by Jordan Grant
We find a corner booth. Molly, Atticus, and I crowd on one side and her parents on the other.
“Four deaths by chocolate please and one chocolate milk with a side of applesauce,” Barbara tells the waitress when she arrives. She looks over at me. “I hope it’s okay I ordered for you, dear. It’s hot chocolate served with homemade chocolate truffles and a dollop of chocolate ganache.”
“Sounds fantastic,” I say, my mouth already watering.
Molly’s brother drags out a coloring book from behind the napkin holder and a pack of crayons. Molly helps Atticus and hands him a bright blue crayon.
Her father smiles kindly at me from across the table.
“How are you liking the Academy, Harlow?” he asks.
“It’s nice,” I say.
“Anyone giving you trouble?”
They must know, I think, but Molly shuts it down quickly.
“Everyone is fine, you guys,” Molly blurts, watching Atticus as he scribbles.
“Yup,” I agree, wondering why I’m lying to them. “Everything is great.”
Molly’s dad gives me a tight-lipped smile. He definitely suspects something, but then, he would be a fool not to, and neither of her parents strikes me as anything but astute.
I wonder why Molly is lying to them, but then our food arrives, and I tell myself it’s none of my business.
It’s her secret to keep and hers to tell.
9
Harlow
Every school-day for the next two weeks, Ian messes with me.
He tripped me on the way to class, sending my books everywhere and planting my ass flat on the ground.
He loudly told the entire cafeteria—while I was attempting to eat, mind you—that he would give $10,000 to whoever could hit me in the face with pizza, being very clear that no physical touching would be tolerated. Queue changing in my dormitory, being 10 minutes late for history, and receiving a demerit.
He stole my clothes in the locker room while showering after gym and replaced them with crotchless undies and an edible bra. He was kind enough to leave a shawl with it, but it was transparent. I had to ask Raven for help, and she thankfully obliged.
And so it continued, Monday through Friday, with interjections of his naughty talk. Once a day, like clockwork, just like Molly had said.
Like a freak, I started looking forward to it. Only today, when I arrive at Adaptive English, ready for Ian to destroy my homework or unscrew my desk so it falls apart when I sit, he does absolutely nothing.
— Ian —
Harlow probably wants to know what the hell I am waiting for. I like to get it over with early. Dragging it out ruins both of our days, but I didn’t have the stomach for it this morning.
I should have done it. Finn peeked his head in before class, no doubt wanting to judge my abilities himself.
The grudge that started all of this is fading for me though, like an old scar, not that I have forgiven the Thing for the shit-storm she rained down on our heads, but I am bored with it all. It’s been over two years. I want to move on with my life, though admittedly my new attitude has a lot to do with the blonde beauty sitting at the desk in front of me.
The thought of having to do it in front of Finn made me sick to my stomach. The freak probably jacks off to shit like this and to think he used to be my friend makes me question myself. Finn has always gotten too much enjoyment out of this...this...whatever with the Thing, but then again, I guess he’s lost the most out of all of us.
Stormy sits down in front of me and, under Edmonds’ instructions, opens her copy of Troilus and Criseyde. We were supposed to finish reading the cliff notes version last night and translate the first part of the poem, Book One.
The hours I have spent on this class have been brutal. I don’t know why I have to read a romance poem written by a guy in the 1300s.
“How did you like it?” Ms. Edmonds asks the class.
Nearly everyone groans, except for Stormy. From the handwritten notes that chew up her pages, I know this isn’t easy for her, but she likes it. Interesting.
Ms. Edmonds laughs. “I understand it’s difficult. English is ever evolving. We did not start with words like bootylicious or whatever.” She smiles at her own joke and takes a seat on the edge of her desk, staring at us. Her black pencil skirt dusts her knees as she crosses her ankles. “Chaucer’s longest poem is just that—a poem. Not everything can be taken literally.”
“Jensen,” she says, volunteering a poor sap in the front row. “Read the first hundred lines for the class, please.”
The kid butchers it. Ms. Edmonds corrects him every time. She’s not mean about it, but he’s practically in tears by the time he finishes. It’s been going on FOREVER, and I want to shoot myself.
Who knew “k”s weren’t always silent? Well, I fucking know that now.
I begin to play with Stormy’s hair again. I can’t reach that elusive black lock, but I enjoy twirling the silky strands around my index finger all the same. She stills, her shoulders rigid, but she doesn’t stop me.
“Mr. Beckett,” Ms. Edmonds says, snapping my attention to her. Shit. What did she just say? “What do you think?”
There’s no way I am bullshitting my way out of this.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Edmonds,” I say, though I don’t even try to sound sorry. “Ms. Weathersby’s beauty distracted me. Would you repeat the question?”
The class snickers, but Ms. Edmonds just looks at me, her eyes narrowed. Fuck me. It’s always the fresh ones that are a pain in my ass. They still have the maybe-I-can-fix-you mentality.
“What do you think of Troilus and Criseyde?”
“He is pathetic. She is…loose.”
The class snickers again. Ms. Edmonds smiles. Her sharp gaze tells me she disagrees with my assessment, but she enjoys the debate. “Explain.”
“At first, Troilus hates love, despises it even, but when he finally gives in, he loses himself completely to Criseyde, his entire identity. Then when Criseyde can’t keep it in her pants, he chooses the coward’s way out.”
Stormy snaps around in her seat and shakes her head. “You’re wrong.”
“How so, Ms. Weathersby?” Ms. Edmonds pushes.
“Troilus is not weak,” Stormy says. “And Criseyde loves him. Troilus accepts that Criseyde has no option but to betray him, and his acceptance is the ultimate act of love.”
I tilt my head at her.
“No one should be deprived of love without the very best of reasons,” I quote.
“The Art of Courtly Love,” Stormy breathes, staring at me. Her eyes are like endless waves of sea. I’d be content to stay there, drifting along with the tide.
Ms. Edmonds claps her hands. “Andreas Capellanus. Very good, you two! Capellanus was influential in Chaucer’s later works. Ms. Weathersby, what is your reply?”
Stormy hisses her next words, another quote from Capellanus. “A true lover considers nothing good except what he thinks will please his beloved.”
“Good character alone makes any man worthy of love,” I retort.
“Rule 18!” Ms. Edmonds interjects. “Excellent!”
Stormy’s nostrils flare. She’s mad, and I like it. It’s nice to be getting under her skin and not the other way around.
Stormy leans in close, our noses nearly touching. Just a few more inches... “Who says you are a good man?”
“And who says you get to determine that?”
She frowns, indecision furrowing her eyebrows together as the bell rings.
I grin as Ms. Edmonds shuffles papers on her desk and prepares for her next class. That was the most interesting class I’ve had in a while.
I expect Stormy to bolt into the hallway, but she takes her time gathering her books. I follow her out. Students are shuffling about, opening lockers, and waving to their friends. I am focused on Stormy as I continue forward.
She’s got her book bag slung over one shoulder, and I trail her from a distance. A scuffle breaks out at the end
of the hall, and I look up to find Ivy already staring at me, her arms crossed over her chest, a single eyebrow raised.
Well, shit.
Ivy stares at Stormy before she raises her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen. There’s no doubt in my mind she’s texting Aurora every detail.
Fuck!
I don’t want to touch Stormy. I don’t want to do any of the shit they expect, which I agreed to long before I knew her, but I have to do something or both of us will be in for a world of hurt.
My mind races, disregarding ideas as soon as they materialize in my head, but I have to do something. I have to do something. I have to...
I dart ahead, shoving a lower classman aside as I step to walk alongside Stormy. I shove her against the lockers, the metal doors clanking with the hit.
I plant my palms flat on either side of her face, lean in close, and freeze, lost in her. Apple mother-fucking pie.
Stormy looks up at me, her eyes wide. The pulse point at the base of her neck is going wild. Something sparks and passes between us before sinking low in my belly.
She’s not looking at my eyes. She’s staring at my lips, and the realization makes me grin. Then, like the good girl she is, she shuts that shit down, her face a veneer of annoyance.
I lean in close because I don’t want anyone else to hear. My brothers will have my back, but the girls would not approve. And if they call me out, then it’s over. For the both of us.
My lips brush over her ear as I say, “I want to bury myself inside you and stay there forever.”
Her breath hitches, and I pull back just enough to watch the struggle behind her eyes. She wants to hate me. It would be easier for the both of us if she did.
Her mouth opens, and she is so close, I can smell the tea she drank in class this morning. What is it? Earl gray? Lemon zest? Something citrusy. I want to dip my head and get a taste.
Stormy shakes her head, her blonde hair gently swaying with the movement. There I go, playing with that black lock of hers again.
“Aw, Beckett,” she says, her words drowning in sympathy, “that’s weak sauce, right there. Did you find that on an X-rated Valentine’s Day card or something? You should ask for your money back.”
I have to bite my lip to stifle my laugh. Goddamn, if she doesn’t make this difficult.
“We’re sticking to a last name basis now?” I say, arching an eyebrow. “I’m truly touched.”
She rolls her eyes so hard I think they’ll get lost in her skull. “You don’t even use my real name.”
I smile despite myself, and I know she sees it, because she’s looking at me like she just can’t quite figure me out. I dip my head lower, trying to shield my mouth from the watchful glares of Aurora’s minions.
“You really think that was weak?” I ask.
“If you were a wrestler, your name would be Wuss Wogan, Sucky Savage, Stone Cold Steve Awful.”
It is a fucking miracle I keep it together. This time I bite my lip so hard I taste blood and when I look at her, I know it stains my lower lip sanguine. She doesn’t back away, her blue eyes meeting my steel ones.
“Fine,” I say, when I have my shit locked down enough to say the word without laughing. “How about this one? I want to lick your pussy like I’m trying to find the center of a Tootsie Roll pop.”
Her face flames, a red blush blossoming on her cheeks. Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead, and I swear I see the moment when her heart skips a beat and her lungs forget their only purpose.
Whatever she tries to say comes out like a wheeze, and there my hand is again, playing with her hair. Luckily, I don’t think Ivy can see me through the passing throng of students.
Stormy stares at me, and she looks so innocent my cock automatically volunteers to rid her of it.
“Doesn’t…” she begins, licking her lips as though she needs the words to slide out of her mouth. “Doesn’t the owl just like, lick the lollipop three times and then bite off the rest?”
“So?”
Her eyes go wide. I am going to laugh until I cry and then kiss her until I can’t breathe.
I push off the wall when her expression can be mistaken for fear rather than what I see there—excitement. I duck my head into the boys’ locker room and laugh until I fall to the floor, my knees folded below me.
10
Ian
I am lost at sea and about to capsize. I can still feel Aurora’s lips on my neck, her fingers tracing the line of my spine over my shirt. Before Stormy, Aurora was a pain in the ass I had to deal with. She handled the girls, and I handled the boys. Being civil, friendly even, made our families happy.
Since Stormy’s arrival, Aurora has become insufferable. I thought I could go through with it and buy some time to figure out what I would do next. I wouldn’t fuck her, but I had planned on making her think I would. Instead, like the pussy I am, I claimed I had a headache and bolted from my own dorm room. No doubt Aurora saw right through my shit.
Here I am now, wandering around campus. I don’t want to go back to my dorm because Aurora is probably still there, naked and waiting. If I go to the track and run a few laps around the field, her coven will no doubt find me. There’s zero percent chance she hasn’t already texted them and told them to figure out where I went.
I could go see Archie and ask him to buy me some time through his off-again girlfriend, Ivy. He’s with Chase and Everett playing Xbox in Chase’s dorm room, but Ivy’s probably already with them, busy trying to suck a hole in Archie’s throat. No way will she let me anywhere near Archie without throwing a hissy fit. I’m in no mood to hear her shrieking.
I don’t know why he puts up with her. He doesn’t even like her. But I guess I’ve put up with Aurora for a long time too.
I go where they won’t find me—a place only Everett knows I like to visit and normally, I only go there when it’s late at night and empty, when my fingers itch to hit something and the best I can manage is the piano. No one is there late at night, but the head of the Artistic Endeavors Department, Mrs. Isabellan, insists that the Academy leave it open. She is adamant you never know when the artist inside you might take control.
The halls are empty as I head to the performing arts building. It’s newer than the old monolithic structures of the rest of campus, but built to match with stone walls and arched doorways. The heels of my loafers click on the marble tile as I enter the building and begin down the dimly lit hall. I don’t look at the Rembrandts or the Da Vincis that hang on the walls behind Plexiglass cases because we are teenagers, after all.
I’m almost to the exhibition hall, which holds the grand piano, when I hear music. It’s faint, a string instrument, maybe a cello? I can’t be sure.
I should stop, turn around, and find somewhere to hole up until Aurora loses interest, but I let curiosity get the better of me. I continue forward and open the heavy wooden door to the hall, peeking inside the room and looking past the stairs that lead down to the amphitheater and then up to the stage.
Stormy.
My name for her echoes in the caverns of my mind, only it never truly fades, not like a true echo would. The door closes softly behind me.
She has left the lights off, except for the one singular bulb that shines above her. It bleaches the blonde from her hair, leaving it completely and utterly white. She looks like an angel as she stands on the stage in front of thick, black curtains that dust the floor.
Everything else in the exhibition hall is dark, the stairs lit only by the faint glow of soft white lights built along their sides, the seats of the amphitheater empty in the shadows. She plays, her fingers sliding over the strings of a violin, and I stand there in the darkness, entranced.
Why did she come here? Why not choose a music room? But I know why she did it. She did it for the same reason I refuse to go to the music rooms. The acoustics. The notes live and breathe inside the exhibition hall, carrying to even the farthest corners of the room.
The stage is empty save for her and a
piano behind her. She doesn’t even have a music stand in front of her, but it’s clear she doesn’t need it. Her fingers fly without hesitation, her head bent against the cradle of the violin.
Most people at the Academy play an instrument or two, the results of our overachieving parents, but I have never seen any of them play like her. She doesn’t play with acute, methodical perfection, her fingertips precise like the slice of a surgeon’s blade. She plays with her entire body, stooping and arching and bending. The music flows from her soul just as much as it does her fingers.
It is kismet to find her here. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could will myself to walk away. She is perfect, and I stalk forward, my steps light and my presence shrouded by shadows.
Stormy has no idea I am here, lost in a world where only she and the violin exist. As I tread down the steps toward her, my eyes remain on her, enthralled.
She’s wearing a sleeveless blue sundress that allows her free range of motion. Her eyes are closed, her body swaying, rising, and stooping with the music. She is a hurricane, confined only by her skin and bones. Her soul whirls inside her, desperate to escape, and, in her music, you can hear it yearning to be set free.
I recognize the piece, thanks to the tutors my mother hired before I could walk. The music is a little minimalistic for my mother’s taste though. She would prefer something ostentatious, but this is just as beautiful.
Spiegel im Spiegel by composer Arvo Pärt.
Stormy plays it beautifully, but there’s only one problem. It is supposed to be a duet. Why would she choose to play a duet?
There are a million other songs she could have chosen, devoted to only the violin. Yet, she chose a duet, and it makes me wonder why this song is so special that she desperately holds onto the half she can.
I continue up the stage, watching her, and take a seat at the grand piano behind her. It’s a Fazioli F308 donated by my father upon my acceptance to Voclain.
