Illicit: A Novel

by Ava Harrison

  “Chapter five,” he repeats sternly. “Miss Adams, a minute please.”

  I sit perfectly still in my chair, the ticking of the clock etching away at my nerves. As the last student leaves, I feel my hands shaking, so I slide them under my thighs to hide them as he makes his approach. He stands next to my desk and then, after a beat, pulls a nearby chair around to sit facing me.

  “I don’t understand how you’re here.” His eyebrows lower, and a fine line forms between them. He reaches up and tugs at his hair, pulling it at the root. “Are you even eighteen?” His eyes close, then reopen with a flash. “Please God, tell me you’re at least legal?”

  I boldly meet his eyes, trying desperately to hide the inner turmoil I’m experiencing. “I’m legal.”

  With a deep breath, his tense shoulders relax. “Thank fuck for that,” he mumbles, and I purse my lips, trying my best to not let on that the extraordinary memory is now becoming tarnished.

  “So, how are you here? This is an AP class, which is typically filled with juniors. I don’t often hear of seniors choosing to take this class as an elective.” His body is straight again. The mask of Mr. Blake has returned as quickly as it left.

  “One, I needed an elective and my choices for this time slot was this or art. I have no artistic talent at all, and I actually really like history. Two, my mom held me back.” I leave it at that. I don’t owe him more of an explanation. Maybe in the Hamptons, underneath the canopy of stars as he peppered my skin with kisses, I would have confessed all my sins. But now? I most certainly will not.

  “What are we going to do about this?” he muses, and then proceeds to answer his own question. “You will change classes.”

  As much as my heart wants to stop, and I can feel the familiar sting of tears wanting to expel, I hold back my emotions, straighten my back and meet his eyes. “No, I’m not switching. It never happened,” I assert. At my words his face is expressionless but then something flashes beneath the surface of his hardened face. I can’t place the emotion.

  “Yes. Perfect. We can never talk about what happened. We need to forget it all.” He nods to me, and for some reason I’m infuriated that he agreed so easily. First, he acts like I wasn’t here, and now the dismissal. Rage, anger, and pain fill me.

  “Exactly. This,” I motion between us, “will never happen again. I’m sorry it ever did.” I jump up and head for the door, my head held high.

  Self-preservation.

  I walk out without a backward glance.

  I spent the next class period in the bathroom, dry heaving the bile that collected in my stomach after my confrontation with Carson. Correction—Mr. Blake. After my third period class, I head over to the lunchroom. As I sit at the table, Bridget plops down and inclines her head to the side and looks at me.

  “What up, biatch?”

  “Nothing,” I mumble back.

  She furrows her brow at my one-word answer, then narrows her eyes at me. “Where’s your lunch, Lynn? Are you feeling okay? You look a little pale.”

  “I’m just not hungry.” A part of me wants to tell her, but embarrassment and rejection lock my jaw and make my head pound. I press my fingertips against my temples and start to massage.

  “You need to eat something.”

  I reach across the table and grab an apple off her plate. I take a small nibble, but the taste alone turns my stomach. “See, I ate.”

  “Great, you licked an apple.”

  “Bridget, I’m not in the mood. Lay off, okay?” I drop the fruit back on her tray and then hide my hands under the table. They’re trembling from the confusion coursing through my veins. Of course this is my life. Of course this would happen. I never thought I would see him again. And now he’s my teacher.

  “What crawled up your ass?”

  “Nothing, okay?” Blood pounds beneath my temple, and I wonder how I’ll make it through the rest of the week, let alone the rest of the semester, when Bridget’s voice cuts into my thoughts.

  “Sure, whatever.” Her lips are thin with what I can only imagine is irritation, but she quickly rights herself with a shrug of her shoulder and then a condescending smile. “So, how’s your first day of school so far?”

  I can’t help the groan that escapes my mouth, eliciting an eyebrow raise from Bridget.

  “That great, eh?”

  “I have no words to describe my day. Next subject, please.” I give a dismissive wave of my hand, hoping that ends the conversation before it starts. It seems to work as Bridget is now staring in the opposite direction. Her mouth drops open.

  “Oh, my God. Who is that?”

  I follow her gaze and my heart races as I locate the object of her dismay. Mr. Blake. Obviously it’s him. Of all the people to walk into the room and capture my friend’s attention, it has to be the one I never told her about. Shit. I need to pull my gaze away but my head won’t turn. I can’t stand how beautiful he is. It makes everything inside me hurt. She reaches across the table and squeezes my arm until I wince.

  “Do you know who he is?” she asks again.

  “Mr. Blake.” I try to keep my voice flat, but unfortunately my eyes roll of their own accord.

  “Um, not a fan?” I pull my arm away from her and slide both hands under the table.

  “No.” My right hand clenches.

  “Lynn, he’s fucking gorgeous. How can you not want to worship at his feet?”

  If only she knew I’ve worshiped more than his feet.

  “He’s a dick, Bridge. I was late and he was a complete douche about it.”

  Her eyebrow lifts. “That’s a lot of animosity for a simple tardy.”

  “He made me stay after, too.”

  Her mouth forms a perfect circle and her eyes bore into me. She gawks at me like I’m crazy, and I probably am. She reaches across the table and gives me a little squeeze. “I’m sorry that your day is sucking, babe, but I have some good news.” Her eyes light up. “Coop’s parents are in Europe this week. Big party at his place this Friday. You want to go?”

  “No. Not really. Do I have to?” I grumble. I hate Coop. He is a total idiot. The idea of going sounds awful.

  “Yes. Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. Let’s just go have fun.” She won’t ever drop this. Once Bridget sets her mind to something, she’ll keep harping until I give in. With a deep sigh, I do.

  “Fine.”

  “Woohoo!” She bops up and down in her chair. “Okay, we should go get a blowout and have our makeup done before. You in?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Miss Adams! Wait up.”

  I’ve managed to avoid Mr. Blake for the rest of the day, but as I make my way out the front door of the school, I hear my name being called from behind me and I know it’s him. I’m not sure I can bear speaking to him again, but I discern something in his voice that makes my movements cease. I turn and stare him down. His face, although beautiful, seems worn and tired as if he is hauling the worries of the world on his shoulders. If this were a different time, a different place, my only desire would be to rid him of his pain.

  He peers around us and then motions me to keep walking. We’re about a block away from the school when his movements cease. I follow suit. With another look around to make sure no one is around, he looks down at his feet, his top teeth biting into his lower lip. “I’m sorry about this morning.”

  His lack of eye contact pisses me off. “Whatever.” If he can’t find the decency to look at me when he apologizes, I don’t need to find it in me to give a shit.

  “Lynn—”

  “Oh, I thought I was Miss Adams now?”

  He stands silently for a moment, distributing his weight from the ball of one foot to the other as he searches for the words he wants to say.

  “You barely acknowledged me in class at all.” Shit. Did I really just say that out loud? Yes, I did, and he should know he can’t treat me like that.

  “Listen, I’m sorry. I was taken aback by your presence. I wasn’t prepared to see you, b
ut that doesn’t excuse my attitude.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “You’re right. There are no words to tell you how sorry I am for that. How sorry I am for this—all of this. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to do. Can we try this again? The right way?”

  My heart hammers in my chest. Can I do that? Start fresh? Pretend nothing happened? “Um . . .”

  “It doesn’t have to be weird.”

  I pause for a minute and study his gaze, looking for any false pretense in his words. When I find nothing but a genuine smile, I nod. “If you say so.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you in class tomorrow?” he asks, and I lift my shoulder in a half shrug, and then finally bob my head, yes. For a moment he stands frozen in place, before pulling his gaze from me. As he retreats into the distance, my thoughts of what the future will bring spiral out of control. I don’t know if I can do this but I will at least try.

  The thought makes me uneasy, and the need to be comforted weaves its way through my body. Pulling out my phone, I dial my dad’s number even though we haven’t been speaking as often as usual. He says he’s been busy with work, but something isn’t right. I can’t quite put my finger on what, but it feels strange. A bit off. As if I’m grasping at straws wondering what to talk about, and he sounds awkward—uncomfortable and unsure what to say. Yet at the same time, it feels as if he has a lot to say but just doesn’t have it in him. I blame this on my mom. When they got divorced, a fire went out in my father. He’s never been the same since. One day he was loving and caring, and then the next he was different. The worst part is that the older I get, the worse it gets. The most noticeable change came when I turned eighteen, almost as if he stopped trying. It makes no sense. But still, I think it’s her fault somehow, she killed something inside him. I hate her for it.

  The phone goes straight to voicemail.

  “Hi. Um . . . Hi, Dad. It’s me . . . Um, Lynn.” I pause. God, I sound stupid. “I haven’t spoken to you in a few weeks, so I . . . I just wanted to see if you wanted to grab dinner. It’s been awhile.” And now I’m rambling. “Well, I guess I’ll try back later. Or you can call me,” I add hopefully. I should know better, but I still hope. “Love you, Dad.”

  I expect to find the brownstone that I live in with my mother quiet, but when I step inside the front foyer I hear a ruckus in the living room. The sound of a drawer opening then slamming shut makes me grimace. Peeking in, my mom’s tall, willowy frame comes into focus just as she’s about to sit down. Her chocolate locks are perfectly blown out in soft, flowing waves, and she’s wearing what I refer to as her Fifth Avenue uniform: tweed Chanel coat with designer jeans. That way she appears sophisticated and young all at the same time. A perfectly Botoxed face helps with the latter.

  “Umm. Hi, Mom,” I stammer in bewilderment, still not understanding why she’s here. “Aren’t you supposed to be away?” Her head pops up, and if she could frown she would. Luckily for her, the muscles on her forehead are frozen solid.

  “Lynn.” That’s all she says before rummaging some more in the desk drawer.

  “What are you looking for? Do you need help finding it?”

  “Just papers from your father. Nothing of your concern.” The annoyance is evident in her voice. I stand for a moment, wondering what else I should say, but she gets up with a stack of papers in her hand. They appear to be legal papers, judging by their size.

  “Are you staying for dinner?”

  “No, I’m leaving now.”

  That’s no surprise. Why would I think differently? “I guess I’ll call Bridget and see what her mom is making . . . again,” I mutter.

  “I don’t want you going there. That girl . . . she’s beneath us. Don’t you have any other friends?”

  “What’s your problem with her?” She’s always had an issue with Bridget. Even the first time she met her, there was something in her eyes. A deep, rotten hatred I couldn’t understand. A level of disdain that was unfathomable to me. I’ll never forget how Bridget held her hand up in introduction and my mom stepped away. Shunned her. My face had turned hot, and tears welled in my eyes. I had never felt so embarrassed. But Bridget had simply laughed it off, vowing that we’d spend more time at her place. So from there on out, that’s what we did.

  “I don’t like that family,” she huffs, her face reddening by the second.

  “Why? Because they’re happy? You know you can’t resent everyone whose family is actually happy.”

  “Don’t believe everything you see. Most of the lies and deceit hide beneath the surface.”

  And with that she storms out of the room, leaving me utterly confused.

  The next day comes faster than I’d hoped. I spend the period staring at the clock on the wall. Almost done. Almost time to leave this hell.

  The Mr. Blake from yesterday after school is gone and replaced once more with the somber Mr. Blake. His face is stone again, and he doesn’t smile. He goes about his lesson rarely looking at me, and the few times he does, I swear he hates me. His stare is so intense it makes waves of chills run up my body.

  “Okay, guys. As you well know, Cranbrook has a mandatory number of community service hours you must complete every year. The school has provided a list of students to be divided into two groups.” Most of the hands in the class lift. “Before you ask, no, you can’t pick your group, and yes, you can petition to pick your own community service project, but that option requires weekly check-in papers.” A few groans emanate around us. “Remember, colleges love good recommendations.”

  He pauses and pulls out a paper from his desk. “It won’t be hard at all. Only a few hours a week for the next few months, and I will write you the shiniest, most kick-ass recommendation to send off with your college applications.”

  The whines cease. A “kick-ass” recommendation from a faculty member of Cranbrook is solid gold. As much as money can buy you into this school, withholding recommendations is the teachers’ silent protest against the wealth and opulence around them.

  “Okay, group one. Katie Anderson, Scott Berry . . .” I tune out as he continues to prattle on. “Gwendolyn Adams.”

  When I hear my name, the muscles in my back go stiff, and I jet my eyes up to meet his gaze. His eyes dark, he forces a smile. He was hoping I wasn’t in this group. There is no question.

  “Courtney Michaels.” He continues to list the students until he is finally done. “Okay, everyone whose name I called out, please stay after class for a minute so I can tell you the incidentals. Thursday will be our first day. If you have any problems, please speak to me after class.”

  When the bell finally rings, there are ten of us still in the room.

  “Once a week, we will meet to go to The Kids’ Club on 75th and Second. We can walk together, or if for some reason you are late leaving the school, you can meet the group there at four o’clock. You are required to spend an hour there, but if you want to stay longer, even better. We will be reading to the kids.” A hand from the back of the class must go up, because he points and then lifts his chin to signal whoever is raising their hand to ask their question.

  “What will we be reading, Mr. Blake?” I turn my head over my shoulder and see that Scott is asking the question from the back of the room. I look back toward Mr. Blake to see how he’ll respond. His eyes drift closed, then open and find mine.

  “Greek myths.”

  I suck in a breath at the memory that invades my brain. His hands . . .

  His tongue.

  It’s as if Mr. Blake can hear my thoughts, because his features harden. “The kid-friendly versions.”

  “Like Percy Jackson?” Someone says from the back of the classroom.

  “Exactly like that, but these books were written and published for elementary school kids. When we meet after school on Thursday, I will distribute a copy to each of you before we leave, and I will hand you the name of the child you will be reading to. I’ll see you all around three on the front step. If you choose to go straight
to the club, I’ll bring your book with me. Just let me know before the end of class on Thursday.” He turns around and starts shuffling papers on his desk.

  I move briskly out of the classroom. It’s bad enough I have to see Mr. Blake every day in my first period class, but now I have to see him once a week after school as well. What type of fate is this?

  HAVING LYNN IN MY CLASS every day is starting to grate on me. I hate being the asshole, but I don’t know any other way to handle this situation. It sucks that I’m forced to avoid her, and the truth is every time I see the hurt in her eyes, I want to pull her aside and tell her how truly sorry I am. Sometimes the insane notion to resign actually filters through my brain. That would be the easiest way out of this hell, plus, in truth, it’d be the right thing to do. But in the end it doesn’t happen. Instead, I build walls. Walls I have no intention of letting her breach.

  Now to keep them up.

  The first test to my armor is approaching, and that’s because today is finally Thursday. Today is the first day of the new volunteer program at The Kids’ Club, and may officially be the worst thing that could have happened. Why did I bother to volunteer to head up this program? You did it for the kids. Plus, you didn’t know Lynn would be in your group. But now that I know, I can’t shake the feeling that this will be my demise.

  A strangled groan escapes. Yep, I’m fucked. I’m having a hard enough time keeping my thoughts straight in the building; add on more temptation, and I’ll be itching to get out the tension.

  Coffee.

  Coffee will not help, but at least it will keep me distracted.

  “Well, hello, Carson,” Lauren purrs at me when I enter the teacher’s lounge. Great. Just what I need. School hasn’t even been back a week, and I’ve already been hit on by nearly all the female staff in the building. Don’t these women know? Don’t shit where you eat. I’m saying this, and yet all I can think about is what color underwear Lynn wears under that skirt.

  Oh, the fucking irony.