“Are you saying you’ve had these type of relationships before?”
I clench my fist, my nails digging into the skin of my palm. This man. This misogynistic dumb ass. I turn for a moment so I can rest my head on the brick wall behind me and wonder just how much it would hurt if I kick it.
“Sir. No. That is not what I’m saying. I was simply responding to your excuse that you once had a crush on your English teacher. Just because this is a trope doesn’t make it right. And honestly, that’s beside the point. The point is that I am concerned about an individual who is continuing to make it known that he will never give up trying to win me over. He threatened harm to my boyfriend. He leaves me these notes that tell me I can’t get away from him and he knows things like my walking into my closet to change or the fact that I’m talking on the phone with my sister.” Just voicing what I’ve been through makes my skin crawl. I wrap my arm around my stomach as if protecting myself.
“It’s fucking creepy. It’s like he’s spying on me somehow. I know it. I just can’t prove it and I need your help. That’s all I’m asking. That’s why I’m calling.”
I take a breath and send out a prayer, hoping against hope that he’s understanding the severity.
“Can you help?”
“We would need evidence proving this would be the case, ma’am. And with all due respect, you’re the adult here. Lay down some expectations. Get his parents involved. Make it abundantly clear this behavior isn’t acceptable.”
“I have.”
“Well clearly he’s receiving mixed signals because it sounds as if he is still pursuing you. And I’m not entirely sure that qualifies as stalking rather than a hopeful romantic thinking he has a chance with his teacher.”
“This is unbelievable.”
“Get more evidence. Talk to his parents. See if there is a pattern. Bring back a little more than witchy assumptions and complaints. Stalking is a serious offense and we take it seriously — but we have to have something to go off of first. You can’t just tell us someone has been in your house. We need proof.”
“I have texts!”
“We would need more than that. Pictures. Proof that he’s actually dangerous. Again: a crush on teacher is nothing new. And again: if I know teenage boys like I think I do, I was one after all, I would venture to say you probably said or did something that made him think this was encouraged.”
I laughed, the disbelief evident in my voice.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. What about him being in my home? Is that not enough?”
“We don’t know if that actually happened, and the evidence you suggest is weak at best. If it helps, it might be worth installing a security system. Get some cameras. Find out if he’s actually breaching your property.”
I hang up on him, not willing to continue listening to something that ridiculous and unhelpful. I look down at my watch, knowing I’m pushing the tardy bell. I rub my face a few times, trying to gain control, when my phone rings. I look at the screen and see Simon’s number. I answer immediately.
“Simon.” My voice is haggard. I know he knows it and hears it because he pauses for a moment before he speaks.
“You okay?”
I shake my head, clearing my thoughts so I can focus on him.
“Yeah! Yeah I’m fine. What’s up? I got your text earlier but I haven’t been able to reply. I was going to ask if you wanted me to pick something up for dinner on my way home. I know you you have a short day today so we can eat together…”
“Sure. That sounds good. Your choice.”
I’ve started walking back to my classroom, but his voice stops me in my tracks. He sounds distracted. Disjointed.
“Everything okay on your end?”
“Um. Not really.”
My heart sinks and a plethora of possibilities run through my mind.
“What is it?”
“Did you notice anything this morning when you left the house?”
My heart rate increases. I think about all of the things he could have found — everything that could have happened — and remember Silas’ text. I also hear the hesitation in his voice. There’s a hint of anger — frustration — and definitely confusion. Whatever it is, it isn’t good. I decide to go for the obvious, prompting the bandaid to be ripped off quicker. I’m not used to hearing anything other than complete connection in his voice.
“Simon? What happened? I didn’t see anything.”
“Someone slashed my tires. All of them. They’re completely mutilated. I’m going to need to have this towed to a shop or something.”
“What?!” My hand flies up to my mouth before I can remember I was still fingering the card. It flies through the air and lands a few feet from me. I stand there for a moment before walking over and picking it up again, shoving it back in my pocket.
“They keyed my car, too. It’s bad, Juniper. They really dug in — whoever did this was pissed. I have to call an Uber for work. I can’t be late today. I have that pitch I’m giving to our angel investors….”
“Shit. Simon, I’m so sorry.” I open my mouth to tell him everything. It would be so easy to let him know and have him take care of it for me, but something stops me. I can’t bring him into this. Not any more than he already is just by being with me. And clearly, Silas is intent on making our lives a living hell. I can’t believe he keyed Simon’s car.
“It’s fine — I’m okay and insurance will cover it. It sucks, though. What’s crazy is the message. It makes no sense.”
I freeze.
“The message?”
“Yeah there was a typed note in the windshield that just said told you.”
“W-what?” I choke out. I check my watch. Five minutes to the tardy bell. I can leave. I can be home in 40 minutes if I hurry. I can tell Tracey there’s been an emergency —
Simon sighs. “Listen. It’s fine. I’m fine. Promise. Don’t worry about it — I just wanted to know if you noticed anything off before you left, but this must have happened after you left.”
My voice comes out in a whisper.
“I don’t know who could have—“
A lie.
“I said don’t worry about it, Juniper.”
It’s too late, but he doesn’t understand the depth of this fear. The tears have started flowing now and I wipe them away from my cheeks. I see a student run by and slow when they notice me and I wave them off, knowing they must think I’m on tardy sweeps. I check my watch again.
Two minutes.
“Let me come home. You can take my car.”
“No.”
“Simon—“
“Juniper.” Simon answers quickly with an abundance of kindness in his voice that makes the tears spring fresh. “I can hear you stressing about this. It was probably just a case of mistaken identity. Some breakup gone rogue. There are plenty of houses on the street. Just an unfortunate accident. I’ll take pictures and let insurance take care of it.”
I think about the process of that, and feel the anxiety begin to surface again. I also think about the pictures and hear the voice of the man I spoke with today.
We need proof. Pictures.
I wonder if this would be enough.
“Will you need to reach out to the police about it?”
I wonder if there would be any way to link the two — if they would figure out this was the house of the crazy woman who called in this morning about her student stalking her. As much as I want proof, I also don’t want them talking to Simon about my call before I can let him know what’s happening. He doesn’t need to hear from someone else.
I feel the control slipping from my hands and I stifle another sob.
It feels like Silas is winning. Once again, I’m on that damn never-ending train. I bite at a knuckle, the anger simmering deep in my bones. I refuse for this to be my story. I refuse to let him win.
And yet.
I hear Simon suck in his lip and I can picture what he’s doing: on our porch, leaning again
st the railing, hands in his hair. I take a quick breath because I realize I just thought of it as our porch—not mine. The pain in my chest is back and I place my hand there to keep my heart from breaking in two.
“I don’t think I would need to outside of just filing a report. I’m not concerned about there being a repeat occurrence. I do want to install a security system, though. All of this would have been captured by a camera if we had one — that would have made things a lot easier.”
“Yeah. Okay.” My agreement comes quick, but it’s only because I now need to get off the phone before he hears me losing it. I’m not ready for that yet.
“Hey listen, if you’re sure you don’t want me to come home, I need to go because first period is about to start and Tracey was already on my ass for being late this morning.”
“Late? You get there before dawn.”
“I stopped by Principal Stahl’s office this morning and ran into Jasper. Long story that ultimately ends in Stahl not even being here today and my needing to run out of the room to catch this call and Tracey seeing me. I’ll tell you about it later?”
“I can’t wait,” he says.
And we say our goodbyes, with me knowing deep in my bones the severing between us has just escalated beyond my own control.
28
I’m late for class but I don’t care. I call Lavender and get her voicemail.
“Hey. I need to talk with you — please call me tonight. And, if you don’t call me, I’m going to be blowing up your phone right around the time you like to go out and forget you have a twin so please call me. Please.”
I try to keep the shaking from my voice, but she’ll know it’s urgent. I don’t leave those types of voicemails — that’s her space. She is the ocean: volatile and unpredictable in her energy. I am the stream. Quiet in my undoing and consistent.
When I was in grad school, I had someone tell me I was the most composed person they’d ever met. “Does anything ever rattle you? You’re not stoic, but you’re close.” They laughed about it, and I smiled in response, knowing what they were talking about because it’d been true my entire life.
“Things rattle me,” I said. “I freak out about a lot more than I let on, but it’s all internal.”
They looked at me confused, not understanding. And honestly, I didn’t blame them. I didn’t understand it myself.
“It’s more of a survival technique than a strategy,” I said. “Basically, I don’t want to let on just how much the current atmosphere or situation is freaking me out, so I push it inward. On the outside, I look fine. On the outside, I might even be laughing. But on the inside? It’s a fucking hurricane.”
“Sounds exhausting,” they suggested.
I nodded. “It is. And very much not sustainable. Eventually, it all comes crashing down. You can only pretend for so long.”
I could probably take some notes from how Lavender handles traumatic events. I start pacing, trying to figure out what to do next. I look at my watch again, and see that I am now seven minutes late to class. I’m surprised Tracey hasn’t come looking for me.
I sigh and pull at the ends of my ponytail again. Regardless of what I need to do next about Silas, I still have an obligation to at least show up to my job. I sneak in the back door of my building and quietly make my way to my classroom, feeling myself fall apart one step at a time. I have to get through the day first. I pause at my classroom door for just a moment before walking in, starting class as soon as I crossed the threshold. No hesitation, no opportunity for curiosity about where I’ve been.
“Good morning! Thanks for holding tight while I handled a small family emergency.” My voice wasn’t coming out as firm and confident as it normally does, and I can tell the class notices the shift in my tone, which only makes it more difficult. I make a sharp pivot in my lesson plans for the day, knowing I won’t be able to stand in front of my classes today and engage with them like everything is normal.
I hold my hands up in assurance. “Everything is fine. Don’t worry. I just needed to make a quick call. Now, I’m here! I trust y’all are ready to learn?”
There are a few glances across the classroom and smiles of encouragement are thrown my way. I know there are a lot of assumptions about teenagers these days, but by and large these students continually show me how versatile and resilient they are — and how ready they are to accept messiness as a part of life. I smile at them in return and lean against my desk, folding my arms across my chest.
“Today, we’re tapping into the literacy curriculum. You’ll be researching a mathematician and writing a one-page abstract on their influence on the world and how they came to understand their particular field of study.” This was very much a thrown together lesson, and I was again nervous about them spotting the pivot from a mile away. They probably did, but they made no obvious motion of letting me know. Still, I’m nervous again, and I feel my hands drop and reach for each other. I glance around the room one more time, my hands clenched as tight as possible. I see Madison, a quiet student who sits in front of my desk, notice the way my fingers are turning white and she frowns. I unclasp my hands and shove them in my pockets.
I’m fine. I’m FINE. Smile, Juniper.
I smile, and point around the room.
“I’m assuming everyone has a means to research, but we also have the two classroom computers if you forgot your device today.”
The class is silent and I look at them, questioning.
“Does everyone understand?”
A hand raises in the back and I lift my chin to acknowledge the student.
“Yes, Valerie?”
She drops her hand and looks around the room.
“Um. While you were gone—“
The entire class turns around then, their eyes threatening and a small hush! vibrating across the classroom.
“Read the room, Val. Fuck.” someone whispers from the back. I recognize this group think and wrinkle my nose in disagreement.
“Folks,” I warn.
She leans back again, suddenly, face full of an apology. She catches my gaze and offers a half smile and a shrug.
“Oh. Um. Nothing. Sorry. I was just going to say there were some questions about last night’s homework?”
I blink and raise an eyebrow. I don’t buy her cover up for a second. I look around the room, expectant.
“Is that true? There were questions while I was gone….”
I repeat, leaving the end of the sentence hanging empty, waiting.
Another student sighs and looks back at Valerie before turning back to me, rolling his eyes.
“It’s nothing, Ms.. Reese. We had no questions. But one of the office ladies just came in and started rummaging around with the papers on your desk. She told us not to say anything, but it was weird.” He shrugs again and returns his focus to the iPad in front of him.
I jerk my head back, trying to keep my reaction as even as possible.
“Oh. I see. Okay. Well, thank you. I will make sure to touch base with her later. I’m assuming it was Tracey?”
I only realize after asking the question that I didn’t use her last name, but they knew who I was talking about — they nod, slowly at first, and then it’s like someone breathed life into their bones and brains. Now that the secret has been revealed, they can return to their job of writing the essay and talking about last night’s basketball game in quiet tones. Shuffling and a low chatter takes over and I wait until I see computers and iPads and notebooks pulled out of backpacks and a sense of focus take over before breathing a small sigh of relief and turning back to my desk.
I look at the papers, knowing Tracey came in to the classroom thinking I would be late, but I don’t know why she decided to go through my desk. I don’t see anything, but I notice my planner open and I frown. I know I closed it when I got the envelope from Silas. There’s nothing there for her to find, but why would she worry about what was in my planner? What was she expecting to find? I look at the week and remember that I
have a hair appointment this weekend and make a mental note to tell Simon so he doesn’t plan on anything.
And that’s when I pause mid-thought because this is the part of whatever is happening that makes no sense to me. I can be terrified and frozen with the fear of thinking I will never get away from Silas’ attention, or filled with a boiling rage about the authorities not taking it seriously, and then simultaneously acting as if nothing is wrong and everything is normal with Simon.
Haircuts.
Date nights.
Talking about the future.
And doing all of this when I know damn well that none of this is probably going to happen. I know it in my bones. It’s why I’m beside myself trying to come up with what I need to do next because I feel the ticking of an invisible bomb and I have no idea when it’s going to detonate but when it does?
My entire life will be up in smoke and I will be among the ashes.
29
I manage to get through the rest of my classes without any other incident, but while I am running through the essays after school, I hear a noise at the door and look up. It’s Tracey.
I sigh and lean back into my chair. I know I’m not in the right mental space for this conversation, but I also know she is going to do whatever it is she wants to do. I can’t at this point care.
“Hey, Tracey. Can I help you?”
She walks in slowly, eyeing the classroom and running her finger along the metal of one of my desks. I wrinkle my nose, noticing she’s trying to intimidate me. Her chin is tilted upward, and the air of authority she’s trying on for size is ill-fitting and hanging off her like an aura.
She stinks of suspicion and I suddenly realize why she was in my planner. She was looking for proof of me being with Silas. Her voice cracks against the silence and I look at her, expectantly.
“It looks like you finally showed up for your students this morning. How late were you?”
I almost roll my eyes and stop myself. I let myself wait for a minute before responding, knowing she is chomping at the bit for any and all information.
Curious Obsession Page 21