Kiss the Stars (Devon Slaughter Book 1)

by Alice Bell

  I wondered if Devon knew I was a virgin. It embarrassed me to be so inexperienced. I had no excuse, such as saving myself for marriage. I wanted to have sex in the worst way. Wanting it and not knowing how to get it made me feel like there was one more thing inherently wrong with me. I should see Dr. Ess, I thought. I’d rescheduled my regular appointment with him so many times; I’d managed to avoid him for almost five months.

  The day seemed grueling, though nothing out of the ordinary happened. Outside, the sky was gray. At last, the final bell rang, though I still had the workshop girls and my last Adult Literacy class before Georgie took over. I had to pull myself together.

  “Miss Rain!” Chastity said. “Your eyes are all red!”

  “Your face too!” Charity said.

  They had arranged their desks in a circle. The other girls contemplated me suspiciously, especially Scarlet Rose.

  I changed the subject. “I’ve decided it’s time to start our diaries.” I went to my desk and took nine black booklets from my valise. The diaries were a secret size, small enough to hide quickly.

  I gave one to each girl. “Write whatever comes into your head. Whatever you dream about, whatever scares you or makes you want to laugh or cry or scream. If your own life doesn’t inspire you, write a story, the story you would love to read but no one ever wrote before.”

  “So what we write in our diaries doesn’t have to be true?” Scarlet said.

  “Absolutely not. No rules. Did you hear me? Break every single rule you ever learned about writing.”

  A few of the girls giggled. “Even what we learn in Miss Hartly’s class?”

  “Especially what you learn there,” I said.

  “Are you going to keep a diary too?”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it. At the end of the week, we’ll trade diaries with someone else.”

  The room grew quiet.

  “Why?” Scarlet said, finally. Her violet eyes were accusing.

  “We are entering into a sacred covenant with each other,” I said.

  “Why do we have to let other people read our diaries?” she insisted.

  “Because that’s the point,” I said.

  “To have someone read our most private inner thoughts?” she was full of scorn.

  “To have someone read what you write,” I told her.

  I dismissed the workshop early. The girls were eager to start their diaries. I went to the window and scanned the parking lot for Georgie’s car. But she hadn’t come to school today. I worried it was because of what I’d done.

  And then I saw Henry’s red Jeep pulling out of the lot. My pulse quickened. Was he rendezvousing with Georgie? On one hand, I hoped he would be there to console Georgie about what had happened to her car. A perfectly executed kiss might be just what Georgie needed. On the other hand, I hated them both.

  I took books out of my valise, placing one on each desk. Each book was different, chosen from my personal collection. They were gifts for my Adult Literacy class. I hoped they would remember me.

  I decided to brave the teacher’s lounge and found it empty. I brewed coffee and spread almond butter on apple slice number four. It would be nice if Georgie and Henry just disappeared into the sunset, I thought. Really, that would be the best for all concerned.

  The more I thought about it, the better I felt about scratching such an ugly mark on Georgie’s Mini. It might be the story she and Henry told their grandchildren about how they fell in love.

  The door opened and loud, excited voices broke the quiet. There were three of them. Georgie’s friends. “Oh, it’s you,” the short curvy blonde who taught Geometry eyed my pink blouse and her lip curled. She opened her eyes wide, as if to say, oops, look what you made me do. Her wavy hair had an illusion of softness. Her curls were big and appeared loose but when she moved her head, the curls stayed in place. She reminded me of the Muppet, Miss Piggy.

  “Ew, what are you eating?” the P.E. teacher—a tall, muscular brunette—glared at me. “What is that?” she pointed to the blob of almond butter on my apple slice. “Cat poop?”

  She was no Pinocchio, despite the long nose. Alligators also had long snouts. I envisioned her lying on a beach somewhere and casually eating people. If you opened her up, you would find watches and jewelry and human teeth.

  Miss Piggy said, “FYI, it’s called shit on a shingle.”

  They all snickered and seemed to crowd the lounge. They whispered and laughed and rolled their eyes and teased and flirted and huddled together. It didn’t matter who you were, if you weren’t them, you were nobody. It was just like high school. It was high school. But I was a teacher now. It was supposed to be different. We were all grown-ups, weren't we?

  A horrifying thought occurred to me. Was life high school? No matter how old you got, wherever you went, you could never leave? Like the Hotel California?

  I put away my dinner.

  It was the librarian, Ms. Wong, who pulled out a chair and sat across from me. She had silky black hair tied in a ponytail. She liked to play nice which made me nervous.

  “We were talking about tonight,” Wong said. “We’re having a girl’s night out. Though it’s pretty much the norm, lately. Maybe what we need is a boy’s night out,” her laugh was silvery. “You should come.”

  The P.E. teacher groaned. “Oh God,” she muttered.

  “It’s Georgie’s birthday,” Wong ignored her friend. “She's thirty, you know. The last one of us to cross the threshold. Her birthday was actually yesterday but we wanted to wait for the weekend.”

  Yesterday? I had vandalized Georgie’s car on her birthday? What a present. Exactly what she deserves. I forced myself to feel guilty, thinking I should definitely make an appointment with Dr. Ess.

  “We’re going to meet at the pub and go bar hopping,” Wong went on; as if she had no clue Georgie hated me. “Know of any cool bars?”

  I could feel them judging me. “Well, if you like alternative rock,” I said, with an air of importance. “There’s a bar down on the boardwalk. Live music every night.” I figured they wouldn’t know alternative rock if The Black Keys showed up on their door step.

  I zipped my valise. “Probably not your scene,” I said.

  P.E.’s canny reptilian eyes zoomed in on me. “Why do you wheel that suitcase all around?” she said.

  “Don’t,” Wong warned.

  But she was an alligator with a bloody stump. “It’s ridiculous,” she said. “Is it part of your costume or something?”

  “Costume? You are so rude,” Wong said.

  “No really. What’s with the Kool-Aid dye job? And the suitcase?”

  Miss Piggy snorted.

  I dragged my valise off the table. The tantalizing smell of freshly brewed coffee followed me to the door. I hadn’t even got a cup.

  “Wait,” Wong cried. “What’s the name of the bar?”

  Now they would invade my favorite bar. All because I’d wanted to show off. And a worse thought occurred to me. What if one of them set their sights on Devon? I envisioned Georgie falling into Devon’s arms and how they would dance in front of me, how he would dip her low for a kiss.

  I felt so screwed up. Why did I tell Devon to leave last night? As I walked down the hallway, a wheel on my valise squeaked, shredding my last nerve. When I rounded the corner, I stopped. Someone waited outside my classroom door.

  Georgie. In a red polka dot dress, a binder tucked under her arm. Red flooded my vision. I rushed toward her, the wheels of my valise whirring. “Can I help you?” I said. “Is there some reason you’re here?”

  She acted startled, clutching her binder to her chest. “Stroop wants me to sit in tonight. Didn’t you get my e-mail? What is wrong with you?” she managed to sound insulted. “I’m just doing my job. It’s not my fault you’re a troglodyte.”

  Something inside me gathered force. “Your job? You’re taking over my job. And my parking space, my life. You’re a terrible person and I bet you’re a terrible teacher too
,” I bit off each word. “You should…” I jabbed her in the chest with my finger. “Go fuck yourself.”

  There was a gasp. Then a terrible silence.

  In slow motion, like a horror movie, Georgie’s binder fell to the floor. Papers scattered. She snatched a handful of my hair and yanked. Pain seared my scalp but I wrenched free. I rose up on tip-toe to gouge at her eyes. She ducked. I got her ear. I twisted.

  “Aaaaahhhh…” she pushed me. Hard.

  I slipped on papers, scrambling to catch my balance. I landed on my butt.

  Georgie’s red face bobbed above me. She bent down and got so close, a spray of saliva misted my cheek. “I’m going into that classroom. And I’m watching every move you make, Miss Rain.”

  * * *

  My limbs were jelly.

  I straightened my skirt. Georgie gathered papers, bending over. I checked my watch. Seven minutes. I tried to breathe slowly. I grasped my valise and headed for my classroom, while her back was turned.

  “Hey,” she said sharply, but she was too late.

  I shut the door and locked it.

  “Ruby?” she knocked and jiggled the handle.

  I slid down the wall. Black spots swam in my vision. I hugged my knees. My whole body was going numb.

  “I’ll be back,” Georgie said. “And this door better be open.”

  I waited. After I thought she was gone, I stood up.

  Taking quick ragged breaths, I opened drawers I never used. I found pens and CDs with cracked cases, ink cartridges, a peppermint candy without a wrapper, crumbs. The bottom drawer contained computer paper. I tore open a package and folded a piece of paper to breathe into, like a paper bag.

  I thought of my mother’s Valium, how she’d break a pill and give me half and how great I felt afterwards, like nothing bad could ever happen. Why didn’t my shrink give me Valium?

  I concentrated on breathing. In. Out. As my heart rate slowed, my eyelids got heavy. I saw a burst of white light, felt the earth drop out from under me. I was hurtling through darkness.

  I tried to open my eyes. A scream died in my throat. The paper flew out of my hand. I watched it flutter to the floor.

  Someone knocked. I froze.

  The knock came again, harder. Georgie? Or a student? I checked my watch. Not even a whole minute had passed.

  I opened my compact and fixed my make-up, wiping away the smudges under my eyes. After putting on fresh lipstick, a strange calm came over me. When I opened the door, I found three of my students waiting outside.

  I looked up and down the hall and didn’t see Georgie.

  I waited by the door, as students straggled in. There were five so far. “Sit at a desk that has a book on it,” I told them.

  When I got to seven students and still no Georgie, my pulse soared. Just two more students to go. But I rarely had perfect attendance. If they weren’t all safely accounted for inside, I couldn’t lock the door, in case someone came late.

  I checked my watch. One and half minutes past the hour.

  I knew I was asking for trouble but I closed my eyes and gave a silent prayer. Please God, let me give my last class in peace. Without Georgie. I hate her. No, scratch that. Sorry, I don’t hate anyone. A lump formed in my throat. I heard Dr. Ess in my head, “You are not a victim.”

  I took a deep breath and opened the door wider.

  “I was hoping to see everyone tonight,” I said, glancing at the two empty desks. Looking for Alaska, by John Green and Stephen King’s Joyland hadn’t been taken. I cleared my throat. There was a sound behind me. I turned to see the last two students coming through the door.

  There is a God.

  I ushered them inside, as if into a bomb shelter with the sky already exploding. I turned the lock, feeling guilty. But not guilty enough.

  “Does everyone like their books?” I said. “Each of you has a copy of one of my favorite books. Which brings me to tonight’s topic.” I went to my valise and took out my battered copy of Wuthering Heights. I showed it to them. I asked a woman in front to read the title.

  She started to sound it out. Recognition lit her face.

  “You’re familiar with the story?” I said.

  She nodded.

  When I asked who else had heard of Wuthering Heights, only one other woman raised her hand. “I saw it on TV,” she said.

  I set the book on my desk. “Everyone argues over what the story is really about,” I said, standing in front of them. “The thing to remember is…it’s about whatever you think it’s about.”

  They laughed.

  “I want to tell you what happened to me when I was twelve, which is the first time I read Wuthering Heights. My mother was taken away. I lived for the day I would see her again. But she got sick. No one told me. And then she died. I didn’t get to say good-bye.”

  I saw empathy in their upturned faces.

  “I know it sounds unreal,” I said. “But it gets worse. I got sick too and I had to be in the hospital for a long time. The story of Catherine and Heathcliff and their star-crossed love saved me. I got transported to their world, away from the misery of my own. And the characters in the book felt what I felt. It didn’t matter that they lived over a hundred years ago, in northern England, or that they loved with passion while I had never even been kissed. Their pain was so raw and—”

  There was a loud knock on the door.

  “Do you have to get that?” one of my students said.

  “We want to hear the rest of your story,” another said.

  “Maybe they’ll go away,” the biker with a braided beard said.

  But I heard the sound of a key being inserted into the lock. “I just wanted you to know,” I said, in a rush. “Books can save your life.”

  The door burst open and Georgie was there, standing in the doorway with one of the janitors. “Everything okay in here?” he scanned the room suspiciously.

  I feigned surprise. “Did the door get stuck again?”

  Georgie glared. Her perfect hair was slightly mussed. Her lipstick had worn off. I imagined her traipsing up and down the halls. I smiled at her. “You can leave the door open,” I said to the janitor. “Where would you like to sit?” I asked Georgie. Before she could answer, I said, “In the back would be best.”

  She started to take a seat in the row behind the students.

  “No, the very back,” I said. “That’s it. Keep going. All the way.”

  She arranged herself at a desk against the wall. A few of the students turned around to look at her.

  “There’s a better view from back there,” I said in a loud voice. “Like a wide angle lens. So you can watch every move I make.”

  An awkward silence fell.

  “Class,” I said. “I’d like you to meet Miss Hartly. She’s going to take over after today.”

  “What?”

  “Why?”

  “Evidently there was a Board approved curriculum I was supposed to use and someone reported me for not using it.”

  “You were fired?”

  “Something like that.”

  “No!”

  Georgie shifted in the cramped desk. I went around the room and had each student take turns reading from their books.

  For some reason, Georgie took a bunch of notes, scribbling furiously. I never took notes. Not only did I find it distracting, I didn’t have to take notes. I was probably smarter than Georgie.

  Guilt burrowed in the back of my mind.

  Outside the sky had gone black. I thought I could fall into it and disappear. I had to sit down to feel the hard chair. I counted. Eleven unoccupied desks. Three pairs of glasses. One pen. Twenty human eyeballs.

  When the class was over, each student came up to me and shook my hand. They brought me back to earth.

  Georgie tried to ignore me, pretending to be busy with her folder as she made her way to the door.

  “Well, did you get what you came for?” I said.

  She stopped and turned around. We locked eyes.

>   “Henry told me you were wondering,” I said, in such a way that implied Henry and I spoke intimately all the time.

  Her pupils narrowed into hard pinpoints.

  “You were curious how old I was. You don’t have to gossip behind my back. I’ll just tell you,” I gripped the edge of my desk, losing momentum.

  Georgie’s angry face appeared to hover in the air, severed from her body.

  “I did skip grades,” my voice went on, as if coming from someone else. “High I.Q. runs in my family. Also, I’m especially gifted in the areas of language and philosophy,” I refused to acknowledge the tremor behind my eyelids. “According to my letters of recommendation, those areas of expertise make me particularly adept at teaching. Go figure.”

  When she walked away, I sat under the hum of fluorescent lights. I couldn’t move.

  I was thinking of my mother and how she used to scream at her lover, Javier. “I’m so much prettier,” she would cry. “How can you look at that dumb cow when you have me? Don’t you see me?” And she would sink to her knees, crying.

  I felt as humiliated as if I’d thrown myself at Georgie’s feet and wept.

  9. Devon

  ON THE outskirts of town where the streetlights flickered and the desert stretched as far as the mortal eye could see, something white flitted across my path. The creature stopped to peer at me. Ruby’s cat, Alceste. His mangy tail twitched before he darted back into the sagebrush.

  I followed his scent to a cluster of trailer houses at the end of a gravel road. Five trailers sat on the scabby ground at odd angles to each other. A clothes line had been strung between them and a pair of faded jeans dangled. Beer cans lay scattered around a couple of choppers. The last trailer had a stoop.

  The cat sat on the stoop, viewing me with disdain. My hand shot out and I had him by the scruff, holding him up so we could look eye to disparate eye. He growled. The door of the trailer banged open.

  A girl gaped at me.

  Alceste kicked the air with his hind legs. Damn, caught in the act. “Hi,” I said, without loosening my grip.