by Henry, Mia
“And he wants to, like, know you. In the Biblical sense.”
I snort. “You are such a dork.”
Gwen sighs. “No, I’m just spaced-out from reading too many essays. Although this one is actually good. Listen.” She reaches for a typed essay at the top of her stack and reads aloud. “In William Faulkner’s LIGHT IN AUGUST, the theme of the isolation of man is significant. Most of the characters in the book bring isolation on themselves, but Joe Christmas’s isolation is not totally his fault. Society is also to blame.” When she looks up, her eyes are sad. Haunted.
“I never read LIGHT IN AUGUST,” I say quickly. Suddenly, it feels like I’ve glimpsed a part of Gwen that I shouldn’t see. I look away, and my mind flicks to the textbooks in my leather tote. I should be prepping for class tomorrow. Instead, all I want to do is get a little tipsy on tea, flop into bed without taking my clothes off, and think about the way Luke’s mouth felt on mine.
“Neither did most of my students,” Gwen groans. The trace of sadness is gone from her expression. “And I’m not that much of a hard ass. It’s like, read the book, don’t take your summer reading test stoned, and you probably won’t get below a B-. My new school year’s resolution is to get less than five parent phone calls this year.”
“Admirable.” I nurse the spiked tea. My body is starting to shift from wired to worn out. “At the rate I’m going, I’ll get to five before the week is out.” I push back my chair. “Good luck with these. I’ve got to get some sleep.” I head for the door.
“Oh. Wait. Ellie?” Gwen calls behind me. “About this afternoon…are you… okay?”
The declined debit card. My quick escape from the coffee shop. The phone call with Aria. It seems like it all happened weeks ago, instead of earlier today.
“Oh. Yeah. I’m really sorry about that.” I turn. “I didn’t mean to freak out. I just—I don’t know, money is kind of a weird thing for me, and—”
“It’s fine.” Mercifully, Gwen cuts me off. “I just wanted to make sure you were cool. Sucks when things get tight like that. If you need anything, just let me know.”
“Promise.”
“Oh, and speaking of dough…” She tugs her bag from underneath the table and rummages through it. “When I went back to your classroom to get my jacket, I found this.” She produces my money clip and holds it in the light, examining it. “You left it on your desk. It’s gorgeous.”
“Oh! Thanks.”
“But…” Gwen tilts her head in confusion as she examines the clip. “It’s yours, right?”
“Yeah. My mom gave it to me. Why?”
“It’s just… the initials. Yours are E, something, S, right? But these are—”
My blood runs cold. How could I have been so stupid? “ESH. I know.” I swipe the clip from her fingers and close my fist over it until I can feel the cold metal digging into my skin. “Actually, it was my maternal grandmother’s, so these are her initials, and my mom passed it down to me.” My heartbeat triples.
“Oh. Okay. Cool.” Gwen seems to accept my explanation, but I can feel her eyes on me as I duck out of the kitchen and make a break for my bedroom. Close the door behind me and lean against it, trying to slow my breath.
What am I doing? I’ve lost focus. I’ve let Luke get in the way, which has made me careless. If I keep it up, I’ll slip again, which will eventually leave me exposed. That can’t happen, no matter how sweet or sexy or creative or good Luke Poulos is. He may be all of those things, but is he worth jeopardizing everything?
I whip my dress over my head and toss it on the floor, diving between my sheets without brushing my teeth or washing my face. I can still feel Luke’s scent on me, his warmth. I don’t want it to fade. I drift off with the light still on, promising myself that tomorrow, I’ll pull back. Break it off. I can’t let things move forward between Luke and me.
My sleep is fitful again. There’s the usual nightmare about my mother, then a brief flash of my father behind bars. And then, in the same dream, Luke. Only it’s not Luke, not the way he is now. In the dream he’s a teenager, with the same clear blue eyes and thick, dark hair. He’s lying down in the middle of a two-lane highway. And I’m standing on the side of the road, paralyzed in fear as a semi-truck barrels toward him. I’m screaming, but he can’t hear me. As the truck picks up speed, he turns his head toward me. His eyes are pleading. Glassy. I want to save him, but I’m powerless. In the last second, he mouths my name.
chapter ten
Elle,
So… this faculty “mentor”. You do realize you’ve mentioned him in, like, every Email you’ve written since you got there, right? Details, please!
David texted yesterday. He said he’d just gotten really stressed over everything, and doesn’t want to break up. He wants to talk this weekend. What am I supposed to do? Now isn’t the best time for me to be in a relationship. I know that. But every time we’re together, common sense goes out the window.
Love you for infinity,
A
The next morning in class, I’m tired but determined. In the light of day, I’m able to see clearly. I have to remove the complication that is Luke Poulos from my life. I’m not stupid enough to think it will be easy, but in the long run it will make my life much simpler. In the meantime, I’ll lose myself in teaching.
“From your reading last night, which I’ll assume you all completed—” I see Josh Marville’s (Mother: Nina! Rum heiress! Father: George! Lucky enough to be married to Nina!) hand shoot up, and debate whether or not to acknowledge him. He’s moved from the back row to the second row, so I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Yes, Josh?”
“You know what they say about what happens when you assume, don’t you, Ms. Sloane? You make an ass—”
“Thank you, Josh,” I say loudly. “And just for that, I’ll direct my first question to you. Tell me this: what is the fundamental problem facing our society today?”
“Weed being illegal?” At least his response results in a few of his nearly comatose classmates waking up enough to snicker.
“Try again.” An echo of a familiar throbbing has already started to pulse at the base of my skull, and it’s not even 8:30 AM. “One more shot, Josh. Don’t blow it.”
“Scarcity?”
“Oh. Good.” My lazy attempt to hide the surprise in my voice fails. “Define it for me?”
“It means, like, not having enough resources to produce all the things that people want, or whatever.”
“Not ‘or whatever’. That’s exactly right.” I kick off my pointy green snakeskin flats and sit on the edge of my desk, sipping Gwen’s homemade soy latté from my travel mug. In response, most of the class reach for their travel mugs and take a collective slurp. “And you raise a good point—the idea of want, as different from the idea of need. What’s the difference?”
Martha (Father: Jorge! President of a regional bank! Mother: Ellen! Remarried in Albuquerque!) calls out, “A need is something that people have to have to survive.”
“Ooh! Like Starbucks?” Vi Miller chimes in.
“Not exactly,” I cringe, reaching for my mug again. “Think in terms of the most basic resources: clean water. Food. Shelter.”
The sea of faces in front of me nods, but I can tell from the blank looks that they only understand the concept in theory.
“And so what’s a want, then?”
“STARBUCKS!” Half of the class calls, raising their mugs.
“Exactly,” I laugh. “Very good.” I slip off my glasses and clean them on the edge of my black jersey wrap dress, feeling like slightly less of a failure than I did on the first day of class. “A want is just a way of meeting a need. There are many different ways to meet a need. So if a basic need is shelter, a want could be a little shack on the beach, or a penthouse apartment in the city. But sometimes wants and needs conflict.”
“Um, do you have other examples?” Vi asks, flipping to a fresh page in her notebook.
“Absolutely.” I slide off my desk and slip
on my shoes, making my way to the white board. I have the perfect example, an example I can’t possibly share with the class. An example that is flashing like neon letters in my mind.
WANT: LUKE POULOS. EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM. SEE ALSO: KIND SOUL, KILLER SMILE, GORGEOUS HAIR, SHARP SENSE OF HUMOR, AMAZING MOUTH, ET CETERA.
NEED: NOT TO WANT LUKE POULOS.
There’s an all-school assembly after first period, so after I dismiss the class I take a second to retie the belt on my dress and apply a fresh coat of nude gloss. I’m dying to see Luke at the assembly. And I’m dreading it. I’m not sure I have the willpower to break things off with him, especially not once he looks at me with those open, kind eyes. Then again, maybe I’m being presumptuous. Maybe last night was just a kiss.
I check my reflection in the white board. “Okay,” I whisper to the nearly there version of myself. “Look. I really like you, but we both know that it’s not a good idea to get involved in a relationship with a coworker. It’s not that I didn’t have a great time last night, I did—it’s just—I need to focus on my teaching right now, and adjusting to the school, and—”
“Am I… interrupting something? Do you two need to be alone?” Luke’s voice in the doorway makes me scream. A small scream. But a scream nonetheless.
“Elle! Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Luke hurries across the classroom, then reaches out and squeezes my arm. I love the feeling of his hands on me. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. I just—I didn’t know you were standing there.” Silently, I replay my speech. How much did he hear?
“I thought we could walk over to the assembly together, if you want.”
“Oh. Yeah. That would be… good.” My stomach flip-flops. I’m not ready to have this conversation with him. Not yet. Not when he looks this good. Even the stain on his tie doesn’t turn me off. It just makes him cuter, somehow.
He catches me looking. “Yeah. Sorry about this,” he says, smoothing the tie. “Breakfast mishap. But if you’re not too embarrassed to walk with me—”
“Sure. Let’s go.” I can’t stand this close to him, alone, any longer. Now without putting myself in serious danger of attempting the ‘sweep everything off the desk’ move that only happens successfully in romantic comedies and porn. I need witnesses to prevent me from giving in to him. Five hundred witnesses at an assembly should do the trick.
Luke follows me into the hallway. He pulls the door closed behind us.
Even after several days in Miami, I’m still surprised every time I walk outside. The thick, wet heat is always lurking, ready to envelop. We wind between the modern classroom buildings, the state-of-the-art music/theater/assembly hall looming at the center of campus, all steel and glass. Rivers of students stream toward it, converging from all sides of campus. I catch a few curious sliding glances at Luke and me.
“Don’t worry about them.” Luke reads my mind. “Next week, somebody will get busted for cheating or sex in the bathroom, and we’ll be old news.”
So last night really was more than just a kiss. Not just to me, but to Luke. He thinks there’s a we. I’ve always wanted to be part of a real we.
“Hey. Luke. Can we… talk?”
“Oh, God. The dreaded can we talk?.” He’s smiling, joking, but the worry in his eyes isn’t hard to find. “Find somebody else already? It’s that sexy son-of-a-bitch in the math department, isn’t it?”
“No, I—”
“Because if being able to solve for x is a must-have for you, then I’m afraid this just isn’t going to work. I’ll have to end it. Right here. Right now.”
“That’s not it. There’s no guy in the math department.” I resist the urge to play shove him through one of the sets of doors as we filter in the auditorium. Tempting, but unprofessional. White light pours in through the skylights overhead, casting halos over the students in the lobby.
“That’s a relief.” Luke cuts through a few layers of students standing at the second set of doors, and then unlocks them with an electronic key. “Ladies and faculty first, please.” He pulls open the door and I duck inside. Behind us, students pour into the seats at the back, shoving backpacks under their chairs and completely disregarding the “no-texting during school hours” joke of a rule.
We find seats in the faculty section at the front. Soon, Gwen and Waverly pop into the row behind us, and Gwen jabs me in the back with the business end of a pencil when she sees me sitting next to Luke. I swat her away.
“Mr. Poulos, doing some quality mentoring, I see.” Waverly coos behind him. “Mentoring in quotes, of course.” Her lips are too close to his neck. His totally kissable neck.
“Ms. Wells, indulging in some quality over-dramatization, I see,” Luke says lightly. Dismissively. “No quotes necessary, of course.”
Waverly winks at me and slides back into her seat. When she crosses her perfectly tanned legs, her pink silk skirt slides up to mid-thigh.
“So, you wanted to talk.” Luke’s voice drops as he leans toward me. Not that anyone could hear us anyway, with the pinging of cell phones and dull student roar.
Before I can tell him that an auditorium full of kids probably isn’t the best place to have this conversation, Dr. Goodwin strides onstage and thumps the microphone at the podium. It screeches, and everybody groans.
“Good morning, and welcome to the opening of a new school year here at Allford Academy.”
The hall explodes into cheers and whistles. Some of the older teachers press their fingers into their ears. Dr. Goodwin just smiles and offers an old-man fist pump, which riles up the kids even more.
I love this about Dr. Goodwin: it’s obvious that he adores what he does. That he would rather be on stage at Allford than anywhere else in the world. I sneak a glance at Luke, whose face is shining beneath the clear gold lighting pouring from several stories above. Sitting next to him, it’s impossible not to share his spark, not to feel completely electrified at the energy in this place. Or maybe it’s the fact that our knees are touching that’s electrifying. Hard to say.
“So here we are.” Dr. Goodwin’s voice booms through the hall, and the students fall silent. “Standing at the edge of a new school year. Every fall, we experience something that most people in fields other than education don’t get to experience very often. What we have—students and faculty alike—is a remarkable opportunity to begin again.”
A shiver runs through me. If this were a movie, the entire auditorium would erupt in cheers. Instead, somebody’s cell spews a Rihanna remix.
“We have the chance to start over—to ask ourselves how we can be better. Stronger, as individuals and as a school community. A very wise thinker once said that we should not say ‘I am’, but rather ‘I am becoming’, because we have never fully arrived at the best version of ourselves. We are always a work in progress.”
“Got to give it to him,” Luke murmurs. “The old man can give a speech.”
I nod.
“So as we begin this new school year, I want you to ask yourselves: Who am I becoming? How can I reach my goals, and help others around me to reach theirs as well? We are, truly, works in progress, my friends. And I am honored to be here to witness each of your transformations.”
It feels like Dr. Goodwin is speaking directly to me. Giving me permission to move away from the shame of my old life into the new version of myself. I want to believe him now more than ever.
At the end of the assembly, one of the other art instructors pulls Luke aside to talk curriculum. He mouths an apology, and I escape into the sunshine, bobbing and weaving through the crowd to avoid Waverly and Gwen. I need to be alone in the sterile white quiet of my classroom. I need to think. My mind is cluttered with images and words and thoughts and feelings, each of which seems to contradict the next. This morning, I’d known exactly what I needed to do. Forty-five minutes sitting knee-to-knee with Allford’s Sexiest Teacher Alive, and I’m more confused than ever.
I’m relieved to slip inside my classroom, to close the d
oor against the adolescent gossip in the hall. I close my eyes and lean against my door, hearing Dr. Goodwin’s words echoing in my mind. Who am I becoming? Am I going to let the old Elliot hold me captive? Or am I going to become someone new, someone better, someone who isn’t drowning in her own shame?
I kick off my shoes and pad across the cool wood floor. Collapse into my desk chair, wishing I could talk this through with Aria. But that would mean telling her the truth: that I’m hiding in plain sight in Miami. That I’ve changed my name enough to make it unrecognizable. That I can’t possibly tell anyone here who I am, or what I’ve done. She’d hate me if she knew I was lying about who I am. She’d hate me if she knew I was going by her nickname for me—that Elle was no longer hers alone. But it’s not her choice. It’s not her life.
Something unfamiliar at the edge of my desk catches my eye, and I reach for it. It’s a photograph of me. It’s slightly blurry, but I recognize the image right away. It’s the picture Luke took last night. He must have left it on my desk before the assembly. In the photograph, I’m sitting on his couch, my feet curled beneath me. I can almost see the flush in my cheeks, even though the picture is black and white. My bangs are wispy and wild around my eyes. At the bottom, Luke has scrawled a message.
So you can see what I see. --L
I study the picture. Objectively, it’s a beautiful image. I trace the lines and shadows of it. The girl in the picture is me, but not me. There’s a part of her I don’t recognize, but it’s not the new hair color or the glasses or the bangs.
For the first time in too long, she looks happy.
chapter eleven
Elle,
You’ll never believe it—David and I got together to talk last night—and GUESS WHAT? We got back together! Long story short, I’m headed to the Hamptons with him and his family this weekend!!!!!! Kind of like a last minute vacay before school starts next week. I know it sounds crazy after how pissed I was when D broke things off. But if he loves me enough to stand by me with everything that’s going on… isn’t that real love?