Just Jayne

by Ripley Proserpina

  I told my students the same thing I now told myself: pick a new yardstick to measure yourself by.

  When I returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Foster was filling a glass with water. “It just occurred to me,” she said. “You might like to eat in your room.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m so tired that I may not even eat, but go right to sleep.”

  “How about this?” She handed me the glass of water. It struck me that I hadn’t had water since the plane, and I was parched. “I’ll have a sandwich sent to your room. But we’ll go up now.”

  “That would be perfect,” I said, handing her back the now empty glass.

  “Your room is in this wing, but on the upper levels. The band renovated the old nursery for Miss Hall, and even managed to refurbish some turn-of-the-century toys.” She glanced over her shoulder as she led me to a set of narrow stairs in the back of the kitchen. “Twentieth century, I mean.”

  “Have you met Miss Hall?” I asked, and wondered what I was supposed to call the little girl who would be my student. It seemed weird to call a child, “Miss,” but this was a different country, and there were different culturally appropriate forms of address. I’d have to look into it later.

  “No,” Mrs. Foster said. “But I did know of her mother.”

  “Will her school be sending her grades or curriculum? I should probably call them tomorrow…”

  “Her file is in your room, along with contact information. Her schooling, until now, has been inconsistent. The band decided on boarding school after they had some trouble with the last instructors. But Miss Hall is miserable away from them, and honestly, I think they miss her as well.”

  I smiled. Little humans had a way of wrapping themselves around you. “I always cry when I leave one of my students,” I admitted. “You spend so much time with them, and invest so much of yourself in them…”

  “Like any parent, I suppose,” Mrs. Foster replied.

  In some cases, my students had become like my children. And often, for those I lived with, I was closer to them than their own parents.

  We went up two steep flights of stairs, and by the time we reached the top, I was panting. Mrs. Foster, who was at least fifty, hadn’t broken a sweat. She glanced over her shoulder at me and smiled. “You’ll be in such good shape after a few months,” she said. “I don’t even need to diet anymore.”

  The secretary was a beautiful woman. Her skin, though creased, was such a pure white, I wondered whether she even had to wear makeup. My skin was four different colors, slightly olive from my Portuguese heritage but sallow. And when I was tired, ugh.

  “In your room, you’ll find a door leading to Miss Hall’s room, and then from there, another door leading to the nursery and school rooms.” She opened a door leading to a long hallway and waited.

  “What’s above us?” I asked.

  “Empty rooms. The top floor hasn’t been renovated so please don’t investigate. And please keep your student from going up as well. The last time Mr. Martin was up his foot went through the floor.”

  “All right,” I replied. Before I stepped through the door, I noticed another door at the top of the steps. This one was different. It was heavy and metal and modern.

  Which didn’t make sense. Mrs. Foster had just told me that the level hadn’t been renovated.

  “Are you coming?”

  “Yes,” I replied and followed.

  She led me down the hall and withdrew a key from her belt. “I have the master set of keys, so let me know if you lose yours. You’ll be expected to carry it for yourself and for Miss Hall’s rooms.” She unlocked the door and stepped aside. “There. I hope you’re comfortable, and if you need anything, please let me know.”

  I poked my head inside and saw my ragged luggage sitting next to a huge canopy bed. “This is mine?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’ll have your sandwich sent up.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Foster,” I replied, and went inside, eyes wide. I bit my lip, trying to keep myself from smiling but when I heard the door shut behind me, I released it.

  “Holy cow.” I spun in a slow circle, taking in the beauty that was my room.

  The walls were hung with tapestries that I itched to touch. So I did. This was my room. I could touch things if I wanted, no one was going to slap my hand away or lock me—

  I shook my head hard. There was no need to think about things like that and ruin the moment. Kicking off my shoes, I stood for a moment. The carpet was so plush, my feet sank into it, and there was a fireplace. With a real fire. This was just like something out of a book where a manor like this had people hired especially for fire lighting.

  The room was dark, cozy, and it was mine. With a little squeal, I launched myself from the carpet onto the bed.

  It almost swallowed me whole. I sunk into the downy comforter and shut my eyes. This was heaven. Literal heaven.

  Another squeak escaped me and I slapped my hand over my mouth.

  This had to be a dream. A dream job, traveling the world with my student. A dream house, with my own room and a bed that made me feel like a princess.

  I sighed happily as my worries melted away.

  I’d made the right choice. I knew it.

  5

  Jayne

  A crash from outside my room made me sit up, breathless. I put my hand on my racing heart, trying to identify what it was that had woken me from a sound sleep. With no idea of the time, and whether it was day or night, I tried to make sense of my unfamiliar surroundings.

  Light shone through my window, but not daylight. This was artificial, like someone had turned on floodlights.

  A second later, I heard the sound again. Something crashed, and I hurried to my window. Below me, a huge black SUV stood idling. The doors were open, and as I stared, the members of Rochester’s Pathos stumbled out.

  Now that I knew who I was looking at, I again wondered at my stupidity. How could I have ever thought Tennyson Blake was a dude who’d run out of clean clothes to wear? He stood now, hands on his back, stretching from side to side. That holey t-shirt? I was pretty certain it cost more than I’d make this year.

  And there was Diego Martin. Lead singer. Keyboard player. Co-lyricist. He was wearing the same outfit I’d seen when I’d met him outside the agency in London. But he wasn’t wearing his glasses now. He slapped Tennyson on the shoulder, nudging him until his friend turned around and playfully hit him in the stomach.

  The other man I hadn’t met yet, but his face was familiar. I’d seen him not only on magazines and in the news but selling watches and designer vodkas.

  Klaus Schiefer. Drummer. Daredevil. Genius. He had a doctorate in astrophysics, and, if rumors were true, a drinking problem.

  Klaus stood, watching Tennyson and Diego wrestle like puppies, no sign of amusement on the harsh lines of his face. His blond hair gleamed in the outside light. It had started to rain—or maybe it hadn’t stopped—and his t-shirt was quickly becoming saturated, but he stood, impervious… or uncaring. “Enough!” he suddenly barked and the two guys jumped away from each other.

  “Lighten up, Klaus.” Tennyson flipped him off before ducking his head and hurrying inside.

  There was one other member of the band. Lee Chan. I was certain I’d counted four people, but I didn’t recognize the other man who stood outside. He approached Klaus, crossed his arms and began to speak in a deep, loud voice. I couldn’t make out what he said, but I could see Klaus’s reaction to it. His arms dropped, and he straightened his spine, looming over the other man.

  His lips moved, so I knew he replied, and with each word, the other man shrank.

  And then Klaus happened to glance up and his gaze locked with mine. He narrowed his eyes, and the other man whipped his head toward my window, but I ducked down. Like a coward.

  When I dared lift my head again, the car was still in the drive, but all of the guys were gone.

  I went back to bed, hopeful that the rest of the night would be as dreamless as
the first part had been. But no such luck.

  In my dreams, hands held me down. Faces were shadowed or blurred, but the voices were familiar. I tried to fight, but my movements were slow and for each blow I managed to land, I was hit three times harder.

  I woke up, kicking and gasping, the sheets wound around my legs. Turning, I curled into a ball and grabbed the pillow to mask my sobbing. I buried my face in it, screaming my frustration and anger into the soft material until my throat ached and my tears were gone.

  Then I lay back and stared at the velvet canopy over my head. It’s just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.

  But I could still hear their voices in my head. “Plain Jayne. Dull Jayne. Go on, tell them. Tell everyone.”

  Wiping my face with the back of my hand, I got myself together.

  I was safe. I was fine. I wasn’t a powerless little girl anymore.

  A sandwich and bottle of water sat, untouched, on my desk along with a thick binder with my student’s name, Sophie Hall, typed across the front.

  A bubble of excitement welled from my stomach and up to my throat. I shrugged off the dream, stuffing all the voices and the remembered pain back in a box and then shoving it into the darkness.

  I hurried through showering and dressing and emerged from my hot shower ready to get to work. The sandwich would do for breakfast, and I took the plate with me through the door Mrs. Foster said led into the nursery and classrooms.

  Wan sunlight spilled through the leaded glass, their warm beams making a path to guide me.

  It was clear as I took a bite of the bread and gazed around that the room had been outfitted to be comfortable and warm. But whoever had done it had managed to save the gothic features, while adjusting them so they didn’t seem so… haunted.

  I could feel how much thought and trouble had gone into making up these rooms. The toys were clean, some of them brand new, but others were old and unique. There were glass-faced dolls with fragile porcelain hands, but they lay next to newer dolls in a way that invited play.

  I didn’t spend much time in Miss Hall’s room. It would be her private space, and all girls, no matter what age they were, needed somewhere that was only theirs.

  I opened a door at one end of the nursery and forgot all about eating. This must be the classroom.

  It was the perfect balance of classroom and comfort. There was a desk, small and child-sized, but there were also thick rugs and low tables if my student wanted to do her work lying on her belly with her feet in the air.

  The taller desk had to be mine. Not only was there a brand new laptop and a teacher’s planner on it, but a stack of oil pastels, chalk and sketch notebooks.

  It seemed my employers had done their research on me. I never kept my art a secret, but it was my hobby and not my profession.

  Still… it was kind of them to show, in this small way, that they’d taken the time to learn about me.

  Bookshelves lined one wall, and I found a closet full of supplies.

  Tugging my chair out from behind the desk, I sat down and opened Sophie Hall’s file, and got to work.

  The day passed quickly.

  I spent most of my time reading Sophie’s file. And as I read about her, I stopped calling her Miss Hall, like the other people in the house did, and started calling her Sophie. Her school photo was glued onto the inside of the file. The dark-eyed smiling girl with a gap between her teeth couldn’t be anything but Sophie.

  Her joy shone out of her eyes, and I knew, even before I read about her, that I’d love her.

  Sophie’s other teachers, in fact, didn’t love her. I found copies of correspondence detailing her “infractions.”

  “What kind of school was this?” I muttered, flipping through pages.

  Unfocused, distracted, flighty.

  Bossy.

  Vain.

  I rolled my eyes. For all of the complaints about Sophie’s character, there was no doubt that the girl was smart. She excelled in math, and the samples I saw of her drawing and writing showed she had a creative side.

  I read her stories and laughed aloud. “We’re going to get along just fine, Sophie.”

  “Good to hear it.” A softly accented voice jolted me out of my planning and back to the present.

  At the door stood the missing member of Rochester’s Pathos, Lee Chan. Pushing back my chair, I stood quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you knock.”

  “I didn’t,” he replied. “This is my home.”

  Right.

  He clasped his hands behind his back and stepped inside, walking toward me. “Tennyson said I should introduce myself, as you may not know who I am.”

  My smile tightened when I imagined what Tennyson had told his friends about me. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Chan.”

  He studied me, as if he was waiting for me to rise to the bait about the other man.

  I didn’t.

  “I’m Jayne Burns.”

  “Miss Burns.” He took my outstretched hand and grasped it firmly, shaking it once before releasing it and stepping back. “Mrs. Foster will fill you in on more of the details, but I expect detailed lesson plans to be emailed to me for approval.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “Approval? Are you a licensed teacher?” That came out sounding a lot snottier than I meant it. “I mean…” There really wasn’t any way to soften that. “I mean, of course I can do that.”

  “Hmm,” he replied, walking toward the desk and bending at the waist to look at my computer. I’d already begun lesson planning. What he would see on the screen was an outline of a theme I was designing around the Middle Ages. I figured, given the age of the manor, we’d have plenty of materials and hands-on investigating we could do right here.

  “Geometry?” He glanced up at me and widened his eyes. “Isn’t that a little advanced for an eight year-old?”

  “Some of it is,” I answered. “I’m not going to have her memorizing the equations or anything, but she’s capable of understanding things like shapes and weight and balance. And just downstairs we can find an example of a flying buttress. We can even make some of our own…”

  He straightened and nodded. “I may join you for some of your lessons. We took Sophie’s education too lightly, and I’m afraid she may have missed out. Her reading is below grade-level and her spelling is atrocious.” I’d noticed that and knew I’d be filling in some holes.

  “We’ll get her set,” I said. If I sounded confident, it was because I was. I might not have known how to put on makeup or do my hair, but I could teach a child to read.

  “You should know, Sophie is spoiled and indulged.”

  “As long as she’s not ignored,” I answered without thinking and shut my mouth quickly. “I apologize.”

  Lee turned away from me to stare out the window, and I took advantage of his position to study him. Like his band mates, Lee was handsome. His straight dark hair was a little long, and messy, and I noticed that it fell across his eyes while he spoke. But he didn’t fidget, and didn’t move it out of his face.

  He bit his lip, and it reminded me of Tennyson and the way he’d played with his lip ring… Both of them seemed to be holding themselves back from saying something.

  “Sophie was ignored,” Lee said quietly, and faced me. His dark eyes roamed my face, and then traveled down my body. It wasn’t like he was checking me out, but more like he was noticing me for the first time.

  I smoothed the fabric of my blouse down, checking the place where I’d tucked it into my jeans. Maybe I hadn’t dressed appropriately. “Is there a dress code?” I asked.

  He laughed. “You’re asking me?”

  Lee was wearing black slacks and a dress shirt, the buttons undone to reveal ribbons of tattoos inked across his throat and down his chest. If I ignored the way the material of his shirt gaped, I’d say he was dressed for a business meeting.

  “You’re right. I’ll speak with Mrs. Foster.”

  “There’s no dress code, Jayne,” he said, and then cleared his t
hroat. “I mean, Miss Burns.”

  “You can call me Jayne,” I answered. I liked the way it sounded. I knew he was my employer, but no one ever called me Jayne. It was always Miss Burns. Or… I cleared my throat. “If you want.”

  “All right,” he said quietly. He continued to stare at me. Heat traveled up my spine and along my neck before spreading to my throat and face, and I had to turn away.

  No doubt he had women throw themselves at his feet, but I wasn’t going to do that. I wanted this job, and I wanted to meet Sophie.

  “Sophie speaks Spanish,” I said, as I placed myself behind my desk and glanced at her file. When I looked up, Lee was watching me with a smirk.

  “Retreating?” he asked.

  “No.” Regrouping wasn’t retreating.

  Lee rested his hands on the table, spreading out his fingers. Not only was he a guitarist, but he played the bass as well. I imagined those fingers, playing and plucking at strings.

  “Jayne.” His voice was low, and I wanted to look at him, but I didn’t.

  “I’ll make sure to get you lesson plans,” I said, easing into the seat. Beneath the table, I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms, and met his gaze. “I’m very excited to meet Sophie.”

  He studied me for a long moment, and nodded. “Good.”

  And then he left.

  He shut the door behind him, and I let out a shaky breath. Something about these men threw me off, and I didn’t like it.

  My heart raced, and I covered it with my hand. I never reacted like this—breathy and distracted.

  Sure, Lee was handsome, but so was Tennyson. And so were a million other men.

  And beauty didn’t mean anything. The most horrible people hid behind their pretty faces, and I had the scars to prove it.

  6

  Lee

  I printed out Jayne’s lessons and began to read through them. She was so smart. So creative.

  She’d linked mathematical and historical content together while building in opportunities for Sophie to build and create. This was the kind of teaching that made an impact.