Star-Crossed (3 page)

I fell silent. Not by his confession, but by the fact that I was, for the first time, potentially standing face-to-face with the man who would be teaching my Literature class.

I looked him over again; dark features, fair skin, pouty lips. Everything was a clash of perfectly-ironed shirts and vagabond eyes.

“What's your last name?” I asked.

“Tennant,” he replied.

It was him. Something, of course, I had no knowledge of when my eyes first skimmed the patchy, smeared name that was typed in ink on a paper schedule. He was just a series of letters.

Pressing his lips together, Will cast a look in the direction of the faint, tinkering music. The piano still lulled, distant and dubious to the two of us standing in a shadowy hallway, only inches apart. It was like our own, personal soundtrack.

“Would you care to dance?” he asked. “Just one dance. I won't keep you from your friends.”

“I'm in no rush,” I told him. “Besides, you seem worth a dance.”

Translation: I have no friends waiting for me.

If I had cut open Will's skull, I'm certain that I would have seen a mess of wheels turning. We had only just met, and already I wasn't sure if I should be looking at him; standing in an empty hallway with him. Dancing with him.

But it was just a dance. I had seen students dance with teachers at my Junior Prom, and adults dance with the younger crowd at Cotillion gatherings.

I swear, it was just a dance.

He took my hand, an action that sent an immediate jolt of electricity up my spine, and the two of us came together in the most innocent of ways, I think, that two people could. We moved to the sounds of piano currents, drifting in and out until it reached the point where the sounds and melodies really didn't matter anymore. We kept it chaste; hands interlaced and bodies at an appropriate distance. It was one of those moments that seemed to move in slow motion, just me and the man in the Fleur de Lis
mask.

The music drifted away, and what followed was an unmoving, silent pause.

If we were strangers with any other label, I think he would have kissed me. But because he had a title, and I had a damning place cast below in the hells of his authority, there was no impassioned lip-lock, no sudden primal gestures.

Not then, at least.

So instead, he did the only thing he could. With a slow uncertainty, he reached down and removed my mask, holding it in his hands like some sacred object; his lips dropped in a melancholy line. Two ombre eyes fell down my frame like the brief pausing of an elevator as it stopped at every floor. His hands clenched the mask, and he nodded as if I'd said something. Like he was silently confirming his decision not to touch me.

I reached up, pulling his mask down to his throat, and he didn't stop me. The fabric fell like a choker that he tugged off quickly, letting it fall silently to the ground.

We looked at each other, centimeters apart and breath stifled. His dark eyes made his fair skin seem almost too pale, ghostly. But there was a soft, masculine beauty to him that couldn't have been attained with hours spent at the gym, or even the most carefully selected clothing.

It wasn't love. I didn't love him. But I felt
something
- and that was enough to make me breathe in the air around us like it was some sweet nectar that if I didn't savor then, I'd never have the chance. He smelled of warm almond; of coffee and sweat, which might have been mixed with the espresso I'd drank or the caramel still lacing my breath. Cherry sugar still coated my tongue, and I wanted him to taste it.

The ring on my left hand burned. But I was glad that he'd never actually noticed it; noting the symbolism of an unblossomed rose. What I was, and what he most certainly wasn't.

“I should go,” he said quietly. “I'm sorry.”

“Why?”

He treaded backward a few steps, accidentally bumping into the wall. A quick hand steadied the painting, and he flushed.

“Because I'm almost positive that the girl behind you...what's her name?”

“Piper,” I said. He nodded.

“Yes. Well, her father – I'm sure he's wondering where I went off to. I'll see you around campus, Kaitlyn.”

Hearing him say my name for the first time was like seraphim singing through thin, cotton clouds. Intoxicating even in its two-syllable brevity. I wanted to hear him say it over and over again; a one word song that I would rewind and repeat forever.

“I'll see you in class, Mr. Tennant.”

His stare hardened; the knowledge of our future dynamic sinking into his bones. He looked like he wanted to say something again, but couldn't find the words. So instead, he side-stepped around me and disappeared; leaving me alone with the only company being the portraits of a dozen people that I didn't even know the names of.

When I emerged, just seconds after Will, he was already gone. But in his place, of all people, stood Marius. A questioning flicker made his eyes glow, his hair mussed up in a way that made me want to laugh and vomit.

“I see you've finished your business. Congrats, Marius.”

“Was that Tennant?” Marius asked, ignoring my remark. “The guy that just spun around the corner?”

He narrowed his eyes. I nodded.

“What about it?” I asked.

“Well, for starters, he was at my fencing class this morning,” Marius said. His fencing classes were on the Trinity Preparatory Academy's campus. “He complimented me. Nice guy. That accent will probably have every fucking girl on campus dropping their panties, though. God damn.”

I grinned.

“I think the right word would be
knickers
.”

Marius glowered, shaking his head.

“Whatever. I want to get out of here before Piper finds me. Are you ready?”

“I was ready the moment we stepped through the door. Actually, I was ready before we even left the house.”

So Marius and I quickly left, sneaking out through one of the back doors to avoid unwanted confrontation. A part of me, saddened, hoped to run into Will just one last time.

But I didn't. It was almost like I had never met him at all.

In the cab, Marius refused to drop the subject.

“So, you and Tennant.”

“His name's Will. Will Tennant.”

“Uh huh,” Marius said flatly. “Well, what were you two talking about in some nowhere hallway while the rest of the party was outside, you know, dancing and indulging in the actual festivities.”

“Nothing,” I told him. “We just ran into each other. It was just a quick chat.”

“I think you're lying,” he said, gazing out the window. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, Kaitlyn.”

I smiled, even though he couldn't see it.

“Impossible,” I said. “I don't have a heart.”

When we reached the estate, Marius paused outside the garden gates.

“He definitely looked like he was in a hurry. Like he was running away from you or something.”

“Don't be so dramatic. Jesus, Marius.”

I shoved past him, opening the gate and kicking my heels off and relishing the feeling of bare feet on cold, soft grass.

“He's a good looking guy. I get it. I understand attraction, Kaitlyn. And I understand two people meeting at a
masquerade
, feeling that instant pull, only for circumstance to snuff it out before you even have a chance to open your mouth.”

“You're spewing bullshit.”

“No,” he snapped. “I know exactly what I'm talking about.”

He wasn't lying. He did. And in that moment, as he slammed the gate shut and the iron scraped against the stone with a flinch-inducing sound, I just wanted to run. Barefoot, in an evening gown that could dirty and tear. I just wanted to get out.

Marius knew it, too. He regarded me with a knowing, gentle, slowly softening look in his eyes. Moving fast as smoke, I didn't even have time to say his name in protest before his hands were on my shoulders.

“I get it. You're upset, you're frustrated. You want out.”

“Shut up, Marius.”

I turned away, only halting when he reached out once again and grabbed me by the wrist. I nearly stumbled.

“I can help you,” Marius said. “That is, if you feel like playing a game.”

I swallowed, looking up at him while his eyes burned like two deviant creatures, lit up and alive. His scent, the familiar tones of rich leather and Black Orchid, was overpowering; my fingers coiled into fists as he cocked his head, just slightly, to the side. His crystal gaze was fixed, unmoving.

“What are the terms?” I asked quietly. His fingertips grazed over a bare shoulder, and I suppressed the shiver that begged to creep up my spine.

“You have until the end of the semester to seduce Mr. Tennant. If you succeed, you can have my trust fund. I've no use for the money, and I know how much you long to escape this place. I know it better than anyone else.”

I stared at him, his smile crooked and wry. I could barely swallow as Marius stepped back, the breeze dancing delicately over his chestnut hair as we stood like barely wavering shadows in the moonlight.

“And if you win,” I breathed. “What is it that you want?”

Marius laughed with a timid, gentle sound. Like someone who hadn't coined the definition of debauchery. Like someone quiet, reserved, and maybe even capable of kindness.

“Oh, Kaitlyn,” he whispered, reaching out and cupping my face in his hands. For a moment, his soft expression made him look almost human. “You. I want you.”

“You're sick,” I hissed. “You're deplorable.”

As I stormed off through the mesh and maze of flora and the enveloping night, I heard Marius call out to me one last time before I reached the balcony door.

“We're not so different, you and I. You'll see.”

Inside my bedroom, I unzipped my dress and pretended not to hear when the maids came knocking. I didn't wash the makeup from my face. I didn't comb my hair, or even bother to dress. Instead, I curled up beneath the sheets with my hair still knotted from the wind, trying to find any hint of Will's scent on my skin.

When I caught it, subtle and raw, something inside of me moved. A part of me, something deep and ingrained, started to shift.

Reaching beneath the covers, I pleasured myself slowly, painfully, until the wave that flowed over my body like a warm stream of water only left me longing for one thing.

More. I wanted more.

THREE

I spent Sunday evening consumed with making each and every thing perfect for Monday morning; ensuring my uniform blouse was properly ironed, my tie without a single wrinkle, the folds of my skirt even and crisp. I laid out a sweater - navy blue, complete with the Trinity Preparatory Academy logo - which was essentially just a glorified emblem with a scarlet cross in the center. My socks, black, stopped just below the knee.

Everything had to be perfect.

That morning, after showering and ensuring that every last detail was up to par, I woke up Marius and went downstairs for breakfast. The dining room was already empty, my father having left to his morning business ventures; Vivian would sleep until noon. And despite the spread of food that had already been prepared, I couldn't eat and was much too preoccupied thinking about the inevitable reunion that I would have with Will. With Mr. Tennant.

I sighed, blowing rings into my coffee. When Marius finally stumbled downstairs, his shirt was unevenly pressed, his tie crooked. I stood and straightened it for him; fixing his collar and giving him a small pat on the shoulder.

“Have you given any thought to my wager?” he asked, his tone thick and weary. He smelled of mouthwash and aftershave.

“None,” I lied. “I have no interest.”

“Fine,” he said. “Enjoy the misery of attending a school you have no interest in. Running a company that clothes the bodies of a general populous that you despise.”

“You're wrong,” I snapped, drawing back. “I don't need the money. I'm perfectly happy about Yale. About running my father's business. Excited, even.”

I walked over to the kitchen counter, slugging down my cup of coffee like a shot of whiskey, complete with the unavoidable cringe. Marius chuckled.

“Bullshit,” he said. “You can keep saying that to yourself, Kaitlyn. But I know you. Even if you hate it more than you hate this place, or Trinity Prep, or any other damn thing about this life we were so blessedly born into. I know you.”

Walking over, he handed me a gift bag stuffed with white tissue paper.

“And I know you'd rather get out while you're still alive.”

I took the bag hesitantly, removing the tissue paper piece by piece and withdrawing a new backpack. Black leather, a golden clasp on which COACH was etched.

My breath halted.

“You're still wrong. I am alive.”

“No,” he said plainly. “Not really. None of us are really alive in places like this.”

I stared down at the bag wordlessly, not even bothering to move away when Marius' hands pressed on top of mine.

“I don't know what to say,” I finally said, shaking my head. I looked up at Marius, shoving the bag back into his arms. He refused it, only shoving back.

“Just say
thank you, Marius
,” he said. “And consider the wager. I'll expect an answer by tonight.”

He spun around, and without a second breath, he grabbed his uniform coat from the counter and stormed through the front door.

When I was alone, I took one last look at the bag in my hands. An accessory that cost about the amount it would take to feed a Third World village. The guilt, a dull pang, was palpable.

I slung the bag over my shoulder, meeting my reflecting coldly on the tiled marble floor.

“Thank you, Marius,” I said. But he was long gone.

En route to class, after having stopped off at my locker to begrudgingly collect a single notebook, I envisioned a meteor crashing down through the Academy's Cathedral-like, vaulted ceilings. Everyone running about, screaming and crawling around in shards of stained glass; everything destroyed in a fiery explosion of light and chaos.

No such luck, of course. Instead, I went into second period Classic Literature with my heart skipping like a sufficiently scratched-up CD. I sat down, first chair in the very first row, and waited for Mr. Tennant with baited breath. I was fourteen all over again, feeling a mix of dread and delight.

When Will finally entered, nearly everyone leaned forward in their desks. I wondered how he felt about the surroundings, or the uniforms, or the fact there was mandatory morning chapel on Wednesdays. But he looked no different as he set down his leather briefcase, cleared his throat, and simply smiled; this worked to snatch the last breath of attention from the dozen sets of eyes that were already glued.

“Good morning, class,” he said. Will gave me a quick, darting glance. “I trust you've all returned from your vacations well-rested.”

There was a joined hum of acknowledgment, but no words. Will nodded, leaning against his desk casually so that his black shirt strained against his willowy frame. He wore a dark gray pair of slacks along with a black suit jacket, and I was slightly curious about whether or not the man had ever heard of a color palette. His hair was swept back, a few pieces falling over his forehead in stark black strands. He had tamed down the sultry-musician demeanor in favor of something slightly more professional.

Still, he was beautiful. He was the kind of man that those who can write, would write about. Pure poetry-murmuring lips and ink-black eyes that made me wish I could put a pen to paper. Looking at him was the most exquisite torture, like chocolate slowly melting over your tongue.

As he looked about, skimming over each of the students with a look of sudden startle, he smiled with a beaming merriment; gracing his cheeks with an instant, flushing rouge that I could have stared at forever.

“Well, do any of you have any questions for me?” he asked. “I'm new. Obviously. But I am certainly looking forward to my time here. I'm sure the feelings are very mutual.”

We shared another darting glance. Impatient feet shuffled against the floor.

“You're the new theater director, aren't you?” Someone eventually said. His name was Tyler Dawson, a boyish thing from Brooklyn. We had shared a Calculus class Sophomore year, but had never spoken. He often sat in the far back. “I mean, I only ask because I saw you in the theater this morning looking over a bunch of scripts. I'm auditioning for the play tomorrow.”

“What play?” Another asked. “Nobody's announced the play yet.”

I listened with a calculated interest.

“Romeo and Juliet,” Will answered quickly, looking at Tyler. “Though the announcement was technically supposed to be on Wednesday, I suppose early is better than never.”

Tyler sunk low into his seat, looking slightly embarrassed. He was attending the Academy on scholarship, which rendered him in the eyes of Trinity's vast majority as socially severed despite his undeniable, sugary attractiveness. He had a crop of fair brown hair and bright green eyes that were perpetually overjoyed for one reason or another. It was all a strange sort of a surprise to me, as much like myself he ate his lunch alone, focused on a homework assignment or strumming a few chords of his guitar. Sometimes I'd catch girls eying him with a sore ache, like they wished they could approach him and treat the entire thing with the normalcy of public school kids whose parents packed paper-bagged lunch and ordered pizza on the weekends. But because they knew that nothing would ever grace beyond the gates of screwing around in the backseats of their Porsche, they avoided him.

Tyler, in short, was condemned to be a loner.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, shrugging his shoulders. I couldn't help but find it slightly endearing.

Mr. Tennant smiled tightly, clasping his hands together as he gave Tyler an empathetic nod.

“Well, anyway,” he said. “Yes, I'll be directing this semester's play, which is one of The Bard's most renowned works. Auditions are on Friday, with casting posted on Monday, I imagine. It shouldn't take me much too long to decide who's a suitable fit, should it?”

It was a funny thing, how he sewed his dialogue together. He posed what Americans would spout as statements in the form of a question. For instance, if I were looking out the window and saw rain falling, and someone were to suggest that I go play outside, I could easily tell them:
well, that's stupid. It's raining
. But if I were to suggest the same thing to Will, he would have likely looked at me with a twinged confusion and muttered, pointing in the direction of the rain-streaked window:
but I can't, can I?

The inflections always hung with a sort of hope, like the possibility of playing in rainfall was still on the table. Nothing was impossible.

I looked at him, now standing at the whiteboard and scribbling something across the slate in marker; the sounds his conversation with another one of the students was entirely muted as I watched him talk, smiling and laughing about something I couldn't hear.

With a slow, shifting blur, I envisioned him pausing, locking eyes with me, and beckoning me to stand. Where, when I reached him, he would hand me the marker and lean in, whispering just loudly enough for me to hear while still giving the students nothing to question. I would touch the marker to the whiteboard, as if obeying some kind of instruction, and he would utter, soft and seductive:

“
What I would give to have you on my desk right now.”

Suddenly, the sound of my name being called tore me back into the present. Will now stared, appearing vaguely alarmed.

“Kaitlyn?” he asked. “Are you alright?”

I quickly recovered, clearing my throat.

“Yes,” I told him. “I'm just a little out of it, I guess.”

He nodded, still at the whiteboard with a finger pointed to a list of books that he would be giving us the choice of reading. Out of the selection, we were to pick one, and after a quick raise of hands, the decision was unanimous: Nabokov’s
Lolita
.

Oh God,
I thought.
Perfect
.

When class was dismissed, I lingered, waiting until everyone had sifted out of the room. It all seemed to pass so sluggishly, with each of the girls hanging around Will as he nodded politely, answering their questions about class, and play auditions. Which, in truth, was why I was hanging around. My hope was to score a spot painting scenery, or working on props for the set. Anything to keep myself close to Will, even if I hadn't decided on Marius' wager. Preparation was key.

After they had left, and only the two of us remained, he smiled warmly.

“Hello,” he said. “Can I help you?”

It was all so painfully formal.

“I actually wanted to ask you about the play, Mr. Tennant.”

We looked at each other, and Will started busying himself with wiping down the whiteboard. A distraction, I figured. Though from what I had no idea.

“Are you going to audition?” he asked, sounding curious enough. I shook my head immediately.

“No. I was thinking about something more along the lines of painting scenery or, I don't know, helping with stage props.”

Will stopped mid-swipe, lowering the eraser with a surprising look of disappointment.

“I'm not much of an actor,” I added. “Or, I guess, I think I'd be better off behind the scenes.”

“Would you consider trying?” he asked, and there it was: hope. A dusting of hope weighed on his tongue, echoing the last word,
trying,
like something sweet. “I'll be frank here, Kaitlyn. Seeing you in that mask made me think of a young Olivia Hussey in Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet. Have you seen it?”

“No,” I said quietly, embarrassed. Will touched my shoulder gently, then drew away.

“You should,” he said. I made a silent mental note, though my eyes darted to the pen that was discarded on his desk.

“Will you write it down for me?” I asked, extending my arm with the sleeve already rolled-up. “Here, just write it on my wrist. I'm fantastic at losing notes.”

“But your uniform -” he was hesitant, pressing his lips together. Catching his breath, he took my hand, his fingers lingering over the bones of my wrist, and gently scrawled out: Zeffirelli
and below that,
6:30/Friday
.

“What's this?” I asked, yanking my sleeves down so that none of the ink was exposed. Will laughed.

“Audition times,” he said plainly. “In case you change your mind.”

“That's awfully presumptuous of you, Mr. Tennant.”

His cheeks, I swear, turned scarlet; fumbling for a moment, he pointed to the door. When my fingers skimmed over the handle, I relished the two words that softly sang like a mourning dove's cry:

“Goodbye, Kaitlyn.”

We had only just met. But right then, as I opened the door and was met with the glaring realities of my place, his place, the life I was destined to lead – it was like he already knew something that I didn't.

As I roamed the halls, word of the gorgeous new teacher had already caught fire. In the bathroom, girls were already murmuring about how they were longing to transfer to his class, or better yet, find a spot – any spot – in the play, just to be close to him. In the courtyard, the collective sound of sighs seemed to echo along with the breeze. I was in a pleasant enough mood, sitting and watching a group of girls compare the lengths of their skirts; it was a common thing, trying to get away with being as risqué as possible.

When Tyler appeared, clutching his bagged lunch, I even let him sit down next to me.