Sweetest Taboo (5 page)

Normally I would have stayed with her, reveling in this praise, and asking for more of it. There was a dark Isabel, deep inside, that liked to see this particular coach squirm, and I loved to take advantage of situations like this. Today, though, I was in a hurry. I knew that Mr. Stevens was probably already at his truck waiting for me, and felt both anxious and excited about what he would say to me. I mumbled a quick thanks to the coach’s blank face, then turned and left her standing there.

Ahead of me, I could see that Mr. Stevens was indeed at his truck, with a group of other students already packed into the back seat. I heaved a sigh of relief and regret; I wouldn’t be riding alone with him, then. I knew he’d done this to protect my reputation, and his, but felt slightly disappointed. I was looking forward to getting him alone, though I didn’t have a clue what I’d say or do if that were to happen. Instead of an intimate conversation, though, we would have a rowdy, crowded ride. I slid into the front seat and scooted toward him on the bench so that two other students could fit into the seat next to me. This put my knee right up against his, and I gulped. The truck was filled with incessant chatter and laughter, but all I could feel was the gentle pressure of his knee against mine. I could hear only the beating of my own heart.

The other students disappeared one by one, as we drove past houses and through neighborhoods to take them home. The drone of teenage chatter diminished with each drop off, and the air began to fill with a different kind of tension. We finally came to the last house, and the girl who sat to my right – the last swimmer in the truck – opened the door and hopped out.

“Thanks, Coach!” she shouted. She waved at us both and sprinted toward the house, leaving us alone in the truck.

We drove toward Liz’ house, and it finally occurred to me that he had zigzagged through town at least three times, taking the most direct route to the houses of the other swimmers, but purposely choosing to drop me off last. I gulped down my excitement and nervousness, and wondered fleetingly if I should move away from Mr. Stevens, toward the other end of the bench seat, next to the passenger window. The truck was empty, and there was no need for me to be sitting so close to him. He seemed to hear my thought, though, and spoke before I could move.

“I’d like it if you just stayed where you are,” he murmured quietly, anticipating my move. I swallowed and nodded without answering.

We drove in silence for several long moments. Mr. Stevens appeared to be thinking about something; he wore an intense expression, and focused closely on the road as we drove toward Liz’s house. The silence finally became too much for me, and I spoke.

“So,” I began, hoping that my nerves didn’t show in my voice, “what exactly do you want me to write in this letter you’ve requested?”

I had half expected to hear a snicker in response, or at the very least a quiet chuckle, but his face grew more serious. At the next light, he stopped and turned toward me. His hazel eyes were gentle but intense in his face, and he pursed his lips before speaking.

“Isabel, I think that there are a lot of things you want to say to me, but maybe you’re afraid to say them,” he replied simply. “Write what you feel. Just be open and honest with me. Do you think you can do that?”

I wasn’t prepared for such raw honesty, and it shocked me. I turned from him to stare straight ahead through the windshield, dumbstruck. That was it? He wanted me to just write down what I felt about him? What did that mean? What would I write? What
could
I write? Surely not the truth!

Realizing that time only stood still in my head, I finally managed a response.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I think I can handle that. Is that it?”

Mr. Stevens smiled, and I thought I saw a hint of relief in his eyes, as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The tension around his mouth and eyes eased a bit, and his shoulders dropped. The light turned green and we continued on our way without speaking again. When we pulled up next to the curb at Liz’s house, I gathered my swim bag and school books. I could feel Mr. Stevens’ gaze lingering on my every move, and wondered if he’d say anything else. I slid out of the truck without a word, though, and turned back to wave. Mr. Stevens’ eyes locked with mine, and I was taken aback by the intensity and tenderness in his eyes. He hadn’t said anything when I left the truck, but his eyes left little doubt in my mind. I had been right the first time – he wanted my letter to say what he felt in his own heart.

This relationship wasn’t only playing out in my mind.

I practically pranced to the front door, my heart hammering away in my chest, and rapped smartly on the window pane. Just wait until Liz heard about
this
!

***

Liz was lying cozily on her bed in her flannel pajamas, despite the heat of the day, recovering from her throat infection. Her face lit up when she saw me walk through her bedroom door. I rushed in without thinking and tripped over a pile of her clothes on the floor in my excitement. Before I knew it, I was bouncing up and down on her bed and making her laugh out loud.

“Doesn’t your mom make you clean this place up?” I complained, although I couldn’t quite muster annoyance. “You’ve got crap all over the floor. I can barely make out the color of the carpet!”

“No one’s as anally retentive as you are, Isabel,” Liz countered with a hoarse voice, “Some of us are normal.”

I told her about the events of the day and the ride home, in specific detail, and went on to tell her what I thought the whole day might mean. We spent much of the afternoon talking about the letter I would write to Mr. Stevens and going through the possible formats. I wanted to take a more reserved approach, hinting at my feelings and leaving the door open for Mr. Stevens to respond. I mean, what if his intentions were totally innocent and he just wanted me to share my feelings about school, friends, and teenage difficulties? If I poured out my true feelings and he didn’t share them, I would be humiliated. Liz said that she didn’t think his intentions were innocent.

“Teachers don’t just randomly ask students to write them letters and tell them what they’re feeling,” she replied quickly. “If you were having problems, then sure. If you were on drugs or skipping out on school or your mom and dad were going through a separation, maybe. But you’re a great student and you’re on your way to college. Your family life is terrific. What on earth would he want you to write about other than your feelings for
him
?” She paused for a moment, letting that sink in. “You should be completely honest with him,” she finally concluded. “The only way you’re going to make anything happen is by telling him how you feel.”

I listened carefully and reluctantly agreed. Liz was right, after all – if I wanted something to happen, I had to tell him so. He wasn’t going to guess it. Knowing that, though, didn’t make it any easier.

***

I spent hours composing the letter later that evening. I had eaten two ham and cheese empanadas at dinner, but they hadn’t settled well, and I felt like I was going to throw up. The lingering smell of food in the house wasn’t helping, and the constant threat of my father walking into my room and lecturing me had me on edge.

I looked up at my poster of Bill Clinton, and prayed silently for help.

This was the most important letter I had ever written, and I wanted it to be exactly right. It had to explain my feelings without coming off as pushy or immature. It had to show the depth of my emotion without being sappy. Most importantly, it had to sound as though it came from someone serious – I knew enough about Mr. Stevens to know that he would never engage with me if I were immature. I finally found a flow that I liked, and settled – with the assistance of my heavy, hardcover volume of Webster’s Dictionary – on language that sounded sophisticated and smart. By the time I folded the letter and put it into an envelope, my hand had cramped up and I was overcome with mental exhaustion. It was done, though, and I knew that I was doing the right thing. I had told him exactly how I felt, and had been completely honest. As of tomorrow, for better or worse, Mr. Stevens would know exactly what was in my heart.

***

In the morning, I met Liz at our shared locker as usual, and gave her a tired grin. Posters throughout the hall advertised the Junior/Senior Prom, which was coming up in June. The posters were promotional and were intended to encourage us to go, but really just taunted those of us who didn’t have dates, I thought.

“Not like I want to go anyhow,” I told Liz, pointing to the nearest ruined poster. The spring rains had ruined the paper and caused the ink to run. “Corny, overpriced dance. Knowing this school, it will be in the gym rather than any place interesting.”

Liz threw me a confused glance, and frowned. “What’s with you this morning?” she asked quietly. “I thought you loved that kind of social thing. An excuse to get dressed up, and all that.” She held my eyes, waiting for an answer, and I shrugged.

“I’m tired, and worried,” I admitted. “I wrote that letter, and I’m not sure it was the right thing to do. I didn’t sleep well.”

She grinned and pinched my arm. “You worry too much.” She paused and looked past my shoulder and smiled. “Besides, I don’t think you have much to worry about. Looks like someone’s waiting for you.”

I turned at her words and scanned the walkway behind me. Mr. Stevens was there, standing casually in his classroom doorway at the other end of the hallway. He was looking directly at us, though he seemed to be just gazing into space. I couldn’t help but be jealous of his cool appeal. He seemed so comfortable in his skin, so confident. I didn’t think that anything could rattle him, and I wondered if he’d ever doubted anything in his entire life. I looked openly at him, assuming that he wasn’t actually looking back at me, and gasped when his gaze sharpened on my face. He winked, then grinned and turned away, and I laughed aloud. I walked forward slowly, leaving Liz behind. As I got closer, I realized that his eyes weren’t as carefree and confident as I had thought. There was a nervousness to him that I’d never seen before, as though he was waiting for bad news.

“Good morning, Isabel,” he said as I halted in front of him. “How are you?”

I gave him a nervous smile in response. “I’m fine, though my hand is a bit cramped from so much writing. And I didn’t get much sleep.”

Those words seemed to put a smile on his face. He stepped closer and handed me a thick Algebra book. I stared down at it, nervous and baffled, and gave him a questioning look.

Mr. Stevens reached out, opened the heavy book, and whispered, “Just drop the letter in the book so that I can walk away with it.”

“Ah,” I breathed, understanding. I slipped the letter between the pages and handed the book back to him.

“Thanks,” he said. “I look forward to reading it. Now, you’d better get to class, I don’t want to be the reason you’re late.”

I blushed slightly, but nodded and turned. Mr. Stevens gave me a quick smile before he walked toward his classroom at the end of the hall.

For the rest of the morning, my friends spent their time asking me why I was walking around grinning like a fool.

Chapter Five

Sweetest Taboo

T
he chlorinated water felt especially refreshing on my skin. It was a hot spring day, and I had been flushed with nervous energy all day. The smooth repetitive act of swimming laps lulled me into a state of relaxation, and I focused on counting the number of strokes and alternating right- and left-sided breaths. I felt the secure pressure of my swim cap and looked through my goggles at the water around me, taking in the serene blue scenery. The water was cool and smooth against my legs, and the laps came easily. Since the first day of practice, this space had become my sacred ground, where I was free to think and dream without worrying about anything at all.

Today, though, thoughts of Mr. Stevens crept steadily into my mind as I swam. I was sure that he’d read my letter by now, and had come to his own conclusions about its content and my intentions. What had he thought? Did my letter expose too much? Was it too forward? Did I scare him off with my honesty? Why hadn’t he arrived at swim practice yet? Why hadn’t I sensed him searching for me throughout the day? I had looked for him between periods and even during lunch, but hadn’t seen him. I worried about how he may have reacted to the letter, and whether he was now avoiding me, but tried to table my thoughts and focus on swimming. What was done was done, and I couldn’t do anything about it now.

I would just have to wait and see what happened.

I swam nearly twenty uninterrupted laps, deep in thought, and came to the wall for one final turn. As I reached for the wall to make my turn, I was surprised to feel a strong hand grab my wrist above the water. The grip jolted me from my thoughts and back into reality, and I gasped. I peered through my foggy swim goggles, trying to figure out who had grabbed me, and realized that it was Mr. Stevens. He hunched over the edge of the pool, his brown leather Birkenstocks at eye-level.

I quickly removed my goggles and glanced around; the other girls were at the opposite end of the pool, listening to the instructions being spouted off by the female coaches. I was alone at this end of the pool with Mr. Stevens.

“Isabel,” he loosened his grip slightly but didn’t let go. “I just wanted to tell you that I really enjoyed reading your letter.” He paused, and his fingers caressed my wet wrist softly; I held my breath. “After practice, let me give you a ride home. Is Liz with you today?”

“Yeah, she’s coming by after practice. Can you give us both a ride?”

“Of course.” He smiled, then straightened and stepped away. I had to bite my lip to keep my excitement and jubilation in check. I took a deep breath and tried to appear normal. In my head, though, I was repeating the same mantra over and over: he liked my letter, he liked my letter, oh my God,
he liked my letter!

I began to re-read my letter to Mr. Stevens in my head, refreshing my memory in preparation for his potential reaction.