Star-Crossed

by Luna Lacour

  “What authority?” I nearly snapped. “You mean your daughter? The one who’s responsible for the mess of papers that were stuffed into just about every locker in Trinity Prep?”

  I leaned back, trying to collect myself. Trying to ignore the insufferable sound of my own heartbeat as it pounded in my ears.

  I looked up at Mr. Whitman; his expression hadn’t changed.

  “Where’s Mr. Tennant?” I asked again, standing, leaning over his desk. I wasn’t trying to appear threatening. I was desperate. I was breaking down. “I went to the theater, and the doors were locked. He wasn’t there.”

  “Kaitlyn,” he said, his voice like clove and honey. “I need you to sit down.”

  “Tell me,” I said. And then I slid back, sinking slowly into my seat. “I want to know where he is.”

  “Are you admitting that the allegations are true?”

  “You tell me,” I told him. “Because it’s obvious you’ve already spoken to Mr. Tennant.”

  A long pause followed. Neither of us moved. Outside the door, the receptionist laughed; the keyboard sang; the doors opened and closed. Someone flushed a toilet, another coughed. More faint, subdued laughter.

  I looked at him. I looked at him, and a part of me already knew.

  “Mr. Tennant has stepped down from his position here,” he said plainly. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  “He’s gone,” I said. A piece of my heart crumbled; I could feel the tears start to well. “You fired him.”

  A hot spill of saline fell down my cheeks. I wiped them with my sleeve; the stain leaving the fabric black.

  Mr. Whitman spoke carefully, still calm as tepid rainfall.

  “We have a standard to uphold here at Trinity Preparatory Academy,” he said. “Mr. Tennant was terminated because he confessed to behavior that was against that standard. The student and pupil threshold is strictly defined, Kaitlyn.”

  “What do you need from me that he hasn’t already given you, then?” I asked. “That the piece of paper sitting on your desk hasn’t already given you?”

  A knock on the door followed; the receptionist poked her head in. A meeting was canceled, an argument in the halls dismissed. He was waiting on me to tell him exactly what Mr. Tennant had; that we were sleeping together. That a teacher was seeing one of his students. That we were the centerpieces in a scandal.

  “I’m afraid that given the nature of your current circumstances,” he said slowly. “Your breaking of school conduct, on multiple grounds, has rendered you unfit to continue attending here.”

  “So you’re expelling me. You fired Mr. Tennant, and you’re expelling me. We have less than a month left in the semester, Mr. Whitman,” I paused, my eyes and every part of me burning. “And have you even spoken to my father? Are you aware of the uproar this is going to cause?”

  Mr. Whitman picked up the phone from the receiver; the dial-tone hummed. He set it down on his desk. I stared blankly.

  “If there’s anything you’d like to add,” he said. “You’re welcome to say it now.”

  I knew what he was alluding to; whether Mr. Tennant had taken advantage of me. Whether I wanted to make this into a legal case instead of a sad, foolish series of events. I thought about that scene in V for Vendetta, where Natalie Portman is under interrogation; they shaved her head, stripped her bare, mutilated her. They had taken everything, but she didn’t break.

  “I have nothing to say to you,” I told him. Each word spilled harshly. “Now can I go?”

  He nodded, taking the paper and placing it face-down. But he refused to give it to me.

  “I’m very sorry,” he said. “But we have rules for a reason. There are consequences for these actions, Kaitlyn. You’re a smart girl. You’re not blind.”

  As I reached the door, my hand on the knob, I spoke one last time; remembering the faint look of apology in Mr. Whitman’s eyes. Maybe a part of him understood. If not his vindictive daughter, than what it felt like to be human.

  “But I was, though,” I said, though the words came out more as a breath. “I was in love.”

  I didn’t bother keeping anything from my locker; there was nothing worth holding onto. No photographs, no little saved notes. Everything was worth throwing away, and I was okay with that.

  But as I gathered my thoughts, spending those few last minutes walking through the halls for one final time, I almost wished that I had such things. That I had some sort of normal, teenage relics to hold onto. All I really had was a fleeting, forbidden love story; and even that, I could keep ahold of. It was ripped into tiny little shredded pieces; kicked up by the shoes of various passing students. I was left subjected only to the relentless hisses and softly-whispered ridicule of my peers.

  When it came to Piper, I didn’t need to track her down. As I figured, she was waiting for me. She stood by my locker, head low, arms crossed.

  “Why did you do it?” I asked her. “I thought you weren’t mad about the play. I thought we were fine, you and I.”

  She looked at me, and I returned the gesture. That moment was the last time I would ever see her again, too.

  “It had nothing to do with you,” she said. “I was getting back at Marius.”

  “Then why hurt me?”

  Piper smiled. Small and quick. Anguish riddled her eyes, setting them deep. There was a sunken look that hung over her face and body; as if keeping herself standing upright was a task.

  “Because you were the only way.”

  And then, like she always did, I watched her flip her hair, sigh wistfully, and walk away; as she began to turn the corner, she turned to me.

  “I would apologize,” she said. “But nobody ever really means it, do they?”

  Bell rang. Another announcement came over the intercom, beckoning for Marius to make the march down to Mr. Whitman’s office. To let the Headmaster decide whether he would stay or go.

  I was able to contain myself until I reached the front door, until the warm air hit my lungs. And then I collapsed to my knees, every part of me trembling, and sobbed.

  The walk to Will’s apartment was grueling; each step felt as if my feet were stuck to the cement sidewalk. Everything was heavy, and it all seemed to pass too quickly. It was as if everything that surrounded me was fast-forwarded; whizzing by while I was stuck on pause. A shaky image on a an old tube-screen; unable to make a single move without worrying about holding down the pit that had sunk into my stomach.

  If I didn’t still have the key, I wouldn’t have been able to make it in; and even then, I contemplated against it. He could have called the cops; he could have tagged me with trespassing, breaking in. But if I knew Will as I felt I did, I knew that he wouldn’t risk bringing anymore attention to an already detrimental situation.

  When I rang the buzzer, he unlocked the front gate. When I reached the door, I was able to slide the key in and enter without any protest.

  I stepped in hesitantly, setting my bag down by the entrance. As I looked at the clocks, I noticed one thing: the one in the very center, the only one that worked, had been shattered. The photograph of Mr. Tennant’s long-lost love was on the floor, also sitting in a pool of broken glass.

  “Jesus,” I said quietly, closing the door. “Will, what did you do?”

  It was almost eerie, the absence of sound. I had become so accustomed to the incessant ticking of the clock that now, with it silenced, the apartment seemed too quiet. There was a sinister feeling to it all.

  Will was sitting on the settee, and didn’t look up at me immediately. The action came slowly; as if he wasn’t sure whether or not I was actually standing in front of him. His hands fell, his chin tilted upward. His eyes met mine with a look that spilled of an anger that already bubbled up and poured over. It simmered now, cooled down, but still swimming in his stare.

  I had imagined what I would have said to him, if this had happened. The apologies that would spout like a flesh-wound. But as I stood in front of him, in-between the kitchen and li
ving area, I was paralyzed, unable to speak.

  Will made the first move, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolding it, and holding it out as if he wanted me to take it. When I reached forward, he snapped back, balling it up and throwing it on the floor.

  He covered his face with his hands, and said nothing for a short while. I sat down next to him, and he didn’t move.

  It frightened me, seeing that there existed some part of him that was capable of falling into a frenzy.

  I touched his knee, and he flinched. But he didn’t touch me. He didn’t pull away, or grab my hand, or yell.

  Instead, he just shook his head, as if he didn’t want to believe what had just happened in the span of less than twenty-four hours.

  “Is it true?” he finally asked. “That you had a bet placed on whether or not you could fuck me?”

  My eyes fell on the mess of glass that was sprayed across the entryway floor. My hands gripped my knees.

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “It’s true. But I swear, I didn’t mean for it to reach this point. I didn’t intend for it to get this out of control, Will.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked, dropping his hands. “So you used me as a pawn in some game with your step-brother, but you didn’t intend on hurting me?”

  “I stopped it, Will,” I said quickly. “You need to understand-”

  He threw a hand up, silencing me.

  “You are not to tell me that I’m supposed to understand anything that comes out of your mouth. Ever.”

  I was snuffed; but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst followed after, as Mr. Tennant proceeded to let his face fall, hunch forward as if crippled by some agonizing stab, and let out a low, sorrowful cry.

  Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He was crying. It was the first time I had ever seen him so devastated before - and it gutted me.

  It was impossible not to follow him; until we were both crying, inebriated on our own asphyxiating sobs.

  “Why?” he plead. A thorned, barbed plea. “Why did you do it?”

  I wiped his face, and he didn’t stop me. I knew then, right then, that even if he hated me - he loved me, too. Anger would have driven him to snatch my wrist with a wince-inducing grip; but he didn’t set a finger on me.

  “Because I didn’t feel anything for anyone, until I met you.”

  Will leaned forward, picking up the paper, uncrumpling it, then began reading it out loud. Each word was paused by a loud sniffle, a shuddering sob.

  “She wants to escape. I can help her.”

  He folded the paper, let it fall to the floor, and stared with a look of drunk defeat.

  “I wanted to escape with you,” I told him, though the few words were a strain. “I wanted to find a place where we could belong. A place just for us.”

  Will sucked in a breath, wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

  “There is no place for us,” he said. “And if there was, there isn’t anymore. You’re a liar, and a fraud, and…”

  A drawn-out stillness fell over him; the pause hanging for perhaps a second too long before he parted his lips again.

  “…and I hope you can forgive me.”

  I knelt down, at his feet, and took his face in my hands. Wet cheeks against my palms; his mouth red, bitten down.

  “I did this to you, and you’re apologizing?”

  “I’m a grown man,” he said mildly. “And you’re a child. I was a teacher, and you were a student. I deserved to lose my job.”

  “I’m not a child,” I told him. “I was grown enough to make a decision that ended in my expulsion.”

  “Expulsion?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “They expelled me. We can still leave. If you can just accept my apology, we can move past this.”

  Crystal drops still clung to his eyelashes; that single tear that seemed to hang for an eternity refused to fall. His mouth fell open, a slight gape, a look of shock slowly sinking in.

  We had both been cast out.

  “You’re insane. You can’t possibly understand,” he said. “There’s no leaving. The only leaving that’s going to take place is you walking the several paces out that door, and my leaving to find somewhere to start over again.”

  I stood shakily. He looked up at me, eyes full of loss.

  And then, like a slow-sinking syringe into my heart, he took the chain that was around his neck, unclasped it, and placed in my hand.

  The ring, the silver, was still warm.

  “But I don’t want this,” I said. “I don’t want this back.”

  “Get out,” he said. “Get out of this apartment.”

  He didn’t want to me to leave; I could see it in the way his fingers clenched, his eyes started to fill again. That exhausted glaze that was rimmed with uncried tears. His lips a slant, thin line. Pursed, pained.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you,” I told him. It was quiet, soft as sorrow. “But I still love you. And I’ll wait for you.”

  He pointed to the door, but he didn’t look at me.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he repeated. “But if you wait for me, you’re only going to suffer.”

  “I’ll suffer, then.”

  “Will you?”

  I dropped the chain to the floor. The ring fell with a gentle ping against hardwood.

  “You’re the one I saw first,” I told him. “And if I have to grapple with this forever as a consequence of ruining the only person I’ve ever cared for, I’ll suffer.”

  Will said nothing. He just stared with a terrible agony at the ring that rested on the floor; the chain draped around it like a snake.

  I kissed him, but he didn’t kiss me back. His lips parted, his eyes closed, but he didn’t kiss me in return. He simply brushed a finger against the small of my wrist, wiped his mouth, and turned away.

  “Get out,” he said. “I’m not going to say it again.”

  The sound of his suppressed sobs followed me out the door. As I picked up my bag, I cut him one last glance.

  If this were a film, he would have been watching me go. There would have been that sad, limerent look in his eyes. That flash of longing; the paused beat before he begged me to fall back into his arms.

  But he wasn’t watching me. He wasn’t even looking at me. He was crying, quietly to himself, with his face buried in his hands.

  I shut the door quietly. Collapsed to my knees. And wished that someone would tell me that this was all some horrible dream. I would have taken anything, right then, for the classic cliché.

  Instead, I was met with a nightmare.

  At the house, my father had digressed from a state of anger into sheer mania. He insisted that we get lawyers involved; that my spot at Trinity Prep be re-instated for the duration of the semester. That, desperately, I make one last attempt at resuming some kind of normalcy. Finish out the year, go on to Yale, and assume my role as had been intended.

  “No,” I told him. “I’m leaving.”

  “Excuse me?” he said. His face was a shade deeper than persimmon, his hands were in the air. “Leave? And let that man get away with what he did to you? To our family?”

  It was the first time I felt compelled to laugh, and I did. The sense of hysteria was so real, so overcoming, that when I was finally finished there was nothing left in the room but a thin sheet of silence. Our faces were colorless. Nobody moved.

  “He did nothing to me,” I said. “And if you get the courts involved, I’ll say the same thing. I wanted him. I was in love with him.”

  My father drew back, repulsed. A look of repellant disgust lined his face.

  “And where would you go?” he asked coldly.

  I was sitting on the edge of my bed. It would be the last time I was in that room, too.

  “Somewhere where people actually treat me like I’m something more than just a girl in pretty clothes,” I told him. “And I wish I could say that I would miss you. But that would be a lie.”

  “After everything I’ve given you?”
he said. There was an awe that made the words go frail; that made them rake like sharp nails over burnt skin.

  “All of this is nothing more than exactly what you’ve wanted,” I said. “And I’m tired of being a puppet. I want a life that’s my own.”

  He took a step back, his arms flaccid. He watched me for a moment, as if waiting for the crack; as if waiting for me to break down and tell him that nothing I had just said was true.

  But it was. All of it.

  “Then you can leave,” he said. “Get out, if that’s what you want. But don’t think, if you walk out that gate, that you’ll ever be able to come back. I won’t even look you in the eye.”

  “I’d almost rather have one last look at my mother,” I said quietly. “As she is, now, rotting in the ground.”

  That was enough. He let out a shrieking yell, slamming his fist against the wall, and yelled for me to go.

  I grabbed my backpack, and nothing else. I took one last, final glance around that fairy-tale room that had only one memory I would want to hold onto.

  Then, turning away, I walked out as if I had never even had a confrontation with my father. As if none of this life was ever actually mine.

  Marius was sitting in his room as I made my way down the hall. The journal was in his lap, his head low.

  “Take it,” he said, extending it to me. “I can’t keep this anymore.”

  He stood, walked over, handed it to me. I took it carefully, and we shared a farewell glance.

  “I hope you’ll be okay,” I told him. “But something tells me you will be.”

  At the gate, I paused for one last time. I took in the sight of the rose bushes; the pool that still gave off that baptismal, pure glow.

  And then I said goodbye. Forever.

  I hailed a cab, opened the journal, and read by the faint beams of streetlights that occasionally passed through the window.

  Many of the entries were of various conquests; most had accompanying pictures that were taped onto the pages. But there was a common thread in each entry, even with Piper; the mother of his unborn child. A girl who, still, he hadn’t wanted.