After Tonight

by Annie Kelly

  I glance down at my skirt, where it’s sort of folded in over on itself, then hiked up about five inches.

  Shit.

  Hastily, I run my hands down it repeatedly, then clear my throat.

  “Can someone pass out the sonnet books from the back bookshelf? We’re going to take a Hamlet break for a few days and focus on the other writing format Shakespeare was best known for.”

  As two students start passing books around the room, I cue up the projector and my Elizabethan sonnet notes.

  “This will be on the unit test, guys,” I warn, pointing to the screen. “So I suggest writing it down.”

  There’s a collective groan, but most of them start digging notebooks and pens out of their bags. I let my eyes flick around the room, landing briefly on Smith, who doesn’t have a thing on his desk. When I meet his gaze, he lifts one brow, as though challenging me to call him out.

  “Mr. Asher?” I say, letting my irritation very clearly seep into my voice. “Did you forget something?”

  He gives an innocent sort of frown, then glances around. “Nope. Not that I’m aware of.”

  I make a show of deliberately opening my top desk drawer, getting a pen, closing the drawer, then walking down the rows of desk to where Smith is sitting, smirking up at me. I set the pen down silently, then lean forward a bit to meet his gaze.

  “Bring a pen to my class. Every day. If you refuse, I’ll fail you.”

  There’s a juvenile-sounding ooooh coming from a few students in the back. I ignore them, and Smith, as I walk back to the front of the room. When I turn around, I think the expression on his face might actually be a grudging sort of respect. When he uncaps the pen, I feel a little victorious.

  “So, sonnets,” I begin, using my laser pointer to go through the notes on the screen. I touch on the more obvious points, like the fourteen lines and the iambic pentameter, then discuss a couple of lesser-known specifics, like the moral in a rhyming couplet.

  “Now we’re going to read a few out loud,” I say, turning back to the class and opening my sonnet book. “Anyone want to volunteer?”

  Most of the students are looking at me as though they’d literally rather set themselves on fire than read a poem aloud in class. I give them a wry smile and hold up my own hand.

  “That’s fine—I can start. Turn to page eighty-six—Sonnet one hundred sixteen.”

  I glance down at the poem I’d selected to read and I immediately want to groan. Instead, I clear my throat and give the class a weak smile. Then I start to read.

  Let me not to the marriage of true minds

  Admit impediments. Love is not love

  Which alters when it alteration finds,

  Or bends with the remover to remove:

  I pause, looking around the room, but purposely avoid looking at Smith. Not that it matters—I can feel his eyes as if he were branding me with his gaze. I inhale slowly, then continue.

  O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,

  That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;

  It is the star to every wandering bark,

  Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

  The space around me is beginning to feel hot and prickly. I feel scrutinized. I clear my throat again.

  Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

  Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

  Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

  But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

  I take a deep breath before finishing with the couplet

  If this be error and upon me proved,

  I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

  “So, you can notice how the couplet has a lesson, right? Can you tell me what the lesson is?”

  Javon, a beefy kid on the wrestling team, raises a hand and I nod at him encouragingly.

  “What do you think, Javon?”

  “So, it’s like love is perfect and all that,” he says slowly. “And if Shakespeare’s wrong, he’s saying that love never existed at all. Or something.”

  I grin at him. “That’s close—really close. Basically, yes, Shakespeare believes in an ideal form of love—a perfect love.”

  “What a pansy,” Tyson snorts. “Perfect love is bullshit.”

  “Language, Tyson!” I snap at him. “Next time, it’s a detention.”

  I cross my arms.

  “And, maybe you’re right. Maybe perfect love isn’t real—but we can’t fault people for what they believe in, especially if their convictions are strong.”

  Tyson grumbles something under his breath, but I ignore him.

  “Who wants to read the next one?”

  Smith calls out, “I’ll do it.”

  I try not to meet his gaze when I say, “Okay. Thank you—the second sonnet we’re reading is number fifty-three.”

  He nods, flipping the pages in his book backward. Everyone else follows suit and I sit on the edge of my desk, waiting for them to find the page. When Smith gets there, his eyes move over the words. Then, like me, he clears his throat before beginning.

  What is your substance, whereof are you made,

  That millions of strange shadows on you tend?

  Since every one hath, every one, one shade,

  And you, but one, can every shadow lend.

  His voice is deep and almost haunting as he reads. I look around the room and I can’t help but notice how many of the girls are watching him as he reads.

  And I can’t help but admit that I’m one of them.

  At least until his eyes flick up to see me watching him and I have to glance away. There’s a small smile tugging at his lips as he continues.

  Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit

  Is poorly imitated after you;

  On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,

  And you in Grecian tires are painted new:

  When I look back at Smith, he’s staring right at me. I will my cheeks not to redden. Far below, I will my legs not to buckle, either.

  Speak of the spring and foison of the year;

  The one doth shadow of your beauty show,

  The other as your bounty doth appear;

  And you in every blessed shape we know.

  My heart is pounding. I can hear it in my ears and feel it in my chest—so much so that I worry it can be seen from the outside, that people will know what kind of effect this is having on me. That he is having on me.

  As he reads the final couplet, I can’t possibly look away.

  In all external grace you have some part,

  But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

  There’s silence in the room—at least until Kristin half whispers, half squeals, “Ohmigod, that was so freaking hot.”

  Most of the class cracks up at that and I smile, shaking my head.

  “Okay—so now that we’ve looked over some sonnets, we’ll be starting our research project. We’ll be heading over to the library, where Mrs. Reed will show you where you can find the Shakespeare resources. You need to put together a presentation about that topic. You will be performing your presentation in front of the class, so if you’re nervous about that, let me know—I can help walk you through it.”

  As the students pack up their bags and start walking to the library, I busy myself by re-collecting the sonnet books, hoping I can get my heart rate to calm down a bit. I keep my eyes on the books and the desks, especially when I see Smith sling an arm around Kristin and whisper something in her ear. She’s giggling as they walk out the classroom door and into the hallway.

  Once I’m alone, I lean back against the bookshelf and take deep, uneven breaths.

  Why in the world did I think it was a good idea to let him read a sonnet, out loud, in class?

  It was like he was speaking directly to me—like he’d written it for me, even.

  God, I am such a hot fucking mess.

  I take deep, slow breaths as lock my classroom and head for the library, still feeling sli
ghtly off kilter and completely furious at myself. As I round the corner, though, that fury is immediately redirected at someone else.

  Just outside the media center doors, Smith is standing mere inches, if that, away from Kristin. He’s got one arm braced against the wall, which her back is pressed up against, and he’s smiling down at her. She looks equally as thrilled with his proximity; when he ducks down to whisper something in her ear, she turns a little red with pleasure.

  It’s almost the exact same position he and I had been in outside of Dino’s.

  My anger is far stronger than I would like to admit as I swoop down on them.

  “What do you two think you’re doing?”

  Kristin jumps and slides out from under Smith’s arm, but he doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he eyes me coolly, then cocks an eyebrow.

  “Talking,” he replies.

  I narrow my eyes.

  “It looked like a little more than that to me. The two of you need to keep your hands to yourself.”

  Kristin sucks in a breath, then mutters something that sounds a lot like fucking bitch, but not before I can see that she’s turned bright red. She pushes through the swinging doors, then disappears in the library. When I glance back at Smith, he’s still leaning against the wall, now with his arms crossed.

  “Happy now?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

  Ignoring him, I move to brush past him, but he grabs my arm. I glare down at his hand, then up at his face.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  He leans even closer. “I could ask you the same damn thing.”

  I yank my arm from his grip, then smooth a hand over my shirt and hair.

  “I think I’m your teacher,” I say, attempting to sustain a calm pleasant tone. Smith snorts.

  “You only think that when it’s convenient. You sure don’t think it when I’ve got my mouth on your tits and my fingers in your pussy.”

  I wish I could slap him. God knows he deserves it. But I don’t even get the chance to yell at him or give him what for—instead, a deafening blast of sound erupts around us. Before I can even breathe, I’m flat on the floor with something heavy and solid pressing down on me. It takes me a second to realize it’s Smith’s body. At first, I think he’s hurt. But when he tips his head up to stare down the hallway, I realize something else—he’d been trying to cover me.

  He’d been trying to protect me.

  Again.

  We both look at the custodian, who is picking up the large metal trashcan he’d just dropped on the hard floor. The sound had been more like an explosion than an accident. I’d been so sure this was just another violent incident in the world that is Franklin High School.

  For a second, Smith doesn’t move. When he does finally lever himself off me, his face is red and he’s breathing heavily.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asks. His voice is gruff and it reminds me of what happened in the teachers’ lounge. It reminds me of what happened at Dino’s.

  “No. I’m fine.”

  He swallows hard and I can see his throat working. I want to reach out and touch him, but he’s already backing away.

  “I thought—it sounded like—”

  I just nod at him. “I thought it was something bad, too.” Smith just shakes his head, then turns to head through the library doors. For a long minute, I watch the hinge swinging back and forth, not quite closing. The indecision of that mechanism feels too much like a metaphor. Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and head in after Smith.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sparring Partners

  For the remainder of the class, I manage to stay away from him. Instead, I watch Smith as he and his friends tease the girls and joke around with each other. I force myself not to engage. That’s what Smith wants, I tell myself. He wants me to get riled up. He wants me to cause a scene. I don’t know why he wants those things, but I feel it. It’s like a needling ache in my psyche.

  So, when the first-period dismissal bell rings, I can’t help but feel relieved. I walk back to my classroom and let myself in. The darkness of the room gives it a sort of calming effect, so I keep the overhead fluorescents off. With a sigh, I kick off my heels, pad over to my desk chair, and drop down into it.

  “Tough day¸ dear?”

  I jump at least a foot, then look at Smith, who’s now standing in my doorway.

  “Don’t you have a second period to go to?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope—they’re on a field trip to Annapolis. I couldn’t go with them.”

  “Why not?”

  Smith doesn’t answer that, just moves further into the room, shoving his hands in his pockets. Behind him, the door shuts loudly. We both jump a little this time.

  “What do you want, Smith?”

  My voice is tired. I can hear it in my own ears. But Smith doesn’t seem fazed.

  “A thank-you would be nice.”

  I sigh. “Thank you for launching yourself at me to protect me from the rogue trashcan. I owe you one.”

  He grins at that, then crosses his arms.

  “I also think you owe Kristin an apology.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “Public displays of affection in school aren’t appropriate—especially not during class.”

  “There wasn’t any affection. We were just talking.”

  I bark a laugh. “Right.”

  “Look, if it makes you feel any better, I promise I won’t sully any little girl’s virtue.” He looks me over slowly. “I usually prefer someone a little more . . . experienced.”

  “Please.” I snort. “You and your band of thugs seem to thrive on that sort of thing.”

  For a long minute, he just stares at me.

  “My friends might seem a little thuggish to you,” he says, his voice quiet, “but that’s your opinion—and it’s pretty shitty for you to say so.”

  I shake my head. This conversation was going nowhere fast.

  “Look, what do you want from me?” I ask, crossing my arms.

  “I want you to say what you really mean,” Smith says. He takes a few steps closer to me, then stops.

  I feel frustrated tears in the back of my throat, so I stand up and turn my back to him before saying, “I think it’s stupid that you’re blowing off classwork or wasting time on girls or hanging with losers like J. D. You need to try focusing on school for once, Smith. You shouldn’t screw up this opportunity when you’re so close to finishing up.”

  “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

  I can hear him take a step closer and I whirl around to glare at him. He is practically prowling, catlike, toward me, and I start backing up until I’m almost caged into the corner. Somehow, it’s the opposite of menacing. It’s suddenly very hot in this room.

  “Besides,” Smith says, his voice barely above a whisper, “this is really none of your business.”

  “Please,” I scoff. “This is absolutely my business.”

  “Yeah—how, exactly?”

  “I’m your teacher. It’s my job to care about your well-being.”

  “Oh?” Smith’s openly grinning at me now. “You want to tell on me for not doing my homework? Are you going to call my mommy, too?”

  “Don’t make fun of me,” I say quietly. “I just—I don’t want to see you make a big mistake and get yourself in trouble and . . .”

  I trail off because, really, there shouldn’t be any other reason for me to be concerned about whom he surrounds himself with.

  “And what?” His voice is so low, it’s a half growl. I shrug.

  “And nothing.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I throw up my hands. “Can you please stop cussing in front of me? This is ridiculous.”

  Smith rocks back on his heels. “You’re ridiculous. I don’t get you—and I don’t know why I keep wasting my time.”

  “You want me to tell you that I care about you?” I snap, folding my arms over my chest. Against my wrist, I can feel my heart slamming up ag
ainst my rib cage. “Fine. I care. A lot. Probably more than I should.”

  Smith looks at me then—like, really looks at me, starting at my still-bare feet and letting his gaze travel up over my skirt and blouse. When it settles on my face again, his eyes convey something like determination, tinged with something else. Something like need.

  “I probably care a lot more than I should, too,” Smith says.

  He shuffles forward again and I take a shaky breath. My back is to the wall, and my palms are splayed against it now. The painted cinder blocks feel far cooler than my skin, which is apparently beginning to overheat.

  “Care about what?” I ask.

  Both his hands reach up and cup my cheeks. He strokes the skin along my jaw with his thumbs and steps closer, pressing his torso against mine.

  “About you. Fuck, Hyacinth, all I do is think about you,” he says gruffly.

  I can feel my lower lip tremble. I shouldn’t be letting this happen, but I’m paralyzed to stop it.

  He leans in and breathes my name against my lips. His breath is minty and tangy, like toothpaste mixed with something tropical. I have to hold in the whimper that’s bubbling up inside me. Instead, I reach up to clutch his biceps, hoping my nails digging into his skin will make him realize what he’s doing. What we’re doing. What we shouldn’t be doing.

  But, instead, the opposite seems to occur.

  His eyes flash from denim to midnight when he feels my grip, and before either of us can do anything else, he lowers his lips to mine. And there’s only one word in my head when he does.

  Yes.

  He’s gentler than I remember from before. His lips are warm and lush as they try to convince mine to respond. For a moment, I feel frozen in place—then the forces within me that have been begging for this take over. I grip his shirt in my fists and sort of shudder as his tongue flicks out and lines the seam of my lips. I open for him without any pretense and he growls his approval, diving into my mouth like I’m something he has to devour.

  His hands coast over my back and down to my ass, pressing me into the wall and himself into me. I feel his erection, insistent and hot, against my core, and my nipples harden against the confines of my bra.

  “God, you’re sweet,” he whispers against my mouth.