A Season of Eden

by Jennifer Laurens

  “It’s kind of cool.”

  “Sounds like death.”

  “When was the last funeral you went to? I know for a fact you don’t go to church.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “Would you go?” I looked up then, because I wanted to see the truth. His face tweaked.

  “Why would I go to church?”

  I looked at Mr. Christian and his group. “I would.”

  Matt let out a laugh. “Yeah, for confession.”

  I stood, filled with frustration that I had ever let Matt touch me. Out the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Christian walk back to class with the students. More than anything I wished I was a pure and sweet like that music.

  I started toward home.

  “Don’t be pissed,” Matt called after me. I was glad he had the brains not to follow.

  I went home feeling like I’d just been given a shot at the doctor’s office. Matt’s honest words, our past, and what I wanted for my future, stung enough that I couldn’t blow it off.

  I could go get a Starbucks with Brielle. Go on a drive.

  Or shop. For a moment, I debated. But even as I texted Brielle, I knew the frivolous act wouldn’t serve to cover up anything. I deleted the text, not wanting to see anyone, ashamed I was drawn to something totally self-indulgent when I was low when I should really look myself in the mirror and assess what I saw.

  I was sure that when Mr. Christian got stung he didn’t indulge himself.

  I walked into the house and found it quiet. Dumping my stuff on the entry table, I walked out the back French doors, around the pool and to edge of the property so I could look at the ocean.

  Fleeting memories of my very worst days entered my mind. Days when I’d been so unhappy, I’d considered falling off that cliff to the rocks and violent waves below.

  Thankfully those days were gone. Oddly, the same vast, incomprehensible site before me that had catapulted me into hopelessness was the same vast, incomprehensible site that had also given me hope that there was more out there for me.

  I perched myself on one of our pool chairs and took in some sea air. I hadn’t done anything inspired to save myself, just eliminated what I hated and thrown myself into my friends. Dad and Stacey hadn’t even noticed that I was never around. My absence had only given them more time to indulge themselves.

  Chapter Six

  I was early to class every morning thereafter and always found Mr. Christian already in his room. What set him apart from the older teachers, besides his gorgeous face and youth, was his enthusiasm for teaching. Older teachers moseyed in with five minutes to spare. Mr. Christian arrived early, arranged the chairs, picked up trash and fallen sheet music, or wiped down the piano with some sort of orange smelling oil. In the few weeks since he had started, the black baby grand was undergoing a makeover before our eyes.

  I was always glad to find him alone. Only once or twice other girls were there, hanging out under the guise of ‘being too early.’ When Mr. Christian’s back was turned I’d shot them looks. I saw right through their juvenile operation. It was stupid. They hadn’t been back since.

  He was gently rubbing orangey oil into the piano when I arrived one morning. I came to realize that he had three pairs of pants he wore: jeans, brown cords and a pair of khakis. Today he wore khakis with a denim shirt and dark tie. Always, he wore the jacket with the elbow patches.

  Classical music played from his portable boombox.

  Violins mixed with a piano in a simple, pretty tune.

  He only paused from his tender application to glance at me when I came in. For a moment, I was jealous of the piano.

  “Morning, Eden.”

  His hands moved in such care over the abused surface, I couldn’t take my eyes from them, swirling in slow, loving application.

  “Hey.” I set my planner on my chair and stood watching. “She’s looking good.”

  “Amazing what a little attention will do.” He continued slow strokes over the sides. “The thing is I can’t understand why Mr. Horseman didn’t take better care of her. I mean, a piece will only perform well if you take care of it. It takes so little.”

  “You sound frustrated.”

  He stood back, appraising his work. “I am.” Then he looked at me and shrugged, tossing the rag from one hand to the other. “I shouldn’t let it bug me. She’s my responsibility now, and as long as I’m around, she’ll be taken care of.” His palm caressed the side he had just finished oiling. The sight made me tremble inside, wondering what his fingers would feel like against my skin.

  He took the rag to the office and disappeared for a moment. I listened to the music and looked at the piano as I heard the piano on the CD play. It was amazing that something so beautiful could come from something so decrepit.

  Setting my hands on the gleaming keys, I wished that by just placing my fingers where his touched, I would somehow be able to produce music. Foolish. It took years to be able to play with such expertise.

  “So did you start taking piano when you were, like, three?” I asked.

  He laughed in the back room and came out wiping his hands back and forth. “No. Almost, but, no. I was seven.”

  “Was your mom a piano teacher as well as a voice teacher?”

  He nodded, coming over. “They often go hand in hand.”

  “So what was it like? Breakfast of champions followed by piano scales and voice lessons, then she’d send you out the door to school?”

  He looked entertained by my deduction. “Not quite.

  Voices need time to warm up in the morning, as you know. That’s why we go through exercises before we start singing.”

  “So it was just the breakfast of champions then?”

  His smile remained, settling with something I couldn’t pinpoint as his look at me shifted. What was he was thinking? I drew my lower lip between my teeth and his gaze dropped to my mouth. My body filled with heat. After a heavy blink, he took a step back, accidentally bumping into the piano.

  I pretended like he hadn’t noticed my mouth. “So when did your mom teach you? After school?”

  One of his hands laid on the top of the piano, the other rested on the belt at his waist. He was trying to look casual, but he looked stiff. “That’s when she taught all of her students. She treated me just like them when it was time to learn.”

  “I don’t think I’d like that.”

  “She didn’t want me to feel like she was partial.”

  “Still, you were her child, you deserved to feel special.”

  He studied me. “It wasn’t a matter of not feeling special. I knew she loved me.” For a moment we stared at each other. Then he continued, “She knew that I knew the difference.”

  An involuntary sigh eased away from me. “Good. I was about ready to go after her.”

  His lips turned up a little. “I wasn’t treated unfairly, Eden.” His intense gaze inched over my face as if searching for secrets. Then he glanced up at the clock. I did too. My heart plunged… five minutes until the bell rang.

  “Did your brothers and sisters also learn how to sing?” I asked.

  “I don’t have any siblings.”

  “Yeah? Me either.”

  He looked at me curiously. “That fits you.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” My face warmed. I was pleased he’d given me a moment’s thought.

  His shoulder lifted. “Only children are often their parents’ prodigies, intentional or not. When my mother started teaching me for instance, it was with the intent that I would someday go further with my voice and talents than she had been able to. I imagine your parents have taken the same care with you. You’re more assertive than most kids your age. Confident. Not afraid to step over boundaries most kids spend the next few years figuring out as if crossing a mine field.”

  “Wow.”

  He flushed an adorable shade of red. “It’s just my opinion.”

  “You were totally right about most of that. Amazing.”

  His eyes
grew dark and serious. I knew he wondered what part of his statement was accurate and what was not.

  I wasn’t about to tell him neglect had made me into the person I was.

  He cleared his throat. “Hey,” his voice was soft, “could you pass out the music for me?”

  “Sure.”

  I centered each piece of music on the seats, savoring the sounds of his movements behind me. Occasionally, I snuck a glance at him. He fiddled with the boombox.

  Wrote instructions in chalk on the board. Straightened piles of paper on the piano.

  Class started at eight o’clock. Up until that week, various freshman and sophomore class members had volunteered to take roll. Pride kept me from stooping to the token act.

  “Eden.” Mr. Christian walked over with the clipboard.

  “Could you be in charge of taking roll every day?”

  Though I wanted to help him, I saw this as a devastating cut. He viewed me like any other student.

  Disappointed, I said, “I’m sure one of the freshmen would be glad to help out with that.”

  A flash of confusion shadowed his face. I almost felt guilty. All around me girls raised their hands. One even had the nerve to grunt, like an anxious elementary-aged child waiting to be called on by an oblivious teacher.

  He handed the panting girl the clipboard and she gleamed. My heart felt like it was being squeezed. Our private chats had meant nothing. Though I kept my eyes on him as he took us through rehearsal, I did so only because I didn’t want him, or anybody else to sense the rupture inside of me.

  “Altos,” he addressed the group I was in and for a moment, he looked at me. Vainly, I tried to ignore how my heart quickened at his glance. “You’re a little flat on that first chorus. Switch around. Everybody find a different seat.

  If your neighbor is flat, it can be infectious.”

  He sent me a pointed look. I wondered what was going on. Inside I was raw. I walked up the risers to the back row. The girls made room for me as if I was royalty. I stood in the very center and glared down at him.

  After he saw where I had moved, he lifted his baton, ready to continue, keeping an evasive gaze out over the class.

  “From the first chorus,” he said.

  We continued until we finished the song. I hated being that far away from him. His passionate conducting didn’t tickle the air around me with his scent: orange citrus and skin. His face was hidden behind the greasy heads of the two freshmen that stood in front of me. I couldn’t feel the air ripple when he moved.

  When the bell rang, I didn’t look at him. I gathered my books and walked out.

  •••

  Sick disappointment stayed with me, a gutting flu from which my whole body ached. I went through the rest of my classes like a ghost. I was relieved no one tried to talk to me. Even my teachers seemed to sense that I was a walking shell. None called on me. Only Mr. Jones either ignored or couldn’t see that I was not in the mood to socialize. He waved at me from across the hall as I passed the teacher’s lounge on my way to Brielle’s car for lunch.

  Forget it, I thought, slamming her car door. I stared at the teacher’s lot, just in case Mr. Christian happened to go out today.

  “What’s up with you?” Brielle asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Oookaay.”

  We drove in steamed silence to the plaza. Seeing Matt and Josh sitting around our usual table was like looking at my own vomit. Joining them, submitting to the daily ritual, was like stepping back. I didn’t want to.

  Matt lit up when he saw me, and I knew then that sitting at that table would be masochistic. “I’m going inside to get something,” I said, and strode into Wild Oats.

  I didn’t feel like eating, I was swamped with boredom that I was even there. Browsing the shelves, I hoped to distract my thoughts. But they drifted back to Mr. Christian and class. Another jag of disappointment ripped through me.

  “You really do eat here.”

  The sound of his voice caused my head to snap up.

  I forced my face to remain passive, though my heart pounded with thrill.

  Mr. Christian. Next to me in the aisle.

  “Yeah, I do.” I went back to browsing so he wouldn’t see that my cheeks were flushed.

  “What’s good?”

  I shrugged. Didn’t look at him. Felt stupid. He was trying to talk to me. Maybe he hadn’t noticed that I’d been pissed in class. Maybe he had, and was trying to make it up to me. Maybe I really was something special to him.

  I looked at him, my insides softening like butter. “Any of the wraps are good.”

  “Yeah?” He looked over the serving counter. “Maybe that’s what I’ll try.”

  “Try the wraps.” I started off, pleased to be leaving him, then tossed over my shoulder, “the turkey’s pretty good.”

  Why had he come over and talked to me, I wondered, now outside in the noon sun. I hadn’t seen him. He could have shopped, ordered his lunch, and gone without saying a word to me, or bringing himself to my attention. Clearly, he had sensed something had happened between us in class.

  I bailed on eating lunch with Bree, Matt, and everyone else and walked back to school. The four block distance would allow me the privacy I needed to think this out. And he might drive by.

  What had happened between us? I wanted to fantasize that he cared about me more than he cared about any other student. Did he care enough that he had taken the time to come to the plaza, knowing I ate there with my friends, and sought me out?

  We had both sensed the difference in class today. A steady lift of my spirits brought a smile to my face. As cars drove past, I casually glanced inside, hoping I would see him.

  But I didn’t.

  Chapter Seven

  After my last class, I walked to the faculty lot and stood near a corner hoping I wouldn’t be noticed. A stupid hope. You can’t flick on and off a switch, enjoying the spotlight when you want it. It follows you, blaring indiscretion as well as diplomacy.

  “Hi, Eden.” Some girl I’d never met or seen before waved at me. I said ‘hi’ back, feeling stupid that she knew me and I had no idea who she was.

  I wondered if James Christian had been popular.

  I scanned the parking lot, watching teachers file to their cars. Today, I would see which car was his. Since I had a few minutes until the last period of the day let out, I decided to go home and get my car. I’d do more than see what he drove. I’d follow him home.

  My white BMW idled just outside the parking lot alongside the low wall that surrounded the high school—the place parents sat in their Lexus’, Escalades and Mercedes waiting for school to end so they could pick up their students. The spot gave me an excellent view of the teachers’ cars pulling out of the lot.

  In an effort to disguise myself, I’d stuffed my hair up into my pink Von Dutch hat and had my black glasses on.

  But everyone knew my car.

  The last bell rang at two forty-five. My nerves jittered.

  I had the radio on, unable to listen to anything but nondescript tunes spewing from my speakers. Anything more would distract me.

  Mr. Jones drove by, then Miss Beatty. Mrs. Carlson happened to look over and recognized me in spite of my disguise. She waved. I waved back.

  Fifteen minutes later, the stream of cars dwindled to a trickle. I got out and stood looking over the waist-high cement wall that surrounded the school. Most of the lot had cleared. I guessed teachers were as anxious to split as we were.

  Nearly ready to sigh and abandon my foolish wish, I looked out over the horizon. The golden sun sat as if deciding whether or not it wanted to disappear into the vast ocean beneath it. The site calmed me.

  I looked back at the parking lot just in time to catch him: brown cords, yellow button down shirt and that adorable elbow-patched coat. His tie hung loose at his neck. He didn’t look around, just walked briskly through the near-empty lot with an armload of papers straight to a light grey, older model Toyota. He got inside.<
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  I jumped back in my car and revved the engine, lowering myself in the seat so that when he drove by, he wouldn’t see me.

  After a moment I heard his car pass. I shot up, saw his grey car in my rear view mirror and pulled into the lane, keeping a nice respectable distance between us.