Just Jayne

by Ripley Proserpina

  I let out a breath.

  I hadn’t told the other guys, but I’d been worried. Getting those reports from Lausanne, they’d made me sick to my stomach. I pictured our little girl there, struggling to keep up. The holes in her education were our fault, and if she wasn’t fitting in, it was because we’d messed up somewhere.

  We’d spoiled her or coddled her, or we hadn’t spoiled her enough. I didn’t know what to do, and I was losing my mind trying to figure it out.

  And in a day, Jayne Burns had set it all to rights. Or at least, she’d set my mind at ease.

  I wasn’t saying she was perfect. That snotty tone of voice, are you a licensed teacher? Yeah, actually, I was. But I let her get away with it, because she’d been so horrified at herself.

  And these lessons plans.

  People would say they knew us through our music. Critics wrote that they could feel Tennyson’s pain when he drew his bow across the strings of his violin. They’d say that they could see how tightly wound I was when I really let loose on the guitar.

  I always thought those comments were high-handed and presumptive, but now I wondered.

  I could see who Jayne was when I read these things. I saw the way she took into consideration what Sophie needed, what kind of learner she was, and where she might need encouragement.

  Compassion.

  Creativity.

  Control.

  My stomach clenched as my body heated. This wasn’t good. I couldn’t be feeling this way about Sophie’s teacher.

  I took a breath and shook my head, like I could shake the thoughts out of me. But the damage was done.

  I wanted her.

  I wanted to absorb some of that hopefulness and light from a woman who’d seen some ugly things in the world but still managed to stay kind.

  I didn’t deserve it, but I wanted it.

  7

  Jayne

  Mrs. Foster forced me to leave the shelter of my classroom for a tour of the house and tea. I had expected—you know—tea, but this was a meal.

  She had sandwiches and sides laid out on the table in the kitchen. The amount of food brought me to a halt.

  “This isn’t all for me,” I said.

  “No,” Mrs. Foster said. “The band is recording, but they’ll break soon. And if they don’t eat…” She winked at me. “You don’t want to be around such grouchy boys.”

  I sat at the table and accepted a cup of tea from her. “Did you order all the supplies in my classroom?” I asked, blowing across the top of the hot liquid.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “Thank you, but no,” I answered. “I don’t think I’ve ever had such a perfectly outfitted classroom before. It’s a dream. The computer. All of it.”

  “The boys helped,” she said. “Diego and Tennyson did most of the designing, but Lee and Klaus did the research for supplies. Lee was a teacher, you know.”

  Are you a licensed teacher? My mind replayed my voice and it took all my power not to wince at the sound of my high-and-mighty tone. “No, I didn’t.”

  “He did one of those, what are they called… where you go to a foreign country and teach in poor regions?”

  “Peace Corps?” Dear God, had I insulted a man who’d taught in the Peace Corps? I was a monster.

  “Something like that. And he taught in Leeds until the band signed their first record. That’s where they all met. Do you know about the band?”

  I’d bitten into my sandwich and used the time I chewed to gather my thoughts. How much did I reveal? I was a fan of their music, but I didn’t know much about them personally beyond what made the headlines. “I listen to their music.” I decided that was the safest statement I could make.

  “They’re very talented. Do you know, Tennyson and Diego’s lyrics are compared to poetry?”

  I had read that. And I’d seen the photo accompanying the article that compared Diego to Jim Morrison from The Doors.

  My roommate in college had the original poster and the Diego version on our wall.

  In that year, I stared at Diego’s naked torso more than I stared at my own body. As for their music being like poetry? It was. College had been my escape and the first opportunity I had to ever form my own opinions. Rochester’s Pathos’ music was the first thing I ever listened to that I decided I liked.

  No one told me to like it. They didn’t tell me I’d be smarter and better and more well-rounded if I liked it.

  I just did. Their lyrics stabbed my heart and ripped out my guts when I needed a way to feel pain that wasn’t physical.

  “Some of it is unbearable,” I replied, and earned a shocked glance from Mrs. Foster.

  “Unerträglich?” a deep voice asked from across the kitchen.

  Klaus opened the fridge and removed a bottle of water before glaring at me. “What makes our music unbearable to you, little teacher? Are you as knowledgeable about music as you are about geography?”

  Would I be a coward if I crawled under the table and snuck to the backstairs?

  Klaus was a cross between a Viking and a punk rocker. Of the members of the band, he was the oldest and had been in the music world the longest. His father was a famous drummer in a band from the 1960s and his mother was a (in)famous groupie-slash-model-slash-singer-slash-jewelry designer.

  When I was younger, Klaus was a clean-cut blond-haired, blue-eyed darling. He appeared in made-for-TV movies where he played sensitive exchange students who drew shy, but talented wallflowers out of their shell.

  I’d spent a good portion of my cloistered college years watching them.

  And I never expected to see him glaring at me.

  “I call you, but you can’t hear me/You stand in front of me/Watch me bleed out/I call you, and you can’t hear me.” I’d listened to the song a thousand times. I’d blared it in my ears when I didn’t have the words for what I felt, or what I needed. But how much did I reveal about myself to this person I’d never met before.

  This person who trusted me with his daughter.

  And who had no idea who I really was.

  “The pain in those lyrics broke my heart when I heard them,” I said. It was as close to an explanation as I could come.

  Klaus sat across from me, staring at me the same way Lee had. “Only someone who has felt pain can understand that,” he said. He opened his bottle of water and brought it to his mouth. Tilting his chin to the ceiling, he proceeding to drink the entire bottle. His throat worked, Adam’s apple bobbing as water escaped from the sides of his mouth and soaked the collar of his shirt. He pulled it away from his mouth with a sigh and slammed it onto the table.

  I suddenly noticed he was covered in sweat. His forehead glistened, and his arms shone in the overhead light. “Drumming must be like long-distance running,” I said. “Do you have to eat more calories than the others?”

  Klaus stared at me, and blinked slowly. “No,” he said and turned to Mrs. Foster. “What time is Sophie arriving?”

  “Flora texted when they left the school. They should be in the air now and arriving at Leeds-Bradford…” She looked over our shoulder at a clock on the wall. “Good gracious! An hour or so! Rogers will meet them, but most of Miss Hall’s possessions have already arrived from the school.”

  “They sent her things before she left?” Klaus asked, frowning deeply.

  “Yes. Her toys, books, and clothes arrived a week ago.”

  The tall man glowered, his broad shoulders lifting as his fist crushed the empty water bottle. He pushed back from the table and threw the bottle toward the sink. It bounced off the wall and clattered to the floor, but he didn’t pick it up. Instead, muttering, he left.

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Foster said but smiled at me. “Bad timing.”

  “The worst,” I replied. Sort of the story of my life, though.

  I ate my sandwich and chugged my tea before any of the other men appeared. I imagined Klaus telling them what I said about their music and how offended they’d b
e, if they felt anything at all.

  Trudging upstairs, I tried not to think about why I loved this band’s music so much, but it was impossible not to. Once those memories started, it was impossible to keep them away. My room was too far away, and my vision had already started to tunnel.

  Pulse loud in my ears, I raced up the stairs as the darkness built. I managed to get my key in the lock, turn it, and open the door before the past swallowed me whole.

  8

  Klaus

  The little teacher intrigued me. Diego had mentioned something… something about a school she’d attended and…

  I’d stopped listening and read through her resume. I could tell what I needed by reading her stats. I knew she was a smart woman; her grades in math and science almost rivaled my own.

  It would have been better for her if I’d kept my distance, because now that the woman and that staid, black and white resume merged in my mind, she was a siren.

  Smart. Innocent.

  With hidden pain.

  It was the pain. I recognized it. It reflected what I saw in my mirror. How was she not bitter? Pain bred bitterness. I was the most miserable bastard alive, and the worst I’d faced in my life was to be ignored and spoiled by the people who loved me.

  Slamming my way into the studio, I shooed Warner out and sat on the couch. “Tell me about the teacher.”

  “Oh, now you’re interested?” Ten asked. “What was it? Did she stare at you with those eyes and did you fall to your knees?”

  I held his gaze, blinking slowly before focusing on Diego. “The school. You had said something about it.”

  “That’s right,” Diego said. “Gatesdale. It was all over the news for a while when a bunch of students died from measles. The students didn’t have adequate food or shelter. Or medical care.”

  “And our teacher went there?”

  “Our teacher?” Ten asked. He pushed himself forward and leaned on his knees. “What are you saying, Klaus?”

  “You’re interested,” Lee said. “Like all of us, you’re interested in her.” He spoke all the things we thought. He was fearless when it came to confrontation.

  “We can’t be,” I said. “We can’t be interested in her. Not yet. It’s too soon.”

  But I was. And I didn’t care that it was too soon. In Jayne, I’d found a kindred spirit. Someone who hurt like I hurt, but who hadn’t let it crush her.

  Interested? I was more than interested. I was captivated.

  9

  Jayne

  “Jayne Burns is a liar and a thief. No one will speak to her. Or look at her. You won’t invite her to play. You won’t include her during meals. She’ll be invisible. Do you all understand?”

  Fifty small voices answered Dr. Moore’s question. “Yes, sir.”

  The man’s bright red face, sweaty and bloated, was so close to mine I could feel his breath on my face. He gripped my thin arms tightly, squeezing until my bones rubbed together. “You will stand here until you can tell us the truth.”

  “I’m not a liar,” I said stubbornly.

  Dr. Moore shook me. “You are a liar. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t the worst little girl who ever lived. A little girl who killed her mother. And her father. And then lied about the one person who took care of you.”

  “I didn’t.” Tears choked my voice, and it made me even angrier. I stomped my foot and struggled to get free from his grasp. “I’m not the liar. You are! And you’re bad! Bad!”

  He swept me under his arm and dragged me out of the hall where fifty pairs of eyes followed me. All of the girls wore similar expressions, but it wasn’t until I was alone with Dr. Moore that I realized why. “Bad girls get punished.”

  The cane hit the side of his desk before he hit me, and when he lifted it again, he missed. This would only make him angrier, and I would be more severely punished.

  “Miss Burns?” Mrs. Foster knocked at the door holding me upright. “Are you all right, Miss Burns?”

  Oh, shit. Oh, shit. I touched my face, feeling sweat and snot and tears all over me. I wiped it with my sleeve and sniffed loudly. “Yes, Mrs. Foster!” I called out. I stood, and my legs shook. Bracing my hand on the side of the door, I wiped my face on my sleeve one more time and took a deep breath. “Do you need me?” I asked.

  “Miss Hall is arriving, and I thought you’d like to come down to greet her.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I’ll be down in a moment, I need to wash my face. I fell asleep.”

  “Well, hurry,” she replied, and her heels clacked against the wood floor as she walked away.

  This wasn’t good.

  Jogging to the bathroom, I flicked on the light and studied my face. I didn’t look worse than I did yesterday, which I supposed was the most I could hope for.

  I hadn’t had a flashback in a year, and I shouldn’t have been having them now. I ran the tap, splashing my face with cold water before I stripped out of my clothes.

  I hadn’t even unpacked my bag, but I did have a simple dress that wasn’t wrinkled. I threw it on, and slid my feet into flats before running a comb through my hair and hurrying downstairs. I took the main staircase and arrived in time to see Mrs. Foster opening the door.

  Sophie flew into her arms, chattering in Spanish. “English, dear, you know I don’t speak Español.”

  “Flora got lost in the airport, and it took Rogers an hour to find us! He was so mad, Mrs. Foster. And Flora called him el perro malo, and I laughed and laughed! Where’s Diego and Uncle Lee? Uncle Lee!”

  I couldn’t help smiling as she proceeded to yell for everyone. A tired-looking young woman came in carrying a backpack, and she greeting us wearily. “I’m going to bed,” she said in Spanish to Sophie, and then to Mrs. Foster. “Tag. You’re it.”

  I wanted to be it.

  Mrs. Foster shooed Flora away and saw me standing on the bottom step. “Sophie, look. This is Miss Burns. Your teacher.”

  “Hello, Sophie,” I said, approaching her. I knelt next to her, careful to tuck my dress around my ankles so I didn’t flash anyone. “I’m Jayne.”

  “Hello,” she said, some of her sparkle diminishing. She studied me, and sighed. “Are you going to tell me what to do?” The way she watched me, as if she expected me to start disciplining her, made me sigh internally.

  “Sometimes,” I answered honestly. I would have to work to gain her trust, so I started now. “But sometimes, you’ll get to tell me what to do, too.”

  She smiled, one small corner of her mouth lifting, but then footsteps thundered over the stone floor and she forgot all about me.

  “Diego!” She disappeared from my sight as two strong arms lifted her up and threw her into the air like she was three and not eight.

  The band surrounded her, and there was no place for me—which was the way it should be. I snuck away, observing with interest the reunion. Diego adopted Sophie, but the way she reached for each of them, no one man received more affection than the other.

  And they seemed as equally enamored of her. Even Klaus, dour and glowering, smiled and wrapped her up tightly in his arms.

  “You’re prickly!” she complained when he blew raspberries on her neck.

  Her smile was contagious, and I touched my face to see if the same look was on me. Sophie was beyond excited, and she spoke so rapidly in Spanish that even I had a hard time following along. She told the story about Flora and Rogers and complained bitterly of missing her toys. “Are they here?” she asked in English.

  “They’re all unpacked,” Mrs. Foster called out, and I noticed the girl’s shoulders slump in relief.

  Which made me wonder. What had she expected Mrs. Foster’s answer to be? Was she nervous her toys were damaged? Or was it something else? Uncertainty, maybe, that she’d be staying long enough to be unpacked.

  The chatting, happy family moved away, toward the kitchen, and I hung back. This was a reunion, and it was no place for me. It was important, in this role, for me to allow them their privacy. Sophie
would be my responsibility when she wasn’t with them. But in the meantime, I needed to give them their space, and not hover.

  “Are you coming?” I heard Tennyson ask. I’d just placed a foot on the stairs, and assumed he was talking to Mrs. Foster, so I took another step. He sighed loudly. “Jayne. Are you coming?”

  Surprised, I turned to face the group that was all watching me. Sophie seemed a little disappointed, like she had been expecting all of her family’s attention and would now have to share it.

  “I thought you might like a little time as a family. But I can come down in an hour or so to see if there’s anything you need?” At the word need, Tennyson’s gaze dropped to my legs and then back to my face. Heat traveled from my neck to my cheeks.

  “That will be fine,” Klaus said, reaching past Diego’s shoulder to grab Tennyson’s elbow. “Let her go.”

  With a shrug, like it wasn’t worth arguing, Tennyson followed his friends down the hall. I stood on the stairs for a moment, listening to the happy tones of the family.

  “Miss Burns,” an unfamiliar voice said, and I glanced toward the north wing. The man from last night stood there. “I’m Warner Gutten, the band’s manager. I’d like a word with you if you don’t mind.” His tone seemed to convey that I could mind very much, but I still needed to speak with him. He didn’t even wait to see if I’d follow him, he started down the hall, toward the wing where the band had their private rooms and studio.

  As I walked behind him, I studied him. He didn’t seem much older than me. He was dressed up, in a suit coat and tie, and his leather shoes clicked against the stone floor with each step. Turning abruptly, he opened a door and waited for me. The look on his face had me sucking in a breath nervously, and I fought the instinct to check my hair and my teeth.

  The door had closed before he laid into me. “Miss Burns, I want to warn you against getting any ideas about my band.”