Star-Crossed

by Luna Lacour

  Breathing deep, I heaved open the heavy barrier and stepped inside. Only to see, of all things, Mr. Tennant as he was buttoning his shirt.

  He paused. The two of us froze for what couldn’t have been longer than half a second, but he lingered just long enough for me to see the beginnings of his chest. Protruding collarbones; taut muscle covering fair skin.

  On the chair beside him was a T-shirt.

  I turned immediately, slammed the door shut, and didn’t come inside until Mr. Tennant opened the door and cleared his throat.

  “Terribly sorry,” he mumbled, chagrined. “Coffee spill. Come in.”

  He made certain to latch the door behind him. When it was just the two of us, I smiled at him and he smiled at me, and he pointed to the rows of stadium-style theater seating.

  “You can take a seat for now,” he said mildly. “The rest should be arriving shortly.”

  He returned to his seat nearby on stage, focusing on some papers he was grading. I watched him, feeling for the first time a sort of awkwardness. Like I’d made some grand overstep.

  He didn’t look up at me once.

  And that’s when the notion came that maybe I had fantasized everything. The prolonged looks and soft sighs had been nothing but a tortured, ever-enveloping piece of my imagination.

  “Mr. Tennant,” I said, after several seconds had passed. He looked up, eyebrows raised, and I was ashamed at my own hesitancy. “Is it true that Olivia Hussey has a nude scene in Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet?”

  His lips parted, then closed, then parted again.

  “It’s very brief,” he finally said. “Fleeting, really. Lasts a quick second.”

  “Oh,” I mumbled, crossing my legs. “But there are no nude scenes in this play, correct?”

  He fumbled; coughing and tapping a finger, more rapidly, against his desk.

  “I’d say that’s rather obvious,” he said. Then, finally, he scooted his chair back. “You ask a lot of forward questions, Miss Laurent.”

  I smiled. He smiled.

  “I think it’s okay for you to call me Kaitlyn.”

  Will laughed, loud and lovely and echoing a sound that I wish could have lasted forever. He didn’t laugh much, so when he did, it was wonderful. I liked that I made him laugh.

  “Mr. Tennant,” I curled my fingers into fists, releasing them immediately. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty,” he answered, stopping himself. “Eight.”

  “Twenty-eight?”

  “Yes,” he said, tongue clicking against the side of his cheek. Eventually he took the papers that were on the small stage-centered table, stacked them into a neat pile, and shoved the desk noisily behind the curtain. When he finally emerged, it felt like the symbolic gesture had rendered him someone new. A resurrected William Tennant. “How old are you?”

  “Legal,” I told him. His brow furrowed.

  “Don’t be crass,” he said. Was it sick that a part of me enjoyed his authoritative, borderline parental tone? Maybe. “What is your age?”

  “Eighteen,” I said. “I turned eighteen in January.”

  He smiled. Twenty-eight. A decade between us.

  “Did you do anything fun to celebrate?”

  He was closer now, but for some reason I had failed to notice in the span of time between my eyes falling to the ground and his silent footsteps sliding forward.

  I considered telling him that my father had wanted to make the event into something big. A party of the grandest endeavor; something that Trinity Prep – and the parents of the highest social breeding of Trinity Prep – would be talking about long after the mess was cleaned up.

  But because I didn’t feel like being placed on display like my father’s proper little china doll, I threw a very convincing teenage fit. Doors slammed, my father’s bellows shook the walls, and when all was said and done, I succeeded in procuring the only real thing I wanted for my eighteen birthday: a quiet evening alone in my room, with nobody bothering me. No questions, prodding, or pedestals. Just the imagined facade that my life was something conceivably normal.

  “No,” I said flatly. “I stayed inside and read horrible, mainstream bubblegum magazines. It was perfect.”

  He laughed again, and this time I was certain. At least, mostly certain, that I hadn’t imagined it. There was something wading, waiting, weighed with a pending, pensive intoxication in Mr. Tennant’s dark and lovely eyes.

  But that was the last time we spoke personally, before the rest of those who were auditioning showed up, and I was reminded that no, we wouldn’t remain alone together. There was an entire room full of students.

  An entire school full of them. An entire city. An entire world full of potential risk and ruin.

  I moved to the very back of the stadium seating, threw my bag down, and tried to remain inconspicuous.

  Tyler was the first one in, looking nervous as he intensely flipped through his tattered copy of Romeo and Juliet. He paced around, avoiding the others as they quickly sifted in though the doors. Piper arrived, her eyes heavy as she rolled a wad of something around in her mouth. She had about the same subtlety of a cow chewing grass, but oddly enough, there was something sultry about the way her mouth moved.

  “God, just let me paint props or something,” she muttered to the nameless girl beside her. “Unless I get Juliet, that is. I swear, I’d rather die than be given any other female part.”

  “What, no Rosaline?”

  Of all people, of all damned people, Marius showed up behind her. Thank God for the shadows and ability to hide in the back row, because the rage was already simmering.

  “She doesn’t have a speaking part, Marius.” Piper touched his face, and he snapped away. For a second, she looked hurt. “No words, no words, no words.”

  “Perfect for you then,” he uttered, presumably joking; though Piper’s bright expression dropped and she quickly stormed away.

  When he saw me, he waved like the entire thing was nothing. I sank further into my seat, and was actually mildly relieved when Tyler spotted me and came galloping up the steps.

  “Well, you doth teach the torches to burn bright, Kaitlyn. You sure look happy.”

  I stared at him.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a dagger somewhere in that giant backpack of yours, would you?”

  Tyler looked alarmed. I decided to brush it off and let him slide into the chair next to me.

  I caught Mr. Tennant glance up at the two of us, hold his gaze, and then look away.

  When the seats were filled, the noise a subdued rumble, Will clapped his hands and the auditions finally came to a start. At first, they putted along with a pace that was almost anguishing. Every girl, of course, wanted to be Juliet; though their nerves, as Mr. Tennant watched them carefully, were evident. It resulted in a slew of shotty auditions; many of the girls giving their lines in large, bouting spills. Some would make a brief apology, ask for a re-try, and Will would agree and let them have another go. Not that it would save them.

  When Piper took stage, I was slightly more interested. However, her pale white hair and gauzy voice didn’t seem to match up with The Bard’s prose, and many – including myself – were left both simultaneously sighing and stilled. It just didn’t feel right. As Piper remained on the stage for another minute, waiting for some kind of response, Will finally settled with a half-enthused:

  “Very good.”

  And, smiling perhaps slightly too tight, he motioned for her to have a seat. I knew then that she wouldn’t be getting the role. Nor would she be fit to play the nurse, or really anyone.

  Piper walked offstage, her feet scuffing against the heavily-polished flooring, and left the rest of the lot to surrender themselves to Mr. Tennant’s mercy.

  Tyler’s audition for Romeo went surprisingly well, and I was shocked at the fact that even when Will threw a series of random lines his way – playing the Friar – he was able to respond with prompt, convincing emotion.

  He was good. He was exce
llent, in fact. But he didn’t seem all that convinced of it himself.

  “Maybe I’ll get Benvolio, if anything…” he kicked at the backpack that sat like a crouched-over lump by his feet. “I’m definitely not fit for Mercutio. Or Tybalt.”

  “Thou talk’st of nothing,” I said, and he smiled. “You did great.”

  When Marius walked on stage, however, Tyler seemed to lower further and further into his seat.

  “He’s good,” he whispered as Marius took stage, throwing about an imaginary sword while running the Feud scene with Mr. Tennant - who was pretending to be Mercutio. The two of them went back and forth; Marius finally gave Will a theatrical stab, and Will went down on his knees as the whole crowd stood and cheered.

  “Don’t worry,” I reassured Tyler, my face burning. “He’s nothing more than, at most, The Prince of Cats.”

  Tyler gulped, nodding and brushing a bit of hair away from his eyes. In the dim shadows of the back rows, they looked almost emerald.

  “Prince of Cats indeed.”

  Marius, after giving a bow, leapt off the stage and raised his chin, just barely, to meet what was likely a very ugly scowl. His lip twitched in the corner; his smirk nothing but the smallest glimpse of any real, sincere smile. He drank down the praise like heavy liquor, dazed amidst the premature congratulatory shoulder-slaps from those around him; some that hadn’t even read their lines yet.

  On stage, Will was grazing over the rest of us while a pen hung from the corner of his mouth; a cigarette of sorts. When he saw me, he smiled, and I hoped to God my face wasn’t red.

  “Kaitlyn,” he said. “Why don’t you come here and give it a shot?”

  “Yeah, Kaitlyn,” Marius turned, glaring at me from the front row. A group of girls giggled. “Why don’t you give it a shot?”

  Tyler gave my elbow a small nudge, and anger poured over me like scalding water. I stormed down the steps and in less time than it took to make a wish and blow out birthday candles, I was staring Will down. Eye to eye.

  I was convinced, very briefly, that this must have been some kind of dream. People in the real world don’t look like he did, or possess me the way he was able to. I was dizzy and enraged, and pointing to the book in Tennant’s hands, I asked:

  “What would you like me to say?”

  He flipped to a random page; his tongue pressing lightly over his bottom lips as he skimmed the words. Finally, he went ahead and spoke.

  “Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn. The gallant, young and noble gentleman, The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church, shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.”

  The room lit up with soft laughter, snickering at Mr. Tennant’s attempt to sound feminine. I realized, watching a slow smile fall over his lips, that he was testing my reaction. It didn’t make sense for him to play Lady Capulet, maybe. But it made sense for him to see just how well I was able to lose myself at a moment’s direction.

  Digging my nails into my palms, wincing, I glared.

  “Now, by Saint Peter’s Church – and Peter, too! He shall NOT make me there a joyful bride!”

  I didn’t give him a chance to respond. I gave no one a chance to respond. In the silence, I walked offstage and straight through the theater entrance, forgetting my backpack that carried all the things I still needed. My wallet. A sweater.

  Outside, the air still hung with a veil of cold frost.

  Breathless, I shook my head, went back inside, and was met with an applause even louder than the one Marius had received. Tyler, too, had a grin that stretched from ear-to-ear.

  “That was fantastic!” he said fantastic in a way that stretched out all three syllables, clapping his hands like a child. “I mean, really, really fantastic. Where did you muster that up from?”

  I shrugged lightly, throwing my bag over my shoulder with a soft, strained sigh.

  “Feel like walking with me to class?” I asked, half smiling.

  That was all it took. He jumped up, simply contented to tag along, like a lost puppy dog, as we braved the everyday torrent of leers and laughter.

  “When do you think we reached a point where people just stopped giving a shit about others?” I asked him.

  Tyler straightened his jacket, the wrinkles on his sleeves giving everything about him away in the simplest kind of slip. Who he was, how he lived.

  “Childhood is measured out by the sounds and smells and sights, before the dark hour of reason grows,” Tyler muttered, sounding slightly somber. “That’s John Betjeman.”

  “That’s bleak, Tyler.”

  He touched my elbow, and I let him. It was a nice kind of different, standing there with him.

  Stepping back, he gave an encompassing gesture.

  “That’s all of this, Kait. It’s everything.”

  Then he just kept walking, paces ahead of me. And I didn’t press him, or ask for him to elaborate, or give me some deeper answer. I didn’t correct him about my name. I just let him go.

  I just let him call me Kait.

  In class, Mr. Tennant gave each of us a copy of Lolita, and I spent a solid minute staring at her lips before someone chimed in.

  “Did you know this cover is actually censored?” they said. “In the original cover, the lips were supposed to be vertical. But you know why they switched it?”

  Will sighed.

  “I already know what you’re about to say. You don’t need to say it.”

  But of course, they said it anyway.

  “Because it looked like a vagina. That’s why.”

  The room hissed in quiet, suppressed laughter. In my opinion, I wasn’t too sure that the vast majority of these people were mature enough to read such a great literary masterpiece. But here we were, reading it anyway.

  We talked a bit about unreliable narrators, and I skimmed through the pages as Will’s voice sang over my thoughts. I flipped back to the cover, looking at her lips again, and of all things, wondered how Humbert would have turned out if Annabel didn’t die.

  When class was dismissed, he called me to his desk with a harsh sort of tone, pressing his lips together tightly. I stayed seated until everyone was gone before approaching him, feeling vaguely uneasy.

  “Kaitlyn,” he started, brightening. “I’d like you to know that the role is yours. Congratulations.”

  “You mean, if I want it,” I told him.

  For a moment, he looked puzzled.

  “Do you want it?” he asked. In my skewed, blurred thoughts, I imagined it almost as if he had said, do you want me?

  “Yes,” I told him. Both. “I do. Thank you so much, Mr. Tennant.”

  There’s a tactic that I’ve learned in my limited experiences with the opposite sex. That is, anything within the realm of making out and heavy petting. If you hug a boy, pay attention to where their hands fall, where they wrap their arms around. The neck, upper body, waist. Each has their own, unique translation.

  Neck – I love you.

  Upper body – I like you.

  Waist – I want you.

  I slid my arms around his sides, standing on my toes so that my palms splayed across the breadth of his shoulder blades.

  His hands fell on my waist.

  As I drew away, he raised a hand as if he were about to pose a question; there was a hesitancy to the act. Slowly, gently, he traced a finger down my cheek, stopping at my chin. He tilted my face upwards to meet his gaze; heavy, full of a toying question and possibility.

  And then his hand fell, both arms straight at his sides.

  I was still staring, planted to the tile.

  “Enjoy the rest of your day, Kaitlyn.”

  Will was already at his desk, smiling with the utmost professionalism.

  My heart skipped.

  “You too, Mr. Tennant.”

  FIVE

  People often say that the direct link to our behaviors is through our parents. That whether or not we receive a certain amount of praise, or affection, or love can alter how we treat those around us when
we’re grown.

  I’ll admit, as a child, I loved my mother. Like most little girls do. She was a beautiful woman, whose smile was always soft and perfume even softer. Her voice always quiet, gentle, warm like a fine cordial. She had honey-golden hair and warm brown eyes, and she always wore her hair in curls; pinned up with jeweled combs that sparkled in a way that always managed to keep my attention.

  However, I had few memories of my time with her. She was a distant woman, much too preoccupied with her own affairs to engage in the traditional mother-daughter tendencies; shopping, lunch dates. And as a child, most of what I could recall consisted of moments where I was scolded for getting into her things. Like her silk scarfs, or once, a set of those delicate combs. I remember sneaking in – I was maybe eight or nine years old – and opening up the jewelry box; noting how she kept them all spread out with a perfect spacing. Each centimeter calculated, perfect, just as she was.

  I picked up my favorite one, gold with emeralds inlaid in the shape of a flower, and set it in my hair. I smiled at myself in the mirror, perfectly pleased. I was exactly who I wanted to be.

  When my mother saw, she laughed, plucking the thing out of my hair in a way that unintentionally snagged against the thin strands. My lips puckered immediately when she set the comb back into her jewelery box, touching my face with a warm hand. She smelled of lilacs.

  I loved my mother, though. I really did.

  “Oh, you silly girl,” she cooed. “These combs aren’t toys. We don’t play with them.”

  She was wrong, just like she was wrong about everything else. You see, all of the finer things were toys, just as all the pretty clothes for the pretty girls and pretty boys were costumes. All of the mansions and oceans that sailed yachts and dreams were merely sets for a grander scheme.

  I was just too young to correct her.

  And my mother, my beautiful mother with her kind voice and wandering eyes, she closed the silver box and left the room, beckoned by my father’s booming laughter.

  From the window, I saw as she ran out into the garden, surrounded by the same white lilacs that kissed her skin, and he swept her up in his arms like she was the only woman he would ever want. They were madly, inconceivably in love. He named stores stuffed with the finest clothing and jewels and everything after her.