by A. Zavarelli
Keller Vaughn is everything that I aspire to be.
An artist. A visionary. A creator.
If ever a perfect man existed, it would be him. The only problem is… that perfect man?
He’s also my professor.
*
I came here to teach. To absolve myself from the guilt of my past by doing good for others.
That plan has worked out just fine.
Until her.
Chloe Abernathy.
Because when I see the shy dancer in the back of my classroom, the man in me wants nothing more to corrupt her.
Salacious
A. Zavarelli
Chapter One
Chloe
“Five, six,” the instructor counts. “Heels down. Watch those shoulders.”
She moves around the room, adjusting arms and watching each dancer carefully. Isabel’s voice sings out the choreography and I follow on autopilot.
“Seven, eight. Lift up.”
“Nine, ten,” I whisper to myself. “Where’s your head?”
Repetition. Repetition. Repetition.
I’m going through the motions, but I’m not really here. I’m not really anywhere. My mind is somewhere else. On a rooftop, surrounded by an explosion of colors. I live for those colors. That secret high.
“And settle back into fifth position.”
The music halts, and my anxiety does too. Around me, the other dancers chatter. I melt into the floor like the most obedient of soldiers, my drill sergeant’s voice echoing through my mind.
Stretch. Stretch. Stretch.
Always stretching, never moving.
“Chloe Abernathy.”
I glance up from my place on the floor to meet my teacher’s gaze. But she isn’t alone. Beside her are the familiar brown eyes of disappointment. Always disappointment.
My breath seizes when it dawns on me that he’s been here the whole time. Watching.
“A word, please,” Isabel says.
I stand up on shaky legs and tie the cardigan around my waist, following my father and Isabel to my doom.
My eyes dart to the windows as we pass through the hallway. The sunlight streams through the stained glass and dances on the tile floor. I want to disappear into those colors. Into the shadows. Into anything.
I’d rather be anywhere else right now.
I know it’s coming before I even sit down in Mr. Dacosta’s office. The dean. My father sits beside me too, crossing his legs and folding his hands in the most pretentious of positions. The fact that he won’t even look at me makes it painfully obvious that he still thinks this is complete nonsense.
His bored expression is focused on the dean. And I can smell the alcohol on his breath from here. Gin. Always Gin.
“Your father wished to have a meeting,” Isabel tells me. “To discuss your recent performance in the studio.”
I wring my hands together in my lap and focus on my fingers. The bony, pale flesh grows cold beneath the weight of the pressure in this room.
“As I’ve discussed with you already, Chloe,” Isabel continues, “we are happy to have you here at the art institute. It gives me great pleasure to have a student with your talents in my class. But, I also believe it might be beneficial for you to consider some real auditions.”
“I would have to agree,” my father states with obvious disdain.
As if this teacher could tell him anything he does not already know himself. My whole life has been a straight shot at the same goal. No deviation allowed. All I’ve ever known were the best teachers. Ballet academies. Summer camps. When it wasn’t at school, it was at home. With him.
I’ve lived, breathed, and thought of nothing but dance for as long as I can remember.
My father never wanted me to come here. To school. But he promised me one year. And now, after not even six months, he is trying to take that away from me. They both are.
Isabel meets my gaze, but I can barely look at her. She has spoken to him already. She is a dancer first and foremost. And one who has hung up her proverbial pointes for good.
“A dancer has such a short shelf life to begin with,” she reminds me. “I don’t want you to waste any opportunities that are available to you.”
“Except for school,” I murmur. “Except that one.”
“You have received high marks in all of your classes,” Mr. Dacosta notes from behind his desk. “You can always come back when your dance career is finished. Or even just take one class per semester if you wish.”
Of course he’s going to say that. After my father’s sizable donation to the college. This entire meeting is pointless. Because it doesn’t matter what I want. It only matters what they want. What my father wants. And he will do anything to ensure that he gets it.
He wants to believe that I am a natural born prodigy.
But that’s only his imagination. It’s always been his imagination. That I could be her. The ghost who haunts him.
I am not her. I do not possess a natural talent for dance. Everything I’ve earned has come through nothing less than blood, sweat, and tears. But it isn’t the thing I want most, and that’s the problem.
“I believe that something is holding you back, Chloe,” Isabel observes.
Her eyes are judging me. Watching me. Acting as if she knows anything about me.
“Perhaps it is fear? That’s only natural. But we cannot help you if you don’t tell us what’s wrong.”
“There’s nothing wrong,” I lie.
A lie that so easily slips from my lips. It’s the one I say the most often. I’m fine. I’m okay. Everything is perfect.
I’m attending one of the most prestigious art colleges in the country. I’m on track for an apprenticeship and then a position within a real ballet company.
Never stop. Never rest. One day, you will be Prima.
Just like my mother before me. Just like my father always wanted.
It’s what everyone in this room wants.
Everyone except for me.
From the corner of my eye, I can see my father’s hand trembling. He’s itching for a drink. Trying to contain the rage boiling inside of him. The disappointment.
I can’t meet his gaze, but I feel it on me now. Like fire and ice all at once.
“Does this have anything to do with your minor?” he demands. “Because you assured me, Chloe, that you would manage.”
“It has nothing to do with that,” I lie again.
“I’ve checked with her professors in the art department,” Mr. Dacosta answers. “It seems Chloe’s grades in her art classes are average.”
I blink up at him and bite the inside of my cheek. Oddly enough, these are the words that anger me the most.
Because I have to hide the truth. The fact that art is my real passion. That I can paint and draw and sculpt, but I have to keep those abilities hidden. To blend in with the rest of the students and turn in mediocre work so that I never get noticed. So that I never stand out.
And so that my father never takes those things away from me.
“Just tell me the facts,” my father demands. “That is all I am here for.”
“While we appreciate the contributions you have made, Mr. Abernathy,” Isabel answers, “the facts are that we believe Chloe is destined for the stage. That she is ready.”
My father’s hand shakes harder, gripping his other wrist to keep them both in place.
“I assure you,” he answers on my behalf, “she will begin auditioning seriously. By semester’s end. Isn’t that right, Chloe?”
“Yes,” I answer obediently.
And then I stare out the window. At the colors in the trees, blending them on a palate in my imagination to create something dark. Somet
hing sinister.
And something free.
“By the end of semester.”
Chapter Two
Keller
While the room is quiet and still, I seize the opportunity to sit at my desk and absorb the silence. Soon, it will be filled with students. Low murmurs and the collaborative sounds of pencils and paper, canvas and paintbrushes. Out of habit, I pull up the calendar on my phone, counting down the days until the end of semester. Sixty three.
I don’t know why that brings relief, but it does.
This environment is stifling to me. But it’s also what I deserve.
This was not the life I envisioned for myself only six years ago. But six years ago, everything changed. And now the only thing I can do to make amends for the events of that day is to tell myself that I am making a difference here. In the only way I can.
By helping students. By teaching that which I can no longer do myself.
That is the lie I tell myself every day when I step inside this classroom. When my students look up at me with sometimes hopeful, sometimes admirable faces, I like to believe that this is right. That this is where I need to be.
But the truth is, they each already hold the necessary ingredients. They have what it takes. The want. That is the only thing that matters. That want will be the driving force of all their artistic endeavors. That want will not quiet or dampen the flames inside of them.
And I am merely the fool who will stand in front of them, attempting to guide them to something they can only ever learn for themselves.
I see that in their faces when they are staring back at me. As they enter the room and take their seats, excitement thrumming through their veins.
All of them except for her.
The girl in the back.
The one with the blonde hair and bone white flesh. The walking contradiction who looks like a porcelain doll but dresses like a gothic cartoon character. Her eyes are just like one too. The biggest, bluest, most haunted eyes I’ve ever seen.
She is an artist’s muse if I ever saw one. Tragic.
To say that I have not noticed her would be a lie. She is the only thing I seem to notice in this class anymore.
The lies she draws and paints with her hands. Trying so hard not to try at all.
It nags at my curiosity. And I haven’t been curious about anyone or anything in a very long time.
She is a dance major. Ballet, specifically, which makes sense upon one glance at her delicate body. But here she sits, in my art classes, always so rapt with whatever piece of advice I have to offer. She never talks to anyone. Not even me. But she is always listening. Observing. Trying so hard to conceal that excitement thrumming through her own veins.
There is a bored expression on her face at present, her eyes bouncing around the classroom. A ritual she always performs. Checking to see if anyone is watching her. If anyone is onto the secrets she keeps inside.
But they never are.
Only me.
The last person in this room who should be observing her this way. My student.
She is my student.
I remind myself of that for the thousandth time, even as my eyes move over her black leggings and shredded tank top.
And then as if she can feel my eyes on her, she looks up and meets my gaze.
I remain seated at my desk to conceal the evidence of the reaction that simple look produces in me. When all of the students have settled into their seats and I have their attention, I open up the lesson plan on my desk and clear my throat.
“Let’s begin.”
Chapter Three
Chloe
It’s late when I get to the studio.
The real studio. The only one I care about.
I like to come here at these late hours. To watch him in his element.
Keller Vaughn.
The entire reason I am even at this school.
My father thinks I came here for the dance program. The sponsorship opportunities and famous alumni. But it couldn’t be further from the truth.
The only reason I came here is sitting at his desk. Charcoal in hand, blank paper in front of him.
He never fills it in. He never even so much as touches it. But I can see it in his eyes. The way he is making magic in his mind. The way he studies the paper so intensely, he barely notices when I come in.
He is a genius. An artist. A professor.
And a damaged soul.
I’ve followed his career since the age of sixteen. When his work was at the height of its popularity. When everybody wanted a piece of the mysterious ‘Rellek’. It was an explosive movement in the art world. A revolution. The marriage of street art and fine art in a collaboration so addictive the world couldn’t help but take notice. The mystery of the man who worked within the shadows only added to the allure. Speculation was rampant. Code breakers trying to discover the meaning behind the name. Investigative sleuths and entire online communities of fans and foes.
His work was controversial. Highly visible to the public eye. Murals on the sides of well-known buildings. Buildings that quadrupled in value simply for being touched by his hands. His signature. Soon, he was being commissioned through channels of absurd proportions.
Celebrities, universities, galleries… they all wanted a piece of him. And little by little, he caved to the pressure.
And then one day, it was all gone.
Taken by a crazed fan who set off a bomb in the packed theater he was performing in. The shadows couldn’t protect him from the shrapnel. And after the death toll had risen, and only the newspaper articles remained, the world knew him for who he really was.
Rellek was simply Keller. Keller Vaughn. The simplicity of his pseudonym shocked the millions who had spent countless hours speculating what it could mean. The fans who revered his work turned on him. Blaming him for the horrors of that day.
He blames himself too.
Which is why he sits here now, still in the shadows, but no longer hiding. An artist who no longer creates.
I ache with that same feeling inside of me. That pain and the longing.
What he sees when he stares at his blank paper is the same thing I see in the dance studio. Repression.
It is in both of our souls.
And this is why Keller Vaughn is my hero.
My inspiration.
And also the reminder of the very thing I am destined to become.
He looks up and meets my gaze. And something softens in his expression. He uses the opportunity to discard the charcoal in his hand. The one that he never actually used.
“Chloe.”
“Hi, Mr. Vaughn,” I greet him.
I’m still in my ballet attire, but his eyes linger on my face. It is a strange sensation, in my strange world. When I am so familiar with eyes on my body. Examining me. Studying me. Seeking out the imperfections. His eyes are on my face. And it is completely devoid of the expectation I am also so used to seeing.
This is the most we ever speak. These frivolous greetings.
But I want more. I crave more.
Mr. Vaughn will not give it though. He is an island. And I’m surprised he regards me at all, given the level of work I turn into him.
He doesn’t see the real me.
But I wish he could.
I wish he could see my art. My real art. And that he would give me his honest opinion. That he would tell me if I’m crazy to want the things I do. To hope for the things I can never have.
He stands up and prepares to leave. He’s dressed in gray trousers and a soft knit navy blue sweater with a button-up underneath. The same version of clothing he always wears to class. Professional without being stuffy.
His leg is giving him more trouble today than usual, I notice as he walks around the desk to adjust the lighting. He always keeps it dark when he’s in here. Just him.
But now that I’m here, he adjusts the light. There’s a part of me that wants to te
ll him he doesn’t have to. That I like being in the shadows with him.
But I don’t voice that part of myself.
Mr. Vaughn doesn’t know me. He thinks I am quiet. Which is true. But he doesn’t know the storm inside of me. He doesn’t know the things I think or feel. Especially here, in his presence.
He could never know that I’ve studied every aspect of the beauty in his face. The line of his jaw, the curve of his nose. The gray eyes that always seem to remain flat now. The fire snuffed out of his soul six years ago.
He wears black-framed glasses. And his brown hair is always styled neat at the start of the day, but haphazardly by the end. He likes to run his hands through it, and I like to watch.
He fascinates me. In every way.
He is a survivor.
And yet he hates himself for it.
At thirty-five years old, he has stopped living. Given up. Ceased to do the one thing that he was born to.
So here he remains, in this college of arts, teaching oblivious students who could never fully appreciate his talents. Because he doesn’t even remember what they are anymore.
But I do.
He moves towards the door, and a part of me moves with him. An ache to comfort him. To tell him he is not alone. And that I feel it too.
This deadness. This solemn loneliness.
All of the blooms have been cut from both of our lives, and only winter remains inside of us.
Stark, cold, winter.
He pauses at the doorway, the same way he does every time he leaves. And I wait for it with bated breath. For his eyes to land on me. For me to enter his orbit if only for a mere second.
“Goodnight, Chloe.”
My heart thumps wildly at the most simplistic of words. “Goodnight, Mr. Vaughn.”
Chapter Four
Chloe
Group critiques.
My least favorite part of the art classes. I need more critique in my life like I need a knife to the heart.