Star-Crossed (26 page)

Instead, he just shook his head, as if he didn't want to believe what had just happened in the span of less than twenty-four hours.

“Is it true?” he finally asked. “That you had a bet placed on whether or not you could fuck me?”

My eyes fell on the mess of glass that was sprayed across the entryway floor. My hands gripped my knees.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “It's true. But I swear, I didn't mean for it to reach this point. I didn't intend for it to get this out of control, Will.”

“What does that mean?” he asked, dropping his hands. “So you used me as a pawn in some game with your step-brother, but you didn't intend on hurting me?”

“I stopped it, Will,” I said quickly. “You need to understand-”

He threw a hand up, silencing me.

“You are
not
to tell me that I'm supposed to understand anything that comes out of your mouth. Ever.”

I was snuffed; but that wasn't the worst of it. The worst followed after, as Mr. Tennant proceeded to let his face fall, hunch forward as if crippled by some agonizing stab, and let out a low, sorrowful cry.

Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He was crying. It was the first time I had ever seen him so devastated before - and it gutted me.

It was impossible not to follow him; until we were both crying, inebriated on our own asphyxiating sobs.

“Why?” he plead. A thorned, barbed plea. “Why did you do it?”

I wiped his face, and he didn't stop me. I knew then, right then, that even if he hated me - he loved me, too. Anger would have driven him to snatch my wrist with a wince-inducing grip; but he didn't set a finger on me.

“Because I didn't feel anything for anyone, until I met you.”

Will leaned forward, picking up the paper, uncrumpling it, then began reading it out loud. Each word was paused by a loud sniffle, a shuddering sob.

“
She wants to escape. I can help her
.”

He folded the paper, let it fall to the floor, and stared with a look of drunk defeat.

“I wanted to escape with you,” I told him, though the few words were a strain. “I wanted to find a place where we could belong. A place just for us.”

Will sucked in a breath, wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

“There is no place for us,” he said. “And if there was, there isn't anymore. You're a liar, and a fraud, and...”

A drawn-out stillness fell over him; the pause hanging for perhaps a second too long before he parted his lips again.

“...and I hope you can forgive me.”

I knelt down, at his feet, and took his face in my hands. Wet cheeks against my palms; his mouth red, bitten down.

“I did this to you, and you're apologizing?”

“I'm a grown man,” he said mildly. “And you're a child. I was a teacher, and you were a student. I deserved to lose my job.”

“I'm not a child,” I told him. “I was grown enough to make a decision that ended in my expulsion.”

“Expulsion?”

“That's right,” I said. “They expelled me. We can still leave. If you can just accept my apology, we can move past this.”

Crystal drops still clung to his eyelashes; that single tear that seemed to hang for an eternity refused to fall. His mouth fell open, a slight gape, a look of shock slowly sinking in.

We had both been cast out.

“You're insane. You can't possibly understand,” he said. “There's no leaving. The only leaving that's going to take place is you walking the several paces out that door, and my leaving to find somewhere to start over again.”

I stood shakily. He looked up at me, eyes full of loss.

And then, like a slow-sinking syringe into my heart, he took the chain that was around his neck, unclasped it, and placed in my hand.

The ring, the silver, was still warm.

“But I don't want this,” I said. “I don't want this back.”

“Get out,” he said. “Get out of this apartment.”

He didn't want to me to leave; I could see it in the way his fingers clenched, his eyes started to fill again. That exhausted glaze that was rimmed with uncried tears. His lips a slant, thin line. Pursed, pained.

“I'm sorry I hurt you,” I told him. It was quiet, soft as sorrow. “But I still love you. And I'll wait for you.”

He pointed to the door, but he didn't look at me.

“I'm sorry I hurt you,” he repeated. “But if you wait for me, you're only going to suffer.”

“I'll suffer, then.”

“Will you?”

I dropped the chain to the floor. The ring fell with a gentle
ping
against hardwood.

“You're the one I saw first,” I told him. “And if I have to grapple with this forever as a consequence of ruining the only person I've ever cared for, I'll suffer.”

Will said nothing. He just stared with a terrible agony at the ring that rested on the floor; the chain draped around it like a snake.

I kissed him, but he didn't kiss me back. His lips parted, his eyes closed, but he didn't kiss me in return. He simply brushed a finger against the small of my wrist, wiped his mouth, and turned away.

“Get out,” he said. “I'm not going to say it again.”

The sound of his suppressed sobs followed me out the door. As I picked up my bag, I cut him one last glance.

If this were a film, he would have been watching me go. There would have been that sad, limerent look in his eyes. That flash of longing; the paused beat before he begged me to fall back into his arms.

But he wasn't watching me. He wasn't even looking at me. He was crying, quietly to himself, with his face buried in his hands.

I shut the door quietly. Collapsed to my knees. And wished that someone would tell me that this was all some horrible dream. I would have taken anything, right then, for the classic cliché.

Instead, I was met with a nightmare.

At the house, my father had digressed from a state of anger into sheer mania. He insisted that we get lawyers involved; that my spot at Trinity Prep be re-instated for the duration of the semester. That, desperately, I make one last attempt at resuming some kind of normalcy. Finish out the year, go on to Yale, and assume my role as had been intended.

“No,” I told him. “I'm leaving.”

“Excuse me?” he said. His face was a shade deeper than persimmon, his hands were in the air. “Leave? And let that man get away with what he did to you? To our family?”

It was the first time I felt compelled to laugh, and I did. The sense of hysteria was so real, so overcoming, that when I was finally finished there was nothing left in the room but a thin sheet of silence. Our faces were colorless. Nobody moved.

“He did nothing to me,” I said. “And if you get the courts involved, I'll say the same thing. I wanted him. I was in love with him.”

My father drew back, repulsed. A look of repellant disgust lined his face.

“And where would you go?” he asked coldly.

I was sitting on the edge of my bed. It would be the last time I was in that room, too.

“Somewhere where people actually treat me like I'm something more than just a girl in pretty clothes,” I told him. “And I wish I could say that I would miss you. But that would be a lie.”

“After everything I've given you?” he said. There was an awe that made the words go frail; that made them rake like sharp nails over burnt skin.

“All of this is nothing more than exactly what you've wanted,” I said. “And I'm tired of being a puppet. I want a life that's my own.”

He took a step back, his arms flaccid. He watched me for a moment, as if waiting for the crack; as if waiting for me to break down and tell him that nothing I had just said was true.

But it was. All of it.

“Then you can leave,” he said. “Get out, if that's what you want. But don't think, if you walk out that gate, that you'll ever be able to come back. I won't even look you in the eye.”

“I'd almost rather have one last look at my mother,” I said quietly. “As she is, now, rotting in the ground.”

That was enough. He let out a shrieking yell, slamming his fist against the wall, and yelled for me to go.

I grabbed my backpack, and nothing else. I took one last, final glance around that fairy-tale room that had only one memory I would want to hold onto.

Then, turning away, I walked out as if I had never even had a confrontation with my father. As if none of this life was ever actually mine.

Marius was sitting in his room as I made my way down the hall. The journal was in his lap, his head low.

“Take it,” he said, extending it to me. “I can't keep this anymore.”

He stood, walked over, handed it to me. I took it carefully, and we shared a farewell glance.

“I hope you'll be okay,” I told him. “But something tells me you will be.”

At the gate, I paused for one last time. I took in the sight of the rose bushes; the pool that still gave off that baptismal, pure glow.

And then I said goodbye. Forever.

I hailed a cab, opened the journal, and read by the faint beams of streetlights that occasionally passed through the window.

Many of the entries were of various conquests; most had accompanying pictures that were taped onto the pages. But there was a common thread in each entry, even with Piper; the mother of his unborn child. A girl who, still, he hadn't wanted.

None of them were me.

My only love
.

I closed the journal, rested a hand against the cool window, and watched the city pass by. It made me realize, as I watched those who roamed the streets, having full knowledge that some had nothing – no homes, nobody who even knew their names – that I still had something. Not all had been lost.

The driver parked; I handed him the last of my cash. The air was brisk, smelling of garbage and smoke.

With my feet hitting the pavement, I crept up the crumbling cement steps, rang the bell, and waited.

Tyler met me at the door, dressed in an undershirt and a pair of pajama pants. He looked at me with a sad, small smile.

“What happened?” he asked. But I knew he was already aware.

“They expelled me,” I told him. “And Will's gone. And I left my dad's. I don't even have spare change in my pockets.”

He reached out and touched my shoulder, then pulled me into a careful embrace.

“Come on,” he said. “Come inside. You can stay here.”

“Your mom won't care?”

“She likes you,” he said. “She'll understand. We'll talk to her in the morning.”

Tyler insisted that I take his bed, and he slept on the floor in a rolled-out sleeping bag. We talked for a while about everything that had happened; about Mr. Tennant and myself, and everything we had done. The sex. The secret meetings. All of it.

When it was over, Tyler said that he wished he'd felt like that about someone. So intense that it had driven him to recklessness.

“Maybe I have, actually,” he said. “Maybe I have.”

Eventually he fell asleep. I stayed awake. I couldn't sleep; not because I wasn't tired, but because a part of me feared that if I did, I wouldn't wake up.

And for the first time, even if it was slowly killing me, I wanted to be alive.

TWENTY-ONE

That night, as I kept my weary eyes open, I forced myself to really sift through each moment that had brought me to the place I was currently wallowing in.

A bet

A stolen kiss

A lingering glance

Falling in love

Destroying it all

Was it all worth it?

It was hard to breathe; each inhale only seemed to sink me further into the mattress that creaked with each movement. Tyler had kept his window open; the occasional breeze swept over me like a reminder that there was still more than the tiny room or the tiny bed I was curled up in. Through the evening spent awake, staring at the ceiling on which I could see the beginnings of a water leak seep through the paint, I kept rattling on internally about my choices. About life, and the games we all play. How life, really, was just a game. Didn't Shakespeare say that, after all?

Life is a game; we're merely players
.

Convincing myself to stay afloat had become an overwhelming proposition. It made me think of this old Jonas Akerlund short that I had watched with Tyler; these two homeless youth in Sweden, living by the train station, spending their spare time shooting up smack. The main lead, named Linda, was a remarkably hopeful spirit. She remained positive despite the literal and figurative junk that had rotted away any semblance of a normal life – an existence grounded on petty theft and prostitution. She believed, despite her harrowing circumstances, that even though life could be cold, and hard, and cruel - none of it is personal.

Linda believed she was going to get away; she was going to go to California, and start over. She believed with an enduring wholeness that there was a place for her, far away, full of sunshine and simpler, better things.

Her story ended in a casket.

Life doesn't mean to hurt you - it just does. It's less preventable than death. All you can really do is accept the part you've played in this little game. The fact that we humans are innately built to draw things to ourselves; to think about what suits and satiates us; and when the things we scrape for end up either succeeding or failing, we're left with the results of the cards we've set down. A game of players - some voluntary, some not.

But don't worry. It only lasts so long, after all.

As for myself, I had begun to acknowledge that the game was still very much rolling. Yes, all of this had started with a game; but it ended with one, too. My bet between Marius, my affair with Mr. Tennant was a game as well. Even if neither of us wanted to admit it, there was a thrill in the forbidden nature of our coming together; our falling apart.

In the end, it would roll on like the sands of time, until it stopped. Until I died. Until the torch was passed along.

I tried to imagine what Mr. Tennant would say if I wrote the thoughts down on paper; but I couldn't conjure up the sight of his face without my throat tightening. His loss was a fresh slice against bruised skin. It throbbed unrelentingly.

A part of me was waiting for my heart to stop. It hurt that badly. The pain was very, very real.

The sun was starting to rise when I had finally dozed off; a part of me forgetting that I wasn't returning to Trinity Prep. Tyler's alarm sounded, and I sat upright, startled. I looked around, realizing that I wasn't in my old bedroom; I was at Tyler's. Tyler, who was sleeping on the floor, curled up like a caterpillar in his red sleeping bag.

“Hi,” he said, smiling a sleepy smile.

“Hi,” I said, feeling vaguely empty. Even if I didn't exactly miss where he would be going, I knew that the absence of my old life meant that there was some new life to create. That I would need to find something to do with myself.

It scared me, honestly; the contemplation of what little I actually had seemed to wrap around me like an ice-cold sheet. I would have to start over; something normal, bright, clean.

Straightening Tyler's tie, and watching him leave, I realized that there existed this incredible boy who had striven so hard to achieve what for many would be an unattainable dream. He was an astounding character, really.

Here I was: expelled, and having lost the one man that I risked it all for.

As Tyler was leaving, he touched my shoulder.

“There's clean shirts in my dresser, if you want to borrow one,” he said. “I can take a cab if you feel like using my car.”

“I'm fine,” I told him. “I think I should figure this out on my own.”

He nodded, throwing his uniform jacket over a shoulder.

“Good luck,” he said.

I smiled, waved, and listened to the door click. Once again, I was alone in a foreign apartment that smelled of city smog and a citrus body-spray. Tyler's shampoo, a mesh of boyish scents, hung in the room.

I sucked it in, taking a deep breath, and then started to make my arrangements. What I could immediately think of, at least. I showered, struggling with the realities of fluctuating water temperatures (it was freezing) and yanked on one of Tyler's plain white undershirts. Even though they were dirty, stained on one of the knees, I slid on the same ratty pair of jeans that I had swung for at the thrift shop. The only items of clothing - aside from the uniform that I would no longer need - I was in possession of.

As for the bag, Marius' gift, I pawned it. They gave a few hundred dollars, which would have to be enough. The man who stood at the register regarded the bag with a certain look of envy; his oddly amethyst-colored eyes tinged with question. He looked me up and down, quietly analyzing.

“Where'd you get this?” he asked, turning the bag over. He shook it as if he expected some kind of illegal paraphernalia to come tumbling out. “It's awful nice.”

“It was a gift,” I told him, tucking the bills away in my pocket. “From an old relation.”

He didn't believe me. His eyebrows arched, his mouth went slack. It was the first time anyone had looked at me with an expression that read
you're probably a thief
.

I couldn't blame him. You can't blame people for their first impressions; it's not their fault. He might have been judging me, but I was judging him, too.

Still, I cherished the city that day; for all of its faults, it was a relief to be able to blend into the scene without having to worry about being scrutinized by the everyday passerby. We were all the same. Simply coming and going; a sea of differently-dressed bodies accompanied by the same, forward-eyed faces. We were all just trying to get somewhere; stopping to look at another person's purse or jacket was an unnecessary deterrent. My clothes didn't matter. None of it did.

My first destination was a local community college; it offered students that had dropped out a chance to finish their degrees. The classes, although each only spanned the course of a month, were every day – from morning until dinnertime. If I wanted to balance my schoolwork with a job, I'd have to work late into the evening.

But this was my life now.

The college was a small, single-building campus. It had a few floors, and was all rust-colored brick and dirty tile that matched the brown grout. I sat at a small desk in the corner of a small room that was plastered with motivational posters; the other students, preoccupied with their own paperwork, seemed nervous. Biting fingernails, checking their phones, sighing loudly. When I finished filling out the application, I handed it over to the admissions counselor, who looked it over with a half-amused smile creeping up the corner of his mouth. He was an older man, with salt-and-pepper hair and an ugly argyle sweater.

“This says you were attending Trinity Preparatory Academy,” he stated, squinting at the paper. “Can I ask what your interest is in our program?”

I felt my shoulders instinctively rise and fall; his eyes caught the name on the paper,
Laurent
, and I got the distinct feeling that he had some idea of who I was.

“I was expelled, sir,” I said. “But I'm looking to finish my degree.”

“And your academic history states an acceptance into Yale University,” he added, pausing briefly. “I'm afraid I don't understand this entirely. You said you were expelled.”

“Correct,” I said. “And that spot at Yale was purchased for me. My father wanted me to go.”

He shuffled the papers, looked me up and down. There wasn't a single speck of me that looked the part of my past.

“So you've come a long way from where you were,” he remarked. “To be sitting here in a community college when you could be attending something far greater.”

“You're right,” I told him. “But this is exactly what I wanted.”

The man laughed. At me, not with me.

I couldn't blame him.

My second destination, after fetching a cab, was Coney Island; but not for pleasure or sight-seeing. It was relatively quiet; most people still preoccupied with school or work or other endeavors. The carousel was still; the gold-and-white horses with their startled eyes were stationary. Sluggish-looking teenagers occupied the booths that hung with plastic bags full of popcorn - like beehives - occasionally swatting at them with a frustrated hand.

The water was dark in the distance; it reflected the bits of light through the clouds, and everything smelled polluted. Trash, salt, seawater. A seagull flew overhead, and a girl rolling by on roller-skates smiled at me.

I smiled at her, too. But I knew she didn't see it.

When I reached the burger stand, Joey was seated on one of the stools, sipping soda out of a paper cup and listening to local news crackle through the speakers of an ancient-looking radio. He saw me, smiled, and lowered the volume.

“You're back, sunshine,” he said, bright and true. “What can I get you?”

“I was hoping maybe a job,” I said. “Since I'm sort of broke and need to pay for school.”

“College?” He raised an eyebrow, hopped over the counter, and filled a second paper cup with Coke. “That's admirable.”

He handed it to me, his fingers covered in fresh blisters; I imagined a spray of hot grease from a batch of fries gone awry. Still, my throat was dry; I had to hold myself back from guzzling it down, letting the ice chips melt on my tongue.

“Sort of,” I said. “I guess it's something like that.”

I was thankful that he didn't ask me to elaborate; Joey Shapiro seemed simply satisfied with brevity. Or maybe he already knew. We never really give enough intellectual credit to those who work in the service industry.

“When could you start?” he asked.

I slid behind the booth, smiled, and he laughed. He tossed me an apron, and let me take charge of the register. I attempted a batch of onion rings, but after a sheet of hot oil nearly soaked us both, Joey decided that I was better off working the grill, or doling out change.

It was typically the latter - but regardless, it was my first real job. My first real day in the Real World. Or just a normal day, as most would likely call it.

When it was over, he slipped me a few bills under the table, and told me that he'd keep my hours off the books. He was the boss, so he said it was alright; I chalked it up to the fact that my only real bank ties were now severed, and a check wouldn't cover cab fare.

So I left the island, taking my time, stopping to buy myself a cup of flavored ice. I spooned it into my mouth as I strolled on, slowly, leisurely; watching the sun set over black water that lapped with a timid gentleness over the dark sand.

I remembered the smell of salt-water, cold motel sheets, and Mr. Tennant's warm mouth against cool skin.

My steps stuttered. I swallowed the syrup and ice, artificial-strawberry, and ran a hand over my lips. I could still taste the sugar.

I could still taste him, too.

My third destination was Will's apartment. I had planned another apology, something more articulate and including less sobs; hopefully, I considered, more emphasized with my current grease-stained clothing and fatigue-lines beneath weary eyes.

The cab stopped outside of the building, and I glanced across the street, towards the park. They were showing a film, and for the first time it seemed that the place was actually inhabited, filled with life.

A cold wind whipped through the air, kicking up loose pebbles and bits of trash that rolled along like tumbleweeds. I watched the scene with a sincere fascination, just for a moment or so, before finally deciding to join them.

I guess a part of me expected, or perhaps just hoped, that I might find him in the crowd; but I didn't. I bought a bag of hot peanuts coated in salt, and watched the film alone, reclined on the thick bark of a shrouding oak tree.

They were playing
The Graduate
; a film that I had never seen, but heard Mr. Tennant talk about on several different occasions. I think a part of him wanted to watch it with me, though we never did. It was all grainy, dull technicolor; but even so, it was brilliant. Simon and Garfunkel serving as background music while the lead – a young Dustin Hoffman - jumps into the pool of cyan water, then into the arms of Mrs. Robinson.

A leg extended, a nervous swallow.

Mrs. Robinson, if you don't mind my saying so, this conversation is getting a little strange.

The ending scene, as Benjamin and the newly-departed bride skip town on a bus, all doe-eyed; their faces flushed with adrenaline.