Bittersweet Dreams

by V. C. Andrews

  “How did it start? What happened was that I didn’t turn into melting butter when the school’s Don Juan, Carlton James, lowered himself to approach me in the cafeteria and suggest that we get together at his house after school. I believe his idea of a get-together is literally that. He thinks it’s all about plugs and sockets.”

  He widened his smile. “That’s very good. Plugs and sockets. I would have loved to be a fly on that cafeteria wall when he came on to you. I know who he is, of course. Girls trail behind him, waiting for him to drop a smile in their direction. They scoop it up like beggars hoping for a handout of love.”

  “You have time to notice that sort of thing?”

  “I’m just being observant. We’re all supposed to be observant. It comes with the job description. From what you’re saying, I gather he struck out completely and left with his head in his hands.”

  “It was more like a balloon losing all its air. And I think he had more than his head in his hands.”

  “I’ll bet,” he said with that wide grin again. “He met more than his match when he tangled with you. And then what happened? I mean, how did it lead to all this?”

  “Simple. Not being one who gracefully takes rejection, Carlton fanned the flames of hot gossip that were obediently and loyally spread by the three bitches from Macbeth, gossip that would make him look better, too.”

  “Three bitches? Not the three witches?”

  “The witches at least had a purpose in Shakespeare’s play, prophecy. These three just stir the pot of frogs and newts.”

  He shook his head. “I love it. So who are they?”

  “Joyce Brooker, Cora Addison, and Denise Hartman.”

  “Oh, yeah. Now that you mention it, I have heard them mumbling, ‘Fair is foul and foul is fair,’ in the hallway. So they were the ones who mixed the witches’ brew, went home, and told their parents you were making unhealthy sexual advances on them?”

  “On them, I can’t imagine any sexual advances possibly being healthy,” I said.

  He laughed again. “What fools to take you on. So?”

  “We had some words in the locker room. They were trying to find out . . .”

  “What?”

  “If I was seeing someone from outside the school.”

  “Are you?” He raised his hands when I looked hard at him. Was this something he should be asking? “Just trying to understand the whole picture. Whether you are or not isn’t my business. I will say I had that suspicion myself. Not that I’d blame you,” he quickly added. “You’re so far ahead of the boys here they probably look like tykes to you.”

  “Am I?”

  He tilted his head. “I could tell that just from talking with you for a few minutes, Mayfair.”

  “I’m not seeing anyone from outside the school, anyone older,” I said. “Nevertheless, they started to accuse me of being interested in them, assuming that if a girl turned down the school’s heartthrob, she had to be gay. They accused me of paying too much attention to their naked bodies.”

  He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. “I see. That’s it? That was enough to cause all this commotion?”

  “Mothers rushing to the defense of daughters in danger can be very persuasive, especially if their combined net worth is more than that of most third world countries.”

  “And what ruling has come down from the high command?”

  “I’m excused from PE for the year and banned from the girls’ locker room, where the alleged incidents took place. This is called a politically acceptable compromise because it’s assumed I didn’t want to go to PE.”

  He shook his head. “Makes you look like the bad one here.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Your parents approved of that?”

  “Only my father’s new wife appeared at the hanging.”

  “And put up no argument when they made that so-called compromise?”

  “She probably cowrote it.”

  “Oh, I see. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. I didn’t anticipate much more. Nothing to be sorry about, Mr. Taylor. I’m actually not brokenhearted about missing PE classes, and avoiding the locker room might prevent athlete’s foot.”

  He laughed again. “Call me Alan,” he said. “When we’re alone in the building, I mean.” Then he turned very serious. “I know that it’s painful for you to see these other girls get it over on you, but joking about it doesn’t help really, does it?”

  “I suppose I can say it keeps me from crying, so it’s the better choice.”

  “This sucks,” he said, surprising me with his burst of anger. “It’s why I keep thinking about looking for a job in a public school. There, everyone’s equally abused. If there’s anyone who deserves the full respect and support of this school’s administration, it’s you, Mayfair. I know for a fact that they brag about you whenever they can.”

  “Yeah, well, they will probably stop doing that. Politically risky.”

  He moved his hand close to mine, and before I could pull it back, he put his over mine. “You’re putting on a good show, Mayfair, but I’m sure you feel as if you’re all alone here, left to drift any which way, especially now. I’ve heard the talk about you in the faculty room. No one feels up to the challenges you present. You have to be pretty frustrated with how you’re treated in and out of the classroom.”

  “If I gave it any real thought, I guess I would be.”

  “I’m sure you think about it. I don’t have your IQ,” he continued, “but I was pretty much at the head of my class in high school, and that cost me some popularity. It’s stupid, but I intimidated some of the other students. I can’t even begin to imagine how stupid you make your classmates feel.”

  “I don’t have to do that. They do it for themselves,” I said. “Stupidity is on sale here every day.”

  “You do have a great sense of humor, Mayfair.”

  “Sense of irony. There’s a difference.”

  “Right, right.”

  He still had his hand over mine. Suddenly, he looked down at our hands and began to gently play with my fingers. I wanted to pull my hand away from his, but I didn’t want to embarrass him or make him feel bad. I was enjoying his sympathy for me, maybe too much.

  “There’s no reason two people, two adult people, and that’s what I consider you, an adult, can’t treat each other like adults even in a place like this. I’m not your actual teacher here. For all practical purposes, I’m just like someone else you might meet on the outside. I wish you would seriously consider me your adult friend. That’s what I would like to consider you.”

  Slowly, I pulled my hand back. “Thank you,” I said.

  “I mean it. I’m serious when I say that sometimes I feel as if I’m on an island here. Knowing that I have you to talk to occasionally will be something to look forward to.”

  “I’m not the best at making small talk, Mr.—”

  “Alan.”

  “Alan.”

  “We won’t make small talk. I promise. So,” he said, glancing up at the wall clock, “I guess you missed your ride home. Your stepmother usually picks up you and your stepsister, Allison, right?”

  Was there anything about me he didn’t know? I guessed he was looking at me every chance he got.

  “Bus duty,” he said, seeing the puzzled look on my face. “I have to watch the critters board safely.”

  “Oh. Right. No, I didn’t miss it. I told my father’s new wife not to wait for me today.”

  “Why do you keep saying ‘new wife’?”

  “I’ll never think of her as anything else.”

  “I see. No love lost, as they say.”

  “No love lost.”

  “Did you tell her not to wait after I asked you earlier to stop by? I mean, I’m flattered you remained after school, but . . .”

  I saw where he was going. He thought I really wanted to see him, that perhaps I was hoping or expecting that he would take me home. “No. I had already made different pl
ans,” I said. I stood up. “Thanks for the talk, Mr. Taylor.”

  “Alan, please, when we’re alone,” he said. “Hearing you call me Mr. Taylor makes me feel older than I am.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Alan.”

  “I could give you a ride if you need one,” he said, standing. “It’s not a problem. I just have a few more things to do here, and . . .”

  “That’s all right. I’ve already made other arrangements,” I said.

  The disappointment on his face reminded me of Carlton James’s reaction in the cafeteria. Young or old, when men didn’t get the reaction from a female that they wanted or expected, they all looked the same, like little boys told to put away their toys and go to sleep.

  “Wait,” he said, and returned to his desk. He jotted something on a piece of paper and brought it to me. “That’s my home phone number. It’s unlisted. Kids are always pulling prank calls on teachers, but you can call me anytime you want, day or night, Mayfair. I’ll be there to listen, and if you want me to come get you or anything, you just call. Anytime.”

  Anytime? I wanted to ask him if he had a life away from this building. Didn’t he have a girlfriend? How could he be so good-looking and not have a line of beautiful women at his door? Why would he be available anytime? Would it be ungrateful of me to ask?

  Another thing occurred to me. Had he ever given his phone number to any other female student? Suddenly, everything about him became important. Was this his first teaching position? If not, why did he leave the first one? Where was he from? Did he have family in Los Angeles or somewhere else in California? Brothers or sisters? Had he ever been married or engaged? What sorts of friends did he have? Were they all teachers? How would he explain giving so much attention to a high-school student?

  Since most of the girls here didn’t talk much to me, I was at a disadvantage when it came to knowing these sorts of things about our teachers, but I did want to know more about him, if not for any other reason than to be careful.

  It was so much easier for someone to get lost out there when a school was located in a city, especially one as large as Los Angeles. My imagination began to run a bit wild. Maybe after he left the building, he turned into a serial killer or was part of some sex cult.

  And then I paused and thought how ridiculous it was of me to imagine such things. It showed how this place was getting to me. I was beginning to think like some of these airheads. If any school did a good background check on its employees, it would be this one. The rich could afford paranoia, and this school catered to the wealthy.

  “Thank you,” I said, and put the paper with his number in my purse.

  “I’m here for you,” he said. “Remember that.”

  I nodded. He watched me leave. I closed the door behind me and walked slowly down the hall toward the front exit. I heard his door being opened, but I didn’t look back to see if he was watching me walk away. It made me too self-conscious about my body. I felt as if I were in a summer thunderstorm.

  Hot lightning sizzled around my heart. No man, no boy, had ever touched me the way Mr. Taylor just had. When he put his hand over mine and began to play with my fingers, it wasn’t a fatherly gesture or just a friendly one. It was pure, raw sex. I could feel the heat moving through his hand and into mine. It stirred me. Fight back as hard as I tried, I couldn’t keep the tingle from traveling like electricity up and down my spine and into my thighs and breasts. All sorts of sexual images flashed like lightning bolts against the darkness of my deepest thoughts. The images I had shown Allison created a stream of erotic pictures resembling a trailer for a movie with the title Mayfair Cummings Loses Her Virginity.

  But there was thunder, too, loud crashes of warning hammering at my heart. Alan Taylor was a young man, yes, but no matter how I tried to rationalize it away, I was still legally a minor, and he was an adult with an influential position when it came to young women at the school. Besides the legal and ethical aspects, I had to confess to myself that he had an unfair advantage. He was a man of some experience who easily saw my vulnerability. How seamlessly he could make the transition from concerned faculty adviser to my first lover if I didn’t heed the sound of thunder. But did I want to?

  I really hated being vulnerable and innocent, because I was at a disadvantage. All the books and articles about sex that I had read did not prepare me for these feelings. I hated that more than anything. Information was always my steadfast protector, my God. I worshipped with encyclopedias, not Bibles, but here this was failing me.

  And that made me angry, but to be honest, I wanted to be angry. Anger helped me avoid dealing with my inner feelings. How dare Mr. Taylor take advantage of me at one of my weakest moments? He knew I wasn’t going to run to the principal or to my father to tell them about him. He certainly knew I wouldn’t tell Julie. On top of what had just happened to me because of the three bitches, my creating another scandal would be too much. I wouldn’t have any credibility, and it was no good to pretend that didn’t matter. I still had to attend school here, and my father still had a life in this community. There was nothing to do right now but ignore what I could ignore and concentrate on my studies as usual.

  I walked out and away from the building. I didn’t want Mr. Taylor to see me get into a taxi after he had offered to drive me home. I sensed that he wouldn’t take that as a rejection so much as a challenge. He would want me to understand that I didn’t have to be bashful or embarrassed to ask him for help. Ironically, my refusing his offer would only encourage him more.

  And yet I would be lying if I didn’t admit to myself that I was more than flattered by his attention. The woman who had blossomed inside me couldn’t help but continue to wonder what it would be like to be with such a good-looking adult man. I had read and understood enough to know that it would be quite different from being with Carlton James, even though Carlton saw himself as every girl’s dream lover.

  Carlton would go at it all too quickly, clumsily. The book I had given Allison explained the mechanics well. I knew that males often cared only about pleasing themselves and did so before the female even got started. In short, I knew Carlton wouldn’t take lovemaking as seriously as a man like Mr. Taylor surely would or, at least, should. With Carlton, there would be no real romance, just groping and satisfying egos. For most of the girls, if not all of them here, that would be enough, but it wasn’t enough for me. I wasn’t looking to neck in the back of a movie theater or be with a boy in the rear of his car. Alan Taylor would know that, had to know that, otherwise he wouldn’t have taken the risk of talking to me like this and making the subtle proposals he was making.

  Shouldn’t I be more attracted to that, to someone who saw me for who I was, someone mature enough to handle this forbidden relationship?

  When the three bitches accused me of being gay and making them uncomfortable in the locker room, I was angry, of course, but I couldn’t deny that I had wondered about myself from time to time. I learned that it wasn’t an uncommon thing for someone young to consider.

  Maybe I was gay.

  Maybe I was looking at those girls in the locker room.

  I had read up on this once, and comments in a psychological abstract returned to me. If you thought back to your earliest memories and realized you’d always been different, you might be gay, but that didn’t necessarily mean you were. However, I couldn’t deny that I’ve always been different. I certainly didn’t fit the stereotype of a gay woman, but not fitting a stereotype doesn’t mean it’s not true. And Albert Kinsey, a pioneer in human sexuality research, had determined that many people were in between.

  Teenagers often felt strongly about members of their own sex and were aware of the attractiveness of someone of their own sex. I was keenly aware of how attractive Joyce Brooke was, but again, that didn’t mean I was gay.

  Did I drive Carlton away because his aggressiveness threatened me? Was I really turned off by him, or was I turned on too quickly and completely? Did I know in my heart that if I had gone with him to his
home, I’d be unable to stop him from seducing me? Maybe deep down inside, that was what I really wanted, and I was afraid of myself more than I was of him.

  Was I conflicted about Mr. Taylor for the same reasons?

  Was Julie right? Was I infatuated with books and articles about sex because I was unsure about my own sexuality? I fantasized about boys. Wasn’t that enough?

  These thoughts kept the summer storm alive inside me. I didn’t even realize how far I had walked until I reached the strip mall, where there were restaurants, a drugstore, a dry cleaner, and a mailing outlet. I’d call for a taxi and have the driver pick me up here, I thought, and walked toward the Italian restaurant.

  Just as I stepped onto the sidewalk, I heard a car horn and turned to see Mr. Taylor pull into a parking spot. He waved and got out quickly. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was going to meet someone here,” I quickly replied.

  “Oh. Secret date, huh?”

  “Something like that. Maybe it was too secret.”

  He smiled and stood gazing at me with his hands on his hips. “Long walk from the school. Either you or your date were being very careful,” he said.

  “You’re reading too much into it. Besides, walking is good for thinking, and right now, I have a lot of thinking to do.”

  “That it is. I don’t do enough of it, of both. By the time I get home, I’m mentally drained from being on the front lines. That’s what I call the junior high, the front lines. My students are like little hand grenades. When the bell rings to start class, it’s like someone pulled the pin. I don’t open my mouth before hands go up asking if what I said was important and should be put in their notebooks. There’s enough energy in the room to launch a satellite into space.”

  “Sounds exhausting.”

  “Mentally, it is.” He nodded toward the other restaurant, which was really more of a bar. “The truth is, I sometimes stop there for a while to have a drink and come back to earth.” When I didn’t say anything, he added, “Only one drink, of course.”

  It occurred to me that if he was going to stay here for a while, he would surely see the taxi arrive to pick me up. Get out of this, genius, I told myself.