Teach Me

by Lola Darling

  TEACH ME

  By Lola Darling

  Teach Me

  Copyright © 2016 Lola Darling

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Michele Catalano, Catalano Creative.

  Photo: Lauren Watson Perry

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Should the teacher stand so near, my love . . . Teach me tonight.

  Harper

  I’m late.

  I force my legs to move faster, hugging my sheepskin coat around my body as I hurry through the cobblestone streets. By day, I’ve gotten decent at navigating Oxford—it’s not as big as London, so I can remember most of the major streets around the colleges. But it’s not as well-organized as London, either, so when I try to guess where a side street ought to be based on which road it runs parallel to, it doesn’t end well.

  And, of course, I still haven’t fixed my US cell phone, so I don’t have GPS service either, only a basic text and call plan. I am actually using a paper map to get around.

  Mary Kate had better be grateful I’m coming to this damn party.

  I pause in the glow of windows from a corner pub to study the paper.

  “Need a hand there?” drawls a Scottish guy, a cigarette drooping from one lip and a foamy beer cooling in his fist. Beside him, an older guy is chugging a Guinness like there’s a prize for first to finish.

  “I’m looking for, um.” I squint at the text she sent me once again.

  Hey there my favorite USian pen pal. So excited you are finally coming to Englandia for more than just a week! You’re gonna love Oxford. I get into town the night before term starts—my friends are having a fancy dress party at 5 Pusey St. You better come or else!!! How long has it been since you were last in London, 2 years? You owe me a visit Xoxo. P.S. —wear your best habit! ;)

  “5 Pusey Street?” I say.

  The man shakes his head and takes the map from me. “This is us.” He points at one side. “You gotta go back up Broad to St. Giles, hang a right—you know where the Bird and Baby is?”

  I shake my head.

  His friend finishes his beer and belches. “The Eagle and Child,” he corrects the first guy. “Can’t you hear she’s not from around here?”

  “You don’t sound like you are either,” I snap, though I feel bad the moment I do. He’s from closer to here than I am. “Sorry. I know it. Thanks,” I tell them both. I’m just grumpy because it means I walked fifteen minutes in the dead wrong direction.

  I trudge past the row of stately buildings and colleges that look like they were plucked from a medieval movie set and plunked down in a modern-day parking lot. The Eagle and Child was the first pub I visited on my first day in Oxford. I’ve been trying to soak up the literary scene here, and that pub is famous for being Tolkien and C.S. Lewis’s haunt back in the day.

  My grumpiness eases as I study the side streets I pass, where old-fashioned street lamps illuminate cobblestones and chatty gaggles of students, voices loud from drink and white with smoke. Even the air smells inspiring. Fall mixed with the faint musk of rain on its way later.

  If there’s anywhere in the world I’m going to forget about Derrick—no, don’t even think his name, I scold myself—it’s here. If there’s anywhere I can find my inspiration again, anywhere I can start to write the poetry that I’m starving without, it’s here.

  And now I’m on my way to my first-ever British college party, to meet up with the girl I’ve been best pen pals with since we were 11 years old.

  Life is good.

  I have a huge grin on my face once more by the time I find the turn off of St. Giles and onto the side street where she sent me. At the entrance, I ring the buzzer and unbutton my jacket to smooth down my gray silk blouse and knee-length black skirt. It hugs my hips just right to show I’m fun, not enough to show I can’t handle myself at a high society event.

  Mary Kate said fancy dress party, after all, and her joke about me dressing like a nun aside, I assume she meant I should wear my classiest outfit.

  This is, after all, my fresh start. Things are going to be different here. I’m going to be different. No more screw-ups. No more sneaking past Derrick’s roommates because I need to be kept secret; no more hooking up with that jerk film major who, it turns out, was just using me for my key to the English House. No more any assholes like that. I’m starting over here.

  A buzzer sounds from somewhere inside the building. I push open the door and follow MK’s text directions upstairs to the third floor. Even through the door, I can hear the sound of raised voices and loud music.

  I guess fancy parties can still be fun ones. I try the knob, find it open, and push open the door.

  Then I freeze like a deer in headlights, and gape at the scene within.

  The first people to catch my eye are a trio of guys in pope hats, fishnet leggings and black high heels. A girl in a nun habit and what looks like a bathing suit bikini takes photos of the guys while they perform a chorus kick line.

  “Welcome, welcome!” Another girl, this one in a low-cut shirt and bodice that look like something out of Oktoberfest, sweeps toward the door. “Don’t be shy, come on in!”

  “Sorry, I—I think I have the wrong address,” I stammer, fumbling in my coat pockets for my cell.

  “Don’t be silly! You must be Harper—MK’s in the kitchen.” Oktoberfest girl grabs my jacket from my shoulders and slides it off me and onto a coatrack nearby. “Can I get you anything? Some Pope Juice maybe?”

  I blink at her in confusion, and my gaze drifts back to the guys in pope hats.

  She giggles. “It’s punch, darling, don’t worry. Nothing sinister.” She grabs my hand and leads me through an old, rundown looking apartment toward a dingy kitchen. “I’m Amber, I went to school with MK. She was always talking about you, you know. I gotta admit, you aren’t what I expected.” Amber’s eyes dart up and down my long skirt, and the conservative, expensive blouse I picked out for this occasion, which I clearly and totally misunderstood. “What are you supposed to be, an actual nun?”

  “Escaped from a convent,” I manage.

  We reach the kitchen, and a mass of boobs and hair assaults me in a giant, bone-crushing hug. Mary Kate is dressed in her sluttiest best. Somehow she makes the skin-tight neon red miniskirt and matching pleather bustier totally work. It probably helps that she’s 5’10” of Victoria’s Secret model proportions.

  “Hi MK,” I manage to squeak out.

  “I thought you’d never get here!” she exclaims dramatically, still squeezing all the air from my lungs while she plants a wet kiss on my cheek. Someone’s already been at the pope juice, I
see.

  When she finally lets me go to breathe, I grin up at her. I could never stay mad at MK for long. She’s the one friend I could always pour my soul out to, ever since we were kids and our parents arranged for us to write letters through a pen pal program so we could both “experience new cultures” through each other.

  She’s the only person who knows the whole story about he-who-must-not-be-named, too.

  “Me?” I exclaim. “I thought you would never get here! You left me wandering around Oxford alone and confused for a whole week of foreign student orientation.”

  “I’m sorry darling—you know how the Mother can be. Punch?” She extends a fistful of some sort of violently red beverage.

  “You also didn’t explain the whole fancy dress thing,” I point out as I accept the punch.

  “I honestly thought you knew.” She pouts. She does look sorry. “Tarts and Vicars is a tradition on campus. Haven’t you ever seen Bridget Jones?”

  I snort into my cup of punch. Mm. The drink is pretty damn tasty. Pure sugar, just the way I like.

  MK spins to face the rest of the kitchen. A gaggle of guys and girls in various stages of undress smile at us expectantly.

  “Now. Let me introduce the crew.”

  #

  Three sips into my second round of punch, I realize my mistake. This stuff is strong. Mary Kate has migrated upstairs to the roof with a hot American guy I vaguely recognize from exchange orientation. Even though she paused to wink over his shoulder at me before going, I feel a little bit abandoned. First she brings me here without explaining what the hell “fancy dress” parties really entail, then she skips out with the first hot guy who winks at her? I mean, yes, her new boytoy displays an impressive arsenal of temptation, but really, she couldn’t have made sure I was okay first?

  Her friends from the kitchen have dissipated, and to be honest, I didn’t remember any of their names yet anyway.

  I walk (okay, stumble) toward the confessional booth in the corner. I haven’t seen anyone go in and out of it all night—it seems more like a party prop than anything else. Adding to the atmosphere. I only wish I’d known what that atmosphere would be before I agreed to meet MK tonight.

  This is everything I swore I would avoid this semester.

  I slide open the door to the right-hand booth of the confessional. I have to hand it to whoever designed this thing—it looks just like the real deal. I stare down at a red-cushioned seat, complete with a kneeler in front of it. Between this confessional booth and the left-hand one hangs a thin wooden screen, carved in elaborate curlicues, through which I can only glimpse shadows. Looks like both sides are empty, as far as I can tell.

  I collapse onto the seat of one booth and pull the flimsy door shut behind me. It doesn’t do much to block out the sound of the party, but it helps.

  My head throbs. I’ve been so good all summer. Not a single drink until now.

  Looks like I’ve lost my tolerance.

  I set my remaining punch on the ledge beside my seat and lean my head back against the headrest with a groan. The wooden walls around me seem to close in, hug me close, comforting in their familiarity. I sat inside confessionals just like this as a kid, back when Mom and Dad still made us go to Sunday mass. Someone should’ve warned them that convincing me and Tara to be good Christian girls would never work.

  But I always did like this part. Closing myself into a secret dark place, unburdening my secrets to someone who actually cared to listen.

  I breathe out a sigh. I need to distract myself, so I start talking. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s probably been . . . I don’t know, ten years since my last confession.”

  I’m speaking to myself, of course. So when a sigh answers me from the neighboring confessional, I nearly fall off the pew.

  “You’ve got me beat by five,” says a deep, masculine voice.

  My face flames red-hot. Good thing it’s dark in here. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was in here. I’ll go, I’m sorry,” I babble at the wooden separator.

  He laughs softly. “Relax. I don’t own the place.”

  Now that my heart isn’t pounding from surprise, it starts to pound all over again for a different reason. Dear lord, that accent. He sounds nothing like the Cockney boys down in London, or even the guys leading my orientation group, with their posh upper-class enunciation. His voice is more natural, smooth on the ears.

  I can’t place it, and I’m good at accents. It makes me want to stay and tease it out of him.

  “I’m not sure if I should be relieved or disappointed,” I reply, smiling even though I know he can’t see me in the shadows of the booth. “This lovely abode isn’t yours?” I glance through a crack in the booth door. On the worn and torn sofa, which sits directly opposite me, a girl in a schoolgirl miniskirt undoes the stark white collar of a guy in full priest garb. Okay, it’s cheesy, but I’ve got to hand it to them, now that my initial shock and embarrassment has started to wane—the party guests really went all-out with their outfits.

  “Alas, no.” He still sounds like he’s laughing. “This, ah . . . abode belongs to a pair of my very good friends. Who decided it would be hilarious to lure me over with the promise of, and I quote, a ‘quiet start of term dinner.’ ”

  I snort. “Oh, so you were an unwitting participant as well? I wish I’d known the dress code was going to be so . . . specific.”

  “Let me guess: a friend of yours played dupe the unwitting American?”

  So he’s listening to my accent too. For some reason that makes my breath hitch, even as the rest of me flares at the accusation. “I am not unwitting.”

  “Shh, I’m still guessing. You’re studying abroad, your friends texted you an invite to a fancy dress bash or something similarly obscure, and then they all pulled innocent faces when you arrived. Happens every semester. Just be glad they didn’t invite you to a formal dinner and tell you it was tarts and vicars party—I’ve seen that happen too.”

  Something about his easy manner, the fact that he’s so sure he’s right (never mind that he is) makes me want to prove him wrong. What’s the harm? I’ll never see him again.

  “Actually,” I say, enunciating the word so sharply I almost sound British myself. “I live in London. I’m just up for the weekend to visit a friend who works here. She sent me the wrong address.”

  There’s a pause from the adjoining booth. “So you decided to stick around this party solo? You’re braver than I’d be.” He sounds impressed, which makes me bolder.

  “There were free drinks. Why not?” Never mind that I apparently couldn’t even handle 1.5 of those drinks. If I’m making up a whole new persona, I might as well run with it. I lower my voice, inject a little sultry sting. “Besides, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a chance to flirt with a vicar.”

  I expect him to laugh again. I’m starting to like his laugh, a sharp, surprised exhale of air like he’s not used to the sound, but he enjoys it when it bursts free.

  Instead of that laugh, I hear a rustle from the adjoining booth. When he speaks again, he’s closer and quieter. His shadow leans right up against the wooden curlicue divider. “Is that so, my child?” His tone has turned playful, but there’s something else under it. Something that sounds an awful lot like desire. “It has, I admit, been a very long time since I’ve been flirted with.”

  My pulse leaps through my veins. What’s the harm? it says. You can’t even see his face. You could be anyone. Say anything.

  “That is a shame,” I murmur, inching closer to the thin barrier between us myself. “Are you sure you remember how it’s done?”

  “I think I can figure it out.” He presses his hand to the wooden scrollwork. I lift mine, press it to my side. My skin thrills where it brushes his; I can feel his warm palm between pieces of the rough wood. Whoever built this booth used cheap material. Feels like the divider is nothing more than a couple centimeters of balsa wood.

  As though reading my mind,
his other hand traces the edges of the panel. I imitate him and find a latch at the top. My finger pauses on it, toys with the idea of removing this flimsy shield between us.

  “But is it only flirting that you’re interested in?” I half-smile, wondering if he can see me through the latticework. It’s so dark in here I can’t see anything of him beyond the outline of his hand, a darker shadow where his head tilts toward the sound of my voice.

  “I must confess: impure thoughts do come to mind. Quite a lot of them, actually. But should we really desecrate this sacred space?” His voice drips in sarcasm, and he drums his fingers on the wall, a beat that reverberates through my palms.

  My smile widens. “Father, is this space not meant for unburdening our darkest selves? Do we not enter here to confess the desires of our weak bodies?”

  “What is it your body desires now?” he whispers, the joking, priestly affectation gone, only his deep, radio-perfect voice remaining.

  My finger flips the latch, and the balsa wood screen between us unhinges. We both press our other hands to it reflexively and catch it between us, one hand on either side. Then he takes hold of the screen and lets it drop to his side of the cubicle.

  We stare at one another through the newly opened space. I still can’t see much. A strand of hair that hangs in his eyes. An angled jaw, a slice of cheekbone, a hollow where his eyes are. I don’t need to be able to see them to know he’s staring straight at me.

  I can feel it.

  A tiny part of my brain yells at me to hold up. Think this through. Remember last time? it shouts, and I can still picture he-who-must-not-be-named. The reason I applied to study abroad this semester in the first place, so I could get a break from his stupid, knowing smirk.

  But this is what I came here for. A fresh start. To get my mind off the past, off every bad decision I’ve made since setting foot on the Penn campus.

  What better way to start over than a harmless fling with an innocent guy I’ll never see again (or never see at all, for that matter)?