Star-Crossed

by Luna Lacour

  “Have you been grading my papers?” I smiled.

  We kissed, a small span of silence; slow, sweet, tender.

  “Come live with me,” he said, taking my face in his hands. “And die with me, and everything with me.”

  He looked at me as if he had never seen a living, breathing life before that very instant. I listened to him as if those spoken words were the first words I had ever heard, and the last I would ever hear.

  I held his hands through the gate until the cab driver yelled that he was turning on the meter. When we separated, a part of me crumbled. I watched him disappear - wheels kicking up gravel - and sat down on the grass. A part of me hoped that he would return.

  My room still smelled of him, of us. The sheets were drenched in a perfume of sweat and salt; cologne and skin.

  What am I doing? I asked myself. What the fuck am I doing?

  I walked over to the dresser, pulled out the check, and then proceeded to tear it slowly in half. I then walked down the hall, into Marius’ room, and placed the torn paper on his bedspread.

  I didn’t sleep. I stayed up until sunrise, watching the bleeding pink as it spilled like watercolor across the horizon.

  My fingers curled into fists; I closed my eyes, and contemplated just how far I would make it if, right then, I opened the gates and ran. Ran to Will, and begged him to leave with me; somewhere, anywhere. Any place where we might be safe; where we could, somehow, belong. A place for the two of us.

  You see, I didn’t want to ruin his life. I just wanted to change mine.

  Saturday morning consisted of sleeping in until past eleven. I showered begrudgingly, dressed, and called Tyler. I was sunken in the sheets; watching the little bits of dust floating in the air. I stuck my tongue out, and it caught fire through the sliver of yellow sunlight.

  He answered on the second ring. I glanced at the crumpled dress on my floor, swallowing the urge to start crying on the phone.

  “Want to hang out out?” I asked. I looked out over my balcony, at the pool, and how perfectly the stained-glass light seemed to seep over the water. “I really can’t deal with being alone right now. I think I feel like going swimming.”

  He didn’t hesitate this time – he was finally ready. Tyler rang himself in through the front gate, and I met him downstairs; his eyes were wide as serving plates. He was clutching a pool towel, dressed in a T-shirt and swimming trunks.

  “Your house is ridiculous,” he said, glancing into the rooms. Constellation-swirled marble, Italian leather, piles of bouquets; white Peonies, Pink Damask roses. “It’s official. I’m kind of jealous.”

  I was dressed in a robe; my bathing suit (a concealing one-piece) hidden beneath white satin. Our bare feet padded against cold tile, and occasionally Tyler stopped to stare at one of the many photographs, statues, or high-arched windows that seemed to stretch towards the sky. We smiled at each other under the umbrella of pantone light.

  “We should run lines,” he said, laughing as I shoved him through the open door and practically yanked his shirt off. “We’ll be starting dress rehearsal soon, and I don’t know. I really don’t want to be staring at my book when we’re on stage. Mr. Tennant always scowls at those kids.”

  “Fine. Yes. I get it,” I said, sliding out of my robe. It was a mild comfort, hearing him laugh. “We can practice in the water.”

  That was the first time I’d jumped into the pool all year; and in hindsight, I’m not sure why I avoided it. Maybe it was the glow; but even then, that excuse almost feels too poetic, too flourishy to make for any substantial argument. Maybe I just didn’t want to get wet.

  I jumped in with my eyes closed; momentarily engulfed in the cyan blue sting of chlorine.

  Tyler was standing next to me, smiling in a way that I’d never seen before. His hair was sopping, plastered in pieces to his skull.

  We floated next to each other, suspended on foam toys that looked like Twizzlers, and ran lines back and forth. We didn’t need the books. He was the perfect Romeo, even if he wasn’t my true Romeo. My one forbidden love.

  “Let’s play a game,” I suggested. “We both go under water at the same time and tell each other a secret.”

  “That sounds super gay,” he said, then paused; smiling with his mouth red from bitter chemicals.

  He went under first. I followed. We opened our eyes; our hair dancing above our head like live-wires. Like Medusa.

  He yelled something, but I could barely make out the words; all I could see were the bubbles of oxygen as they escaped from his mouth.

  “I wish you could see me the way I see you.”

  Time was running out; it had barely been thirty seconds, and I could already feel the loss of air. Tyler waited for me to say something.

  “I’m in love with Mr. Tennant.”

  My body froze, still hanging in the electric glow. We sprung up, breaking free, gasping for air. I looked at him; watching as he crossed his arms and ignored the water that ran down and over his open eyes.

  He blinked. I waited for him to break the silence.

  “Did you hear me?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I think so.”

  Then, pause.

  “Did you hear me?” I asked him.

  He stuttered, cold. Looking down, the water was struck with the first drop of falling rain. Above us, the sun still peeked through cigarette-smoke clouds; thin, wispy. Spring showers.

  “No,” he said. Thank God. Oh, thank God. “You were too quiet.”

  We slid out of the pool, all clinging nylon and polyester. Tyler flipped his hair back, drew a sharp breath, and sighed.

  “Wanna watch a movie?” he asked. “I’m freezing.”

  “Do you even need to ask?”

  I brought all of the pillows I could possibly find and threw them on the living room floor. We built a fort out of sheets. I wore pajamas, and Tyler wore his boxers – the only item of dry clothing he had. I laughed, lent him one of Marius’ undershirts, and asked one of the maids to make us a snack. Tyler struggled with this, offering to help; and I think a part of him felt negatively about our house having hired staff to take care of all things that he was responsible for in his own home. Washing dishes, making meals, folding laundry.

  “Relax, Sally,” I nudged him, and we split an entire slab of cream-cheese brownies. “Now hit the lights and let’s be teenagers for awhile.”

  I let him pick the film: American Beauty. Classic. Our stomachs were full of sugar and chocolate, and we were wrapped in blankets and the sounds of Lester Burnham’s opening monologue. I leaned my head against his shoulder; he rested a hand against the small of my back. And while I’m sure a part of him wanted to kiss me, he didn’t. We simply watched the series of heart-plucking scenes: Ricky Fitz and the window-blown, dancing bag; Angela telling Lester that it was her first time. The ending monologue, with Jane holding the sparkler, dressed like a princess.

  “In the original cut,” Tyler said quietly, like it was a secret. “Lester fucks Angela.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  He shook his head, eyes still on the credits.

  “I guess when they watched it, they decided it was just too much,” he said. “So they cut it.”

  The movie ended. The blue haze that followed only succeeded in reminding me of Mr. Tennant; the bathing color of a projection screen.

  “Why do you think they changed the scene?” I asked.

  “It’s obvious,” he said, running fingers through damp hair. “People need to grow. If he had sex with Angela, what would that have said about Lester’s character? He had this one moment, and he had a choice to make. They switched it so that viewers would see him making the right one.”

  “But is that always real life?” I asked. “People don’t always make the right choices.”

  He didn’t say anything after that. I didn’t press him.

  I didn’t dare.

  Marius asked me about the check when he came home the following Sunday evening. />
  “What is this?” he said, holding the two pieces of torn paper. “Is this some kind of forfeit?”

  “What does it look like?” I asked him. “I don’t want it.”

  His face was entirely unreadable; blank, without a single emotion. He threw the check down, crossed his arms, glared at the ground.

  “And it’s not a forfeit,” I told him. “I won. I can do whatever I want with my prize. You’re awfully bent out of shape over getting to keep your money.”

  “Why the sudden change?” he asked. “I thought you wanted freedom from all of this shit. I’m writing you a new check.”

  “I won’t accept that one either.”

  He stared at me, utterly confused.

  “Do you not hear what I’m saying?” he asked. “This isn’t about the bet anymore. I’m telling you that I want to help you.”

  I looked at him, in his cotton button-down and slacks. He was barefoot; his hair a mess; smelling of campfire smoke and something else - a faint, soft perfume.

  “I don’t want anybody’s help,” I told him. “I’m done.”

  As he turned, I added: “But I appreciate the sentiment, Marius. Maybe the both of us are having a change of heart.”

  Maybe - and maybe it was the lingering grief; perhaps it was just my youth, my recklessness. But after Marius’ confrontation, the weeks began to blur into a series of rushed moments. Chapel, stained glass, muted prayers with my head bowed in submission to the higher power that I wasn’t really sure existed. Locker-doors slamming; the same uniforms rendering people faceless, nameless, meaningless; plaid skirts, ironed ties. The classroom, watching Mr. Tennant as he played Tyler’s guitar; singing along with the music that someone played on their iPod: Cutting Crew’s (I Just) Died in Your Arms.

  It was meant to be comical; an old, 80’s song. But all of our tongues were heavy, our bodies weak.

  I just died in your arms tonight

  …It must’ve been something you said.

  He looked at me, seated at my desk - and God, it was fantastic.

  “You’re so cool, Mr. T,” one of them said. All doe-eyed, enamored. Also, a guy. “You’re like one of us, except not.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Tennant,” another said. “You’re seriously the coolest teacher ever.”

  He smiled, removing the sunglasses that he was wearing; and he truly did look cool. There was an inarguable coolness about Mr. Tennant; an elegant punk-rock mix of British slang and guitar strings. He was the Shakespearean rock-star, the passionate mentor. A poised, poisoned mess of pressed shirts and disheveled hair.

  He was my teacher, my lover, my sole melodic malady. In the classroom, his words carried me through the hours like a sweet lullaby. On stage, he was the master wordsmith; the man who understood how to breath life into ancient lines. Behind the set, as we were fitted into our costumes and began bringing the characters to life, he was the voyeur. The single person in the audience, sitting beneath the hot lights that gave him, as he sat in the shrouded seats, the appearance of being nothing but a phantom.

  When the curtain closed, and the theater was empty, we succumbed to one moment of seizing lust. He made love to me in his office, less than thirty seconds, while I was still wearing my costume gown.

  Sweat trickled down, his breath sharp. He caressed my face, my lips, my hair.

  “I’m falling for you,” I confessed. Not quite the right words, but the most I could muster as my heart thudded like a thrashing drum.

  “I’m falling for you,” he repeated, and he kissed me.

  My heartstrings snapped; tears fell silently as we held each other, knowing that we would have to put our masks on before walking out that door and through the empty theater. Into the sterilized halls that wanted nothing to do with either of us.

  He was my everything.

  SIXTEEN

  I didn’t tell anyone, but on Monday morning, right at the first sign of dawn, I dressed in my uniform and took Marius’ Audi over to the cemetery. I put a blanket down by her grave, and sat there with my eyes locked on the tombstone; as if the spirit of my mother would somehow transcend the casket that held her, and talk to me. Converse with me. Give me some kind of explanation, any kind of explanation.

  When I realized that this was an impossible request, I wept; glad that the only things capable of hearing me were my departed, voiceless companions; all buried beneath the ground.

  It’s a hard thing, letting go. Certainly, we’re offered glimpses of our own inevitable experiences through other mediums, other filters; a friend’s parent passing, or maybe a grandparent. Sometimes siblings; an aunt or uncle. I had heard of these things happening. They had happened to other students; Lily Marshall, last year’s Prom Queen, lost her father after he had been struck by a driver who had fallen asleep at the wheel. I had gone to pay my condolences. I had even contemplated my own fate; the reality that I would in fact have to say goodbye someday to somebody I loved.

  These things are imprinted in us; temporary tattoos that are gradually pressed on our skin from birth through death. We are all a part of some grander scheme; some larger, shared experience; and yet, when it happens to you, none of that really matters.

  For me, all I could focus on was my own pain, my own suffering. As I stared at the shadowed engravings on sleek, black granite, I was naturally convinced that no one in this lifetime would ever be able to even comprehend the magnitude of my grief. Every bit of sage advice that I had been given; every piece of understanding in the form of the things I had heard and seen and even wept over, had been washed away by metaphorical tides.

  I kissed my fingers, then pressed them against the cold surface. I wondered if she was somehow with me; if she could see me, hear me. But I didn’t think so.

  When I left, I took the long way home. I drove through the city that never seemed to sleep; I sped along past sidewalks of weary-eyed commuters and street vendors and sad-eyed pets on short leashes; their owners, equally as sullen-eyed, walked along as if they wouldn’t mind stepping into the busy street.

  Marius was in the kitchen when I arrived home; of all things, he was making breakfast. He slid a plate of waffles drenched in butter and raspberry preserves over to me, and tried to smile.

  “You’re up early,” I remarked, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “The maids aren’t even here yet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cook before.”

  “That’s funny,” he said, smiling smugly. “You’re funny.”

  We sat down next to each other, a beat of silence passing through us.

  “I went to the cemetery,” I said. “To see my mother.”

  “I know,” he said. “I mean, I figured as much.”

  I watched him eat; carving into the sopping mess of sweet confection. After a few moments, I stomached the entirety of my breakfast and felt it settle with a satisfying warmth.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Not right now, at least.”

  He nodded, standing; taking our dishes and placing them in the sink. I could smell last night’s sweat on him; his hair a mess of ends sticking here and there; his undershirt was wrinkled; his pajama pants dragging on the floor. Bare toes curled on cold tile.

  Maybe it was because of the infinite loneliness I felt right then, but I was almost compelled to hug him; a warm embrace from a frigid body.

  “Marius,” I said. His eyebrows rose hopefully. “Can I ask you something?”

  “You can ask,” he offered; the inflection implying the possibility of not getting an answer in return.

  “Did you ever really intend on having sex with me?” I said. “If I couldn’t seduce Mr. Tennant. If you had won.”

  We walked into the Great Room; he sat down at the piano; I sat down on the chaise lounge. When he glanced at me, the look in his eyes was a mixed flurry of uncertainty and anxiety; he didn’t want to give me an answer.

  “Sometimes I just like to throw a grenade and run,” he eventually said. His tone was
thick with attempted humor; his smile fake, wry. He had given me something, but it wasn’t much of anything at all.

  He settled his fingers on the keys, and started playing. I watched him; the first beginning glimpse of the morning rays starting to creep in through the high-arched glass. It drizzled over us like a balmy syrup; I felt sleepy - dressed but not ready for the day.

  Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata filled the room. I glanced down at my uniform jacket, plucked a piece of dried leaf from the fabric, and contemplated the past.

  The Friday following, Mr. Tennant had gifted me a silver bracelet. A simple band of metal that fit perfectly around my wrist. It was my first gift from him, and I adored it completely.

  We were sitting in the theater, on stage, looking out over the empty seats and drinking black coffee. We talked about practice, about costumes, about his own theater experiences. He went on about his old home in England; growing up by the coast where he was always surrounded by the ocean. When he left for London to pursue his education and dip his feet into the acting pool, he was constantly plagued with a homesickness for beach bonfires and late-night guitar sessions with his fellow Brit punks.

  “You would love it,” he said. I didn’t doubt it. However, I could only question why he had bothered to leave such a seemingly perfect piece of paradise. The lamentable nostalgia was firmly etched in the corners of his eyes; his hands laced with a frustrated longing for what no longer was.

  Every so often our fingers touched, our faces grew hot, and my clothes turned into layers of restricting fabric; the tie like a rope around my neck. When it became too much, too tempting, I decided to leave and roam the halls. I needed to catch my breath; I needed to clear my head. I couldn’t have sex with him again in school; it was much too risky.

  In the empty hall, I slid the bracelet on; yanking the sleeve of my uniform jacket down. A glimpse of silver; a secret, precious gift.

  The most terrible thing about infatuation is that it often makes you blind. You’re oblivious to the little things that others notice; a stolen glance that lasts perhaps a second too long; a piece of jewelry.