Star-Crossed (25 page)

When the door swung open, a littering of papers fell out; Xeroxed papers, all of the same thing. The same message.

I knelt down, picked it up, and as I stood – leaning against the locker – I was immediately draped in vertigo. Everything started spinning.

“What is it?” Marius asked, alarmed. “Kaitlyn?”

He took one of the papers, looked down at it, then covered his mouth.

“No,” he nearly choked. “You've got to be kidding me.”

Each movement seemed to slow down; I fell to the floor, on my knees, still holding the paper while trying to read what it said. To keep the words together without the letters drifting apart. To try to stomach what exactly I was looking at without surrendering to the faint tingling in my head; the impending feeling that I was about to fade out.

It was a photocopied entry from Marius' journal. My picture had been super-imposed, and the handwriting was entirely detectable. It was a long entry; the words scribbled in a way that told me he had written it while the influence of a heavy night spent drinking.

It spilled everything. Absolutely everything.

Kaitlyn Laurent: The Lure
, it said.
My only love, my only vice. The only thing I can't seem to quit, no matter how much I hate it.

She hates me, too.

It went on to detail the terms of our bet, and how Marius had so badly wanted to win. It then started to become hazy, unclear; the ramblings darker, more disturbing, more upsetting than I even wanted to be confronted with.

But mostly - it was terribly, horribly sad.

I'm not the monster that she things I am,
it read.
But here's the thing, you can't change peoples' minds. She had the idea of who I was from the very beginning; I couldn't change it.

He didn't want to hurt me, it said. He wouldn't have actually slept with me; it was a ply, a grenade. Something to evoke enough nerve so that I would actually make the jump into seducing Mr. Tennant. So that he could give me the money.

His reasoning, as the journal entry ended, was that he understood. He understood that just as I would have never changed my mind about the man or person that Marius St. Vincent was – I would have never taken the money without feeling as if it had been earned.

So we played the game.

I won.

But I didn't really win at all.

“Marius,” I said. My mouth went sour. The words fell in a sickeningly dead quiet. “What did you do?”

I stood up, grabbing him by the collar. All of the papers that he had been scrambling to collect fell like slow-falling snowflakes from his hands; drifting coolly, as if they were nothing, over the hallway floors. But at that point, other lockers were opening; more papers came flooding over the tiles.

“I didn't do anything,” he insisted, practically a yelp. “I didn't do this, I swear.”

“Then who?” I asked. “Who did it, then? Because that's your journal entry. That's your handwriting.”

Marius stared at the ground; no emotion, not a single line, was etched on his face. If he was about to cry, it would have been then.

I waited for the small hint of him reaching some kind of breaking point as his hands gripped a fistful of papers. More of them were sprawled across the hallway. Passing students picked them up, their jaws dropped, and they stared in silence.

But he swallowed, and shuddered, and just kept staring into the tile as if the ivory-scrubbed marble would make everything go away.

“I thought you found your journal, Marius,” I said, kneeling down. “Why would it have gone missing?”

“I did,” he told me. “It didn't go missing. It was in my bag the entire time.”

I realized that the answer was so very, very obvious. Piper. Piper had taken his journal, copied the pages, then slipped it discreetly into Marius' bag without him giving a second thought.

Who else had she sent the entry to?

A teacher turned the corner, and everyone started pushing the papers back into their respective lockers; I could barely register a single thought except for one:

Will.

Turning to Marius, every part of me rigid, I slapped him straight across the face. The sound echoed; a red mark branded his cheek. I didn't care.

Before the bullet could be shot, I jumped up and turned the corner, ran out the doors, and bolted for the theater. I immediately started forming my apology, trying to figure out what to say even though every coherent sentence seemed to crumble immediately after piecing itself together.

I reached the door, tried to pull it open. I couldn't. It was locked.

It was never locked. Will was always in the theater before class started.

He wasn't there.

A voice crackled over the intercom; more sets of eyes scattered and fell on my horrified expression.

Kaitlyn Laurent,
the voice said.
Please come to the Administrative Building immediately.

Thank you.

I didn't move. Not because I didn't want to, or was too startled; too afraid to know exactly what was even happening - but because I couldn't. I stood by the theater, watching a faint figure bolt across the evergreen lawn.

When he reached me, Tyler was out of breath, and I couldn't say anything except:

“It's all over. I've ruined everything.”

Tyler didn't respond, even though he could have. He could have thrown it in my face. He could have told me, clear as water,
love won't save you -
but he didn't.

Instead, he held me against him, took my hand, and led me to my fate.

TWENTY

The administrative building was nothing but several offices condensed together within an old, renovated church. It had been left aside when Trinity Chapel was built, and instead of tearing it down, officials decided to use it as a permanent residence for Admissions, and for the Headmaster. It still retained the old stained-glass, although some pieces had been replaced during the construction years back. The entire architecture still resembled a holy place.

I stopped Tyler at the front door, my hand on his chest.

“You can't go any further,” I told him. “I don't want them questioning you if they don't plan to. If you stand around here, they'll wonder.”

I paused, glanced around. Waited for a couple to pass before speaking again.

“You know nothing, alright?” I told him. “If anyone comes to you, you know nothing.”

“You don't need to protect me,” he said. “I can protect myself. It's you I'm worried about.”

“Just go, okay?” I told him. “Get out of here. Don't think about me. Think about yourself, Tyler.”

The doors were solid wood. The windows were so small, and I was so petite, that I couldn't see what was going on inside the building; if there was anyone waiting outside the Headmaster's office.

When I turned, Tyler was still standing there. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his bag was on the ground. He looked like he was about to cry.

“You can say it,” I told him. “You were right.”

He pressed his lips together, shook his head, wiped his eyes even though there weren't any tears to wipe away.

“
These violent delights have violent ends,
” he quoted. “
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder - which as they kiss, consume.
”

I touched his face, and I knew that he was already aware. I hugged him, waved goodbye, and told him that I'd find him later. I tried to ignore that final look on his face, as if there wouldn't be one.

Inside, the stone walls were covered with orbs of red and yellow sunlight; the rays sending streams of colors across the room. It smelled of furniture polish and printer ink; dust danced visibly in the air. Everything was quiet save for the sound of fingers working against a keyboard; the receptionist glanced at me, then motioned down a small hallway. Those walls were hung with various portraits, but I didn't look at them. I stared at my shoes; scuffed, unpolished. I wished that the floor would open – a sudden sinkhole - and suck me into the ground.

The Headmaster's office was vacant, the door open, with Mr. Whitman already waiting for me. His quarter was at the very end of the building, and had the most stained-glass out of everywhere else. The desk – in place of where a podium would have been – was a dark, rich mahogany. From behind, all of the sun-bathed images depicted in the glass seemed to make him appear like he was truly above us. We were all below.

Piper's father looked a lot like her; the same basil-green eyes, the same fair skin. His hair was a powdery brown; a natural cocoa sort of color. He didn't share Piper's penchant for bleached locks.

“Kaitlyn,” he said. “You're welcome to sit down.”

I took a seat in one of the small, leather-upholstered chairs that sat in front of the desk. I could barely contain my breathing – rushed, clenched like a cramp inside my chest. Everything hurt. Every movement, every inhale, was a sharp stab.

Mr. Whitman withdrew one of the papers from his lap, and slid it across the desk. I glanced at it, then to the floor, then to him.

“I'm looking to understand the nature of your relationship to Mr. Tennant,” he said. His tone was mild, as if he was speaking to a friend. “I'd like to know if there's any truth to the allegations that the two of you have been engaging in inappropriate conduct.”

Is that what they wanted to call it? It was so cold, so textbook.

My stomach sank.

“It's just a piece of paper,” I said. “It's nothing, Mr. Whitman. And besides, I know who wrote it. My step-brother, Marius. Why isn't he down here with me?”

All I could think about was how the theater door was locked. Will wasn't inside - and if not, where was he?

I took the paper, held in my hands, and pretended to re-read the lines that I had already seen.

“Where's Mr. Tennant?” I asked. “Have you spoken to him, too?”

Mr. Whitman shifted in his seat. He clasped his hands together, took a deep breath, and motioned for me to return the piece of paper; I placed it gingerly on the desk.

“I am going to be very frank with you,” he said. “I have it it under good authority that you and Mr. Tennant have been having an affair, Kaitlyn. I'm giving you a chance to come clean.”

“What authority?” I nearly snapped. “You mean your daughter? The one who's responsible for the mess of papers that were stuffed into just about every locker in Trinity Prep?”

I leaned back, trying to collect myself. Trying to ignore the insufferable sound of my own heartbeat as it pounded in my ears.

I looked up at Mr. Whitman; his expression hadn't changed.

“Where's Mr. Tennant?” I asked again, standing, leaning over his desk. I wasn't trying to appear threatening. I was desperate. I was breaking down. “I went to the theater, and the doors were locked. He wasn't there.”

“Kaitlyn,” he said, his voice like clove and honey. “I need you to sit down.”

“Tell me,” I said. And then I slid back, sinking slowly into my seat. “I want to know where he is.”

“Are you admitting that the allegations are true?”

“You tell me,” I told him. “Because it's obvious you've already spoken to Mr. Tennant.”

A long pause followed. Neither of us moved. Outside the door, the receptionist laughed; the keyboard sang; the doors opened and closed. Someone flushed a toilet, another coughed. More faint, subdued laughter.

I looked at him. I looked at him, and a part of me already knew.

“Mr. Tennant has stepped down from his position here,” he said plainly. “Do you understand what I'm saying to you?”

“He's gone,” I said. A piece of my heart crumbled; I could feel the tears start to well. “You fired him.”

A hot spill of saline fell down my cheeks. I wiped them with my sleeve; the stain leaving the fabric black.

Mr. Whitman spoke carefully, still calm as tepid rainfall.

“We have a standard to uphold here at Trinity Preparatory Academy,” he said. “Mr. Tennant was terminated because he confessed to behavior that was against that standard. The student and pupil threshold is strictly defined, Kaitlyn.”

“What do you need from me that he hasn't already given you, then?” I asked. “That the piece of paper sitting on your desk hasn't already given you?”

A knock on the door followed; the receptionist poked her head in. A meeting was canceled, an argument in the halls dismissed. He was waiting on me to tell him exactly what Mr. Tennant had; that we were sleeping together. That a teacher was seeing one of his students. That we were the centerpieces in a scandal.

“I'm afraid that given the nature of your current circumstances,” he said slowly. “Your breaking of school conduct, on multiple grounds, has rendered you unfit to continue attending here.”

“So you're expelling me. You fired Mr. Tennant, and you're expelling me. We have less than a month left in the semester, Mr. Whitman,” I paused, my eyes and every part of me burning. “And have you even spoken to my father? Are you aware of the uproar this is going to cause?”

Mr. Whitman picked up the phone from the receiver; the dial-tone hummed. He set it down on his desk. I stared blankly.

“If there's anything you'd like to add,” he said. “You're welcome to say it now.”

I knew what he was alluding to; whether Mr. Tennant had taken advantage of me. Whether I wanted to make this into a legal case instead of a sad, foolish series of events. I thought about that scene in V for Vendetta, where Natalie Portman is under interrogation; they shaved her head, stripped her bare, mutilated her. They had taken everything, but she didn't break.

“I have nothing to say to you,” I told him. Each word spilled harshly. “Now can I go?”

He nodded, taking the paper and placing it face-down. But he refused to give it to me.

“I'm very sorry,” he said. “But we have rules for a reason. There are consequences for these actions, Kaitlyn. You're a smart girl. You're not blind.”

As I reached the door, my hand on the knob, I spoke one last time; remembering the faint look of apology in Mr. Whitman's eyes. Maybe a part of him understood. If not his vindictive daughter, than what it felt like to be human.

“But I was, though,” I said, though the words came out more as a breath. “I was in love.”

I didn't bother keeping anything from my locker; there was nothing worth holding onto. No photographs, no little saved notes. Everything was worth throwing away, and I was okay with that.

But as I gathered my thoughts, spending those few last minutes walking through the halls for one final time, I almost wished that I had such things. That I had some sort of normal, teenage relics to hold onto. All I really had was a fleeting, forbidden love story; and even that, I could keep ahold of. It was ripped into tiny little shredded pieces; kicked up by the shoes of various passing students. I was left subjected only to the relentless hisses and softly-whispered ridicule of my peers.

When it came to Piper, I didn't need to track her down. As I figured, she was waiting for me. She stood by my locker, head low, arms crossed.

“Why did you do it?” I asked her. “I thought you weren't mad about the play. I thought we were fine, you and I.”

She looked at me, and I returned the gesture. That moment was the last time I would ever see her again, too.

“It had nothing to do with you,” she said. “I was getting back at Marius.”

“Then why hurt me?”

Piper smiled. Small and quick. Anguish riddled her eyes, setting them deep. There was a sunken look that hung over her face and body; as if keeping herself standing upright was a task.

“Because you were the only way.”

And then, like she always did, I watched her flip her hair, sigh wistfully, and walk away; as she began to turn the corner, she turned to me.

“I would apologize,” she said. “But nobody ever really means it, do they?”

Bell rang. Another announcement came over the intercom, beckoning for Marius to make the march down to Mr. Whitman's office. To let the Headmaster decide whether he would stay or go.

I was able to contain myself until I reached the front door, until the warm air hit my lungs. And then I collapsed to my knees, every part of me trembling, and sobbed.

The walk to Will's apartment was grueling; each step felt as if my feet were stuck to the cement sidewalk. Everything was heavy, and it all seemed to pass too quickly. It was as if everything that surrounded me was fast-forwarded; whizzing by while I was stuck on pause. A shaky image on a an old tube-screen; unable to make a single move without worrying about holding down the pit that had sunk into my stomach.

If I didn't still have the key, I wouldn't have been able to make it in; and even then, I contemplated against it. He could have called the cops; he could have tagged me with trespassing, breaking in. But if I knew Will as I felt I did, I knew that he wouldn't risk bringing anymore attention to an already detrimental situation.

When I rang the buzzer, he unlocked the front gate. When I reached the door, I was able to slide the key in and enter without any protest.

I stepped in hesitantly, setting my bag down by the entrance. As I looked at the clocks, I noticed one thing: the one in the very center, the only one that worked, had been shattered. The photograph of Mr. Tennant's long-lost love was on the floor, also sitting in a pool of broken glass.

“Jesus,” I said quietly, closing the door. “Will, what did you do?”

It was almost eerie, the absence of sound. I had become so accustomed to the incessant ticking of the clock that now, with it silenced, the apartment seemed too quiet. There was a sinister feeling to it all.

Will was sitting on the settee, and didn't look up at me immediately. The action came slowly; as if he wasn't sure whether or not I was actually standing in front of him. His hands fell, his chin tilted upward. His eyes met mine with a look that spilled of an anger that already bubbled up and poured over. It simmered now, cooled down, but still swimming in his stare.

I had imagined what I would have said to him, if this had happened. The apologies that would spout like a flesh-wound. But as I stood in front of him, in-between the kitchen and living area, I was paralyzed, unable to speak.

Will made the first move, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolding it, and holding it out as if he wanted me to take it. When I reached forward, he snapped back, balling it up and throwing it on the floor.

He covered his face with his hands, and said nothing for a short while. I sat down next to him, and he didn't move.

It frightened me, seeing that there existed some part of him that was capable of falling into a frenzy.

I touched his knee, and he flinched. But he didn't touch me. He didn't pull away, or grab my hand, or yell.