Acting Out

by Katrina Abbott

  And for it to happen.

  Like, now.

  “I wanted to talk to you about what happened,” he said when I didn’t disappear in front of his eyes. “But I realize this is awkward, especially because...”

  You’re crazy hot? I have an inappropriate crush on you just like every other Rosewood student? You maybe liked what you saw the other night?

  “...I’m your teacher.”

  Right. That.

  “And I’m a guy.”

  Of course that, too.

  I nodded, still not looking at him. Other than his shoes, which I noticed for the first time were kind of big. DO NOT GO THERE, I yelled at myself inside my head.

  “But what happened...that must have been really horrible for you. And I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  I shrugged and muttered that I was fine.

  “I’d be more convinced if you’d look at me,” he said and I could hear the smile in his voice. That alone made me look up.

  “There,” he said, and he was smiling at me. But I couldn’t miss the slight blush on his cheeks.

  “This is weird,” I said, having to clear my throat and repeating myself.

  “Would it be less weird if I told you I didn’t actually see anything?”

  “Yes and no,” I said.

  He cocked an eyebrow questioningly. You should never do that to a student, I thought.

  “Less weird because I’d be relieved if it was true that you didn’t see. But more weird because we’re still talking about it.”

  He nodded. “Point taken. And believe me, I don’t want to beat this dead horse. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  I shrugged again and then for no reason at all, said, “Some of the girls think I did it on purpose.”

  His smile faltered for a half a second and I wondered if he hadn’t thought of that possibility before, but now was considering it.

  “I didn’t,” I said quickly. Because I didn’t think I could handle it if he asked me if I had.

  “No,” he said, frowning, like he hadn’t even considered it. “Of course not.”

  “You really didn’t see?” I asked, risking a look to his eyes for the truth.

  His gaze never wavered from mine. “No. I was backstage and didn’t even know something was wrong until you ran past me out the back door.”

  I exhaled, relieved. Which was stupid since the rest of the school had seen me, but that he hadn’t made it a bit easier to look him in the eye. And that he cared that I was okay now, well, that just felt nice and really comforting.

  “Don’t worry about the ones who say you did it on purpose. They know better and are just being rotten teenagers,” he said, frowning and I sort of loved him for being mad on my behalf. He took a breath and went on, “You’re a strong girl and I know this will take a bit to get over and for all the hoopla to die down, but you’ll come out of this just fine. I know it. You have good friends who care about you.”

  I nodded because he was right. But I wasn’t the only one affected by what had happened. “I still owe Abe an apology. He only did the magic show because I made him do it in the first place and then I went and ruined it.”

  He gave me a sympathetic look. “It’s not like you ruined it on purpose.”

  “Not at all.”

  “You know he tried to follow you, but I couldn’t let him go up to the dorms.”

  “So he could kill me?”

  He screwed up his face at that. “No, because he was worried about you.”

  Right. And he totally had seen what happened. Still... “I should call him. Which reminds me, my phone and stuff is in the wardrobe room, which is why I came here in the first place.”

  He nodded toward the room. “It’s open.”

  I stepped past him and made my way into the wardrobe room to grab my things. I had a mild panic for a second when I realized my stuff wasn’t where I’d left it, but it was still there, all stacked neatly in a pile on one of the makeup vanity tables. The phone was dead, which was kind of a relief, so I slipped it and the rest of my stuff into my gym bag and went to thank Mr. Stratton for being awesome.

  He was sorting the costumes that I guess had come back from the cleaners; they smelled like chemicals, but that was still preferable to them being musty and mildewy.

  “They look pretty good, huh?” he said, glancing at me over his shoulder. “The production is going to go so well. You and Declan are such great actors and...”

  “Is it wrong to hug you?” I blurted out, interrupting him because in that second, I really, really needed a hug.

  He froze in place and then slowly turned toward me, looking nervous. “Probably.”

  “Would you let me do it anyway?” I said as stupid tears sprang to my eyes. The tears weren’t a ploy, but I was feeling so alone and scared of what was to come with Abe and the girls in my classes and even my friends and what they must think of me and it all seemed so overwhelming.

  And he must have read that on my face because while he kept his lips pressed together in a grim line, he nodded and stepped toward me.

  I flung my arms around him and then next thing I knew, I was sobbing into his chest so hard, I couldn’t have stopped even if I’d wanted to. And believe me, I wanted to. The sobbing part, at least; the hugging part I was okay with.

  But instead of pushing me, a crazed teen, away and telling me to grow up, Mr. Stratton pulled me tighter to him and made shushing noises in my ear, telling me not to cry and that it would all be all right while his firm hand circled my back. I wanted to believe him, and hung on his soothing voice as much as I clutched his warm body to mine.

  For the first time since the talent show, I felt grounded and safe. Even if it was an illusion and only lasted for as long as I was within the circle of his arms, it was something. I pressed myself against him, breathing in the masculine smell of him.

  “Chelly,” he said softly when my sobs began to ease a bit. I wasn’t ready to let him go yet, though, so I rooted in deeper, rubbing my cheek against his shirt, even though it was probably a weird thing to do. “Chelly,” he repeated more firmly, holding my arms and pushing me back so he could look down into my face. He was frowning. “I shouldn’t,” he broke off and cleared his throat as his eyes drifted down to my lips. “You have to...”

  And then we were kissing.

  Incorrect Interpretations

  I angled my mouth against his, tasting the salt of my own tears and feeling the scrape of his stubble against my chin, reminding me who I was kissing. Kissing him wasn’t like kissing a Westwood boy and it felt wrong and so very hot at the same time. I felt his resistance for a millisecond, just long enough for me to feel a twinge of panic before his lips parted, giving me access. I swept my tongue across his bottom lip and groaned as my eyes began to roll back and I pulled him closer because: SO hot.

  But then I realized he hadn’t opened his mouth to kiss me back; he was trying to speak. Then he was pushing me away. “Chelly,” he said when my lips were no longer against his, his big hands squeezing my arms too hard as he held me away from him. I opened my eyes and met his shocked gaze. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

  “I thought...Oh my God,” I said. I’m such an idiot.

  “Chelly,” he cleared his throat. “Ms. Spencer. I don’t know what you thought, but I’m a teacher. I’m your teacher. I can’t get involved with a student. This is really not okay.”

  He let go of me and stepped backward, shoving his hand through his hair. He glanced over toward the door to the hallway. “What was that?”

  “Huh?”

  “I thought I heard something,” he said.

  Yeah, my brain imploding. “I have to go,” I blurted out and turned toward the door.

  “Wait,” he said, grabbing my arm. “I need to you to understand that was inappropriate. I can’t have you thinking you can kiss me. If you thought there were any signals coming from me, you misread them.”

  Really? We needed to break down the whole r
ejection thing? “Yeah, okay, fine, I get that you don’t want me. I get it. Crystal clear.”

  “It has nothing to do with wanting you,” he said, his voice pained. “Wait, that’s not what I mean. This is...” he cursed and then ran his hand through his hair again. “I’m a first time teacher. I like this job; I need this job and...this kind of thing isn’t supposed to happen.”

  He straightened his spine and squared his shoulders making him seem taller and older. “But now that it has, I have to deal with this properly.”

  “What does that mean?” I croaked out, a sudden feeling of impending doom washing over me, the humiliation over him completely rejecting me now secondary to whatever consequences were coming.

  He pursed his lips. “We’re going to have to go to the dean and tell her what happened.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Look, I don’t like the idea either, but...”

  “No. Please. You can’t,” I said interrupting and not above begging because there was no way I could allow him to tell the dean. “Mr. Stratton, I’m really sorry. I take it back and I’ll do whatever you say and will never come within twenty feet of you ever again. But please. You can’t tell the dean. She’ll call my father and he’ll...no, please.”

  He exhaled and looked away. “I could lose my job for this.”

  “I never meant to...” I broke off, crying in earnest now, desperate to get away from him because it seemed like everything I did made things so much worse. “Please, Mr. Stratton, I’m begging you. Don’t tell the dean. I...”

  He glanced at me and I guess my ugly crying convinced him because then he sighed and nodded. “Fine. I won’t tell her. But this never happened. You don’t tell your friends; you tell no one.”

  “I promise,” I said.

  He nodded one more time. “You’d better go.”

  I didn’t need to be told twice.

  ~ ♥ ~

  I stopped in the first floor bathroom and locked myself in one of the stalls until I was done crying, which was a pretty long time considering how much crying I’d already done since Friday night. Too bad marathon sobbing wasn’t an Olympic sport because I’d definitely be looking at a podium finish after this weekend.

  Thankfully I still had my gym bag, so after I splashed some cold water into my eyes to help with the swelling, I was able to clean up my face a little bit and brush my hair so I didn’t look like a total waste of skin. My head was pounding which wasn’t surprising after the stress, fluid loss and how I was now banging it against the wall, cursing my own stupid impulsiveness.

  “Kissing a teacher, Chelly,” I said to my own reflection. “Real classy.”

  I tossed the last of the tissue into the trash, grabbed my bag and headed up to my dorm room to see about that hiding in the closet forever thing. Which was seriously starting to look like the best plan I’d ever hatched.

  ~ ♥ ~

  I was hungry. I never thought choosing between food and solitude would ever be a thing for me, but that night at dinnertime, I was faced with just that decision. After returning to my (thankfully Naomi-free) dorm room, I plugged my phone into its charger (still leaving it off), crawled back into bed and hibernated for the rest of the day.

  But come late afternoon, my stomach was growling and the last cookie and the fruit I’d pilfered from my gym bag barely made a dent. Still, dinner meant the dining hall. Where teachers also ate. So yeah, it took like four seconds to make that decision.

  I couldn’t. Not yet. Not until the rough edges were worn off my humiliation.

  So when Naomi returned from the library and needled me to come with her down to dinner, I just rolled over toward the wall and told her I had another migraine.

  But instead of leaving me alone, I felt her weight shift the bed as she sat behind me, putting her hand on my arm. “You should eat something,” she said softly, like I was her baby sister or something. “I know you’re stressed out and I don’t want to make it worse for you, but would you try to eat if I brought you some dinner?”

  My mouth filled with saliva at just the mention of dinner; it didn’t even matter what it was. “Probably, I just can’t get up right now.”

  “You stay here,” she said, patting my arm before she got up. “I’ll bring you something. Just rest, okay?” She was being weird, but if she was going to bring me food, I wasn’t going to argue.

  “Thanks,” I said to the wall just before I heard the door close quietly behind her. A few seconds later, I got out of bed and used the land line to leave a message at the main office that I was throwing up and wouldn’t be in classes the next day.

  It was a coward move and I wasn’t going to stay out of classes for more than the one day (especially because I didn’t think the dean would put up with it and if she suspected something was up, she’d call my father again), but seriously, I needed to figure out a way to deal because as I was right then, I couldn’t bring myself to even consider facing Mr. Stratton for first period. Not without a bit of time and distance to figure out what to do next.

  I hung up the phone and glanced over to where my cell was plugged into the wall. “You’re going to have to deal with him sooner or later,” I said out loud, thinking not of Mr. Stratton now, but Abe.

  I couldn’t pinpoint what I was actually afraid of; everyone was telling me Abe was concerned about me and what had happened. He’d even tried to follow me when I’d run off stage and when I really thought about it, it was very unlikely he had been chasing me in a murderous rage. And as much as I gave him a hard time, I guess we’d become something like friends. We had to be since there definitely wasn’t anything more to our relationship and we’d called a truce after the dares.

  So if I wasn’t actually afraid of him being angry, what was I afraid of? His reaction to what he had seen? Him thinking I did it on purpose? Him thinking I would get back at him for the whole clothing dare in the most fearless way possible?

  I snorted at the thought because I guess people would expect Chelly Spencer to have the guts to bare herself to a huge audience like that and not care about the consequences. But the truth was, the real Chelly would never, ever do that. Though I guess it was just proof that the person I put out there as me seemed real to everyone and I was a better actor than I gave myself credit for.

  But look where it had gotten me. If that wardrobe malfunction had happened to Kaylee or Brooklyn, no one would have questioned it. Everyone in the school would have come forward to sympathize and support them. But me? Not so much.

  I mean, my really close friends knew better. For the most part.

  But would Abe?

  Follow Up

  As I ate my poached eggs on toast in the comfort of my own bed the next morning, I felt like I had to do a reassessment of my feelings on the subject of Naomi. Because as I took a bite of the still warm egg, there was no denying that she was being a very caring roommate. She’d brought me meals and had been incredibly nice and sympathetic since the whole ordeal at the talent show. Not that I’d ever hated her or anything, just we always seemed like we were different species speaking different languages.

  Like, I’m boy crazy, she thinks boys are crazy and inherently misogynistic, even though I’ve seen her ogle many a hot guy and treat them like man-meat, so she was hardly blameless there. Anyway, since the talent show, she’d been...decent, I guess is the right word. It made me a bit suspicious, but then I felt guilty because she really was a caring person. I’d just never needed her care before. Maybe it was time to embrace her and see her for the good person she was.

  But I was still relieved when she’d dropped off my breakfast and ran out the door to get to class. Because I needed to move forward with my life and that meant a busy day of getting over myself and dealing with things like the semi-mature person I wanted to be.

  So, first and foremost (after breakfast, of course) was Abe. I reached for my phone where it was still plugged into the charger and disconnected it so I could place it on the tray in my lap. I t
ook a deep breath and powered it on, waiting for it to start going crazy.

  It didn’t take long before it booted up and the messages started to filter in. Texts and emails along with other social media notices that I didn’t dare open because oh my God, if pictures of my bare breasts were on the internet...

  First things first, Chelly, I told myself. Dealing with Abe now seemed like the easiest thing to do, so I opened up the texts from him. They started out as one and two word messages:

  You there?

  You ok?

  Chelly?

  You there?

  And got increasingly longer as he seemed to get more concerned.

  Can you pls call me?

  You ok, Chelly? I’m getting worried.

  Brooklyn says ur upset, but can we talk?

  Please txt me?

  And then then stopped altogether mid-day on Saturday. I wondered what happened to make him stop, but whatever it was, it made my stomach roll over. Maybe he felt like he’d done his duty and was now done trying. Or maybe he was mad now. Or...what the hell. I could speculate all day and get myself into even more of a tizzy or I could just text him back.

  Hey, I sent, really putting myself out there.

  The clock on my phone told me he’d be in class already, so I’d have to wait at least until first break before I heard back from him. I put the phone down and returned to my breakfast, cursing my now cold eggs.

  Just as I was about to push the rest of the eggs away and focus on the side of fruit salad, a text came in.

  Abe. So you’re not dead.

  I picked up the phone. No. Though there were a few moments there when Id wished it.

  I could see him typing for a long time before he sent: Are you in class?

  No. Off sick today.

  Really sick?

  Sick of life, I typed.

  Calling you.

  I sighed when it rang before I’d even started typing to tell him not to bother. “Hi,” I said.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, the concern loud and clear through the phone.

  It was such a loaded question and there were so many ways in which I wasn’t okay. But I was honestly so sick of the drama. “Yeah,” I said.