them into the air; and yet even as he stood right in front of me, his presence still hadn't registered. My brain was frying; an overload of anxiety melting through sufficiently frayed wires. Everything was falling away.

“Tyler,” I finally said. “What are you doing here?”

He scoffed, pointing to the ground where my backpack sat.

“You left your bag in my car,” he said. “I was returning it to you.”

I didn't move. I stayed in the doorway; looking at him as he peered through me; his eyes clouded with disbelief. He was still in his uniform; the tie was missing, the shirt untucked.

“You were stalking me,” I said. “You followed me. Why would you follow me?” I stopped, pausing. “How long have you been waiting out here?”

His fingers practically clawed down his face; he sputtered out what sounded like a mix between a choke and cry.

“I can't believe you,” he said. “I can't believe him. I can't fucking believe him.”

Tyler sat down on the steps, his entire body heaving. This building revelation that had suddenly come crashing onto his shoulders had seemingly knocked every breath from him. The ax had dropped.

“Are you having sex with Mr. Tennant?” he asked, a monotone whisper.

I didn't answer. Tyler turned to me slowly, his eyes brimmed with tears. Finally, he choked out a sob.

“Answer me!” he yelled, sending me into panicked a frenzy. The image of Will hearing us, coming outside, seeing Tyler standing there. All of our secrets spilled out like sand through a torn paper bag.

I jumped down the steps, grabbed him, threw a hand over his mouth. He shoved me away, sending me toppling backward; only then did he barely wince.

“Yes,” I finally said. “We've been seeing each other.”

Tyler dropped to his knees, hands covering his face. He let out another muffled moan. It was if someone had shot him.

“You've been lying to me,” he said. “All this time. And I've been leaving openings for you to talk to me, and you've just lied. Over and over again. You've been lying through your fucking teeth.”

He started crying again. I was silenced.

I took him by the arm, and we moved into his car. I glanced around for watching eyes, slammed the door shut, and sucked in the pine-scented air.

“I saw you and him in the theater, making out,” he said. “You thought I had left, but I saw everything. He was practically trying to stuff his goddamn head down your throat.”

I popped the glove compartment open, grabbed a few loose napkins that Tyler kept stuffed away. He blotted his face, sniffling loudly. His nose was a running mess.

“Why are you crying?” I asked him. “I didn't get myself involved with him to upset you. I thought you didn't have feelings for me, anyway. Not real ones.”

Fingers against cool glass, leaving a quick-fading hand-print. I could see my breath, each expel of air, leave its imprint on the window.

“You're so stupid,” he said. “You're like everyone else at Trinity. Thinking that every damn tear shed has something to do with you. No, no. I don't really care that you spread your legs for a fucking teacher. I think it's disgusting; it's amoral. But I don't give a fuck what you do in your spare time.”

“Then what?” I asked.

“He should have known better,” Tyler said, numb. Blunt as a blow to the head. I almost wished that he would have knocked me unconscious. “Has he written you pretty poems, Kaitlyn? Does he whisper sweet nothings to you? And to think of all those students that idolize him. God, what a prince. What a perfect fucking professional.”

“Tyler,” I said. Harsh. Bitter. “You don't understand. You don't know how it's been between he and I.”

He laughed; sad, angry, utterly mocking.

“Of course I don't,” he said. “Nobody ever does. Falling in love, it's a high we can't share. But I hope it was worth lying and losing a friend over.”

He popped the locks, threw the door open.

“Get the fuck out of my car,” he said. “The only time I want to have any kind of exchange with you is on stage. Don't worry, I won't make things awkward for you and your beloved Mr. Tennant.”

I slumped out of the seat, shut the door timidly; my fingers wouldn't move from the open window. Tyler wouldn't look at me.

“You're not dropping out of the play,” I said quietly.

“Don't think it's for you,” he said. “Or Mr. Tennant. Or anyone in that damn school. No, it's because I have a standard of behavior to uphold now. I made a promise.”

The wind kicked up. The glow of a hundred windows reminded me that there were still watchers alive and potentially spying from inside their tiny apartments.

“I know,” I said. “You have to think about your future.”

“This isn't about my future,” he said. “It's because I love my mom. Which, by the way, Kait. I'm sorry yours is dead. I'm sorry you haven't been happy lately. But none of this shit is an excuse for you to go blowing everything up with an adult who's supposed to be shaping lives; not literally fucking them up. Not turning his title into a joke. A mockery. He should be ashamed of himself.”

He turned to me, we locked eyes for a minute, then he shook his head. I felt sheepish, sick. Borderline suicidal.

“You should, too,” he added.

“I'm sorry,” I told him.

He didn't budge; not to shrug, or nod. Or give me any sign that he had heard me at all.

“Move your fingers,” he said, and I did. His last words were stifled from the closing window, but I could make them out just the same:

“I hope this ruins the both of you.”

Tyler had officially severed all contact. True to his word, the only time he said anything was when it was necessary; a scant hello, a quick
no thanks
when I asked him if he wanted extra paper during a Lit. period spent free-writing. During class, he would occasionally raise his eyes towards Mr. Tennant, regarding him with a bitter glare. His entire demeanor read one thing, and one thing only:
fuck you, Mr. Tennant. You goddamn predator.

Practice had also managed to turn from something exciting, thrilling, into something unbearable. Each time I saw him sitting in the theater, he cut a glance and gave a small nod; not for me, of course, but for all the sets of eyes that were watching the two of us. As promised, he appeared entirely natural; unscathed by the news only days before.

But when there was nobody watching, he refused to say a word. Not a single word. Nothing at all.

We performed the wedding scene, and Tyler clutched my hand tightly as he had before; his kiss was just as passionate, his touch just as tender. But I could see the disappointment in the way his shoulders fell; the sadness that had sunk into his eyes.

I was happy to finally be separated from him, sitting in the far back as he performed alongside Mercutio, talking about dreams. Queen Mab, idle brains, how only fools could fall in love.

We were dressed in our costumes, officially honing in on Opening Night. Mr. Tennant had gathered everyone around, all smiles, and yet all I could concentrate on was the fact that Tyler had sat on the exact opposite side of the theater. I had been completely isolated.

“Opening night is next week,” he announced happily, clapping his hands. “Are we ready?”

No
, I thought.
I'm not ready.

I sank into my seat, my insides riddled with tremors. Even though I wanted to look at Mr. Tennant, there existed the ever-present reminder that Tyler was watching me, too. I felt sick, suffocated. A terrible friend, a terrible lover.

After practice ended, Tyler left without even a second glance. I sat, remaining in my seat until the theater was empty, and almost crumbled when Will told me he couldn't stay, that he had a faculty meeting. Mandatory.

So I left, dragging my feet along on the ivory-washed tile, my street-clothes making me feel precocious and awkward. My fingernails dug into my palms, leaving half-moon marks. The nail polish was flecked; everything about me, right then, screamed unkempt.

“Kaitlyn,” Marius said. “Let's go home.”

For the first time since the semester had started, Marius had waited up for me. The bet had widdled away our time spent sharing a simple ride to-and-from campus. We had been living separate lives.

His Audi, his Black Orchid cologne, was oddly comforting. Marius even attempted to drive smoothly; stopping several beats before each red light. I listened to him talk about his future - a conversation that I knew was deliberate - and I thought about my future, too. Spending the years with a degree from an institution I had no interest in learning from. Spending my life under the ball-and-chain, inevitable inheritance of a company I had no interest in running.

I thought about Mr. Tennant, knowing full well what I really wanted. A life with him, some kind of life with him. A life away from the city, the smoke, the smoldering air. Maybe I would act, and he could direct. Maybe he could act, and I could play some supporting role where it wouldn't matter if we kissed in front of an entire audience. An audience of strangers; of people who had no idea who we really were, or where we came from. Somewhere far away, maybe in some other state. Maybe somewhere overseas.

That's what I wanted.

At dinner that night, I kept trying to find the right moment to tell my father that I didn't want to go to Yale. He seemed in a good enough mood to take the news, anyway. For the first time since my mother's death, he was actually smiling. Laughing along with Vivian when she offered something comical to the conversation.

“And how was your day, Kaitlyn?” he asked. Nothing direct; nothing about the play, nothing about my personal life.

Deep breath, attempted swallow.

“I don't want to go to Yale,” I said. My fingers clutched the napkin on my lap, twisting. “I never wanted to go, actually. I only accepted the spot because I was too air-headed to try and forge some kind of independent future for myself. But now I want to. Without your help.”

The confession sank slowly over his entire demeanor; he set his fork down, furrowed his brow, absorbed what I'd said for another minute or so before opening his mouth. But even then, he couldn't find the right words to say something.

“I'll find something else to do,” I told him. “I just can't see myself spending the rest of my life running a company that I never had any interest in running. Going to school at a place where I'd be miserable.”

“Miserable,” he finally said. “Miserable.”

He couldn't process it. He was cracking straight through the middle; a statue that had fallen and split down the center.

“I think what your father is trying to say,” Vivian added hesitantly. “Is that what you've been given is very special. It's something that a lot of teens your age would love to have. A secured future, a spot at a prestigious school.”

Marius was silent; he hadn't even touched his meal. He was simply waiting, preparing for the uproar.

“You're right,” I said. “But I'd rather a life that is mine.”

My father took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and in one swift drop his fist hit the table. Everything rattled; a glass fell, shattering. The vase of Peonies tipped, spilling water over the tablecloth.

“What am I going to tell everyone?” he asked. “Everyone that I've been so excitedly telling about your future? About everything that you're going to achieve?”

“Tell them that none of this was ever really for me,” I said. “It was for you.”

He stopped, took a drink, swallowed.

“I'm going to choose to chalk this little incident up to you being upset over losing your mother. I know – believe me, I know – that this has been difficult for you. I understand,” he said carefully. “But if you don't accept that spot, you're out of this house. If none of this was ever for you, there's no reason for you to take advantage of the life I've provided for you. You can do as you want, on your own. But you're never to ask for my help again.”

“Fine,” I said. Nothing more, nothing less. “Fine.”

It was impossible to stand next to him that night; he had his mellings over for cocktails, and the lot of them kept peppering me with questions about the end of my stint at Trinity Prep. About the future. I tried to answer them the best I could; with a smile, with playing coy - but never actually addressing what they wanted to know.

My father looked ill, like he was ready to drop right there in the living room. Vivian poured him another Scotch. When she left the tumbler unattended, I slipped some into my glass and downed it in one gulp. The burn was terrible, and yet totally deserving.

In my room, I tried calling Tyler. No answer; just a voicemail telling me to leave a message.

I left a message. No call-back.

Mr. Tennant called me before bed, and played me a song over the phone on his guitar. I wept silently into my pillow, praying for a miracle. Hoping that I would be able to hold onto him, my single ray of light in the overwhelming darkness, for just a little while longer.

That Friday was particularly plagued with stomach-aches and miserable second-glances. Tyler sat alone in the courtyard; I ate alone by the Jesus Fountain; a bronze statue that depicted Christ washing Peter's feet. The ultimate act of servitude.