by Shari Arnold
The doorbell rings and my mother knocks on the door of my room looking for me.
“Your new tutor is here, Livy.”
When I simply blink back at her she adds, “Mr. Hale.”
“Oh crap,” I mutter under my breath. The last thing on my mind is Spanish homework. I haven’t even studied, which isn’t normally a big deal with Steve, but I don’t want to waste Mr. Hale’s time. Nor do I want to come off as some kind of slacker.
“I didn’t know he was coming today,” I say to my mom.
“Well, he called yesterday to reschedule. I’m sure I left the message in your room.”
Sure enough there it is, right next to my computer, a bright yellow Post-it note with my mother’s perfect handwriting: Mr. Hale. 1pm Tuesday.
“Right,” I say.
My footsteps are slow as I make my way to the dining room. I am anticipating another old professor or a teacher’s assistant, someone who is looking to impress Steve by donating his time, but the man waiting for me is not old or stuffy looking. He is beautiful. Truly. His face is ageless, as if tiny fairies sweep away his wrinkles while he’s sleeping, leaving his skin smooth, his eyes bright and his features chiseled. He’s young enough to be a recent college grad, but with his tailored dark suit he must be older than he appears. College grads can’t usually afford such luxury.
“You must be Livy,” he says and even his voice is attractive. He reaches his hand out to me and I take it. Hesitantly. “I’m Mr. Hale, but you can call me James.”
I clear my throat and say, “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Hale. James.”
He smiles and gestures for me to take a seat, as though this is his apartment, not mine. I hesitate a moment and then do as he says, my hands clenched nervously in my lap.
My mother is somewhere nearby — the kitchen perhaps — but in the dining room it is very much just the two of us. I am aware of James the way I’ve never been aware of Steve. He makes me nervous, almost jittery. Not in a romantic, teacher-crush sort of way. I don’t get off on that like Sheila. However, between his beauty and his poise I find him… dangerous. That word comes out of nowhere and then retreats because it doesn’t make sense. Why would my substitute teacher be a threat to me? Steve is probably one of the most intelligent teachers I’ve ever had, and yet he doesn’t intimidate me.
James’ blue eyes are so pale they’re almost silver, which is a stark contrast to his jet-black hair. He sits across the table, carefully studying me as if there is a secret message to be found in my expression. It’s unnerving to be examined so thoroughly, especially by someone so appealing. I wish I could hold his glance and return the favor, but it’s too much, those eyes.
“I’m afraid your Mr. uh… Steve, has been held up with his mother a bit longer than expected,” he says. “So I will be taking over his position until he can find his way back.”
“Is everything alright?” I’m immediately worried about Steve, but most of the anxiety centers around the possibility that he won’t return and I’ll be forced to concentrate in a room with James for the next ten months.
“Everything’s fine, Livy.” He reaches out his hand as if to pat mine, but my hands are still buried in my lap so instead he touches my shoulder. “You know how it is when someone you love needs you. You’d do anything for them, right?”
“Of course,” I say. His hand moves off my shoulder and returns to rest on the table in front of him.
“So. Instead of a lesson today I thought we might just get to know each other.”
“Okay.” I don’t know why this upsets me, but it does. I mean, it sounds like a normal request. We will be spending a lot of time together, especially if Steve decides to stay away. But I’m not sure I want James to get to know me.
James must sense my unease because he sits back in his chair, his light blue eyes on me, and gives me a soft, comforting smile.
“Tell me, Livy. What was your sister like?”
“J-Jenna?” I stutter. As if I have another.
“Yes. From the photos on the wall I see she looked a lot like your mother, didn’t she?”
“Yes, she did.” Why is he bringing up Jenna?
“I’m sure you miss her.” His mouth is turned down in an apparent attempt to mirror my sorrow.
Oh no. Not this again. I sit forward in my chair, my hands flat against the table. “You’re not really a tutor, are you?”
James shifts in his seat, his eyes piercing mine. “What do you mean? Of course I am.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “My mother arranged this, didn’t she? She thinks if she can fix me she’ll fix herself, but I won’t do it.” I stand up and move behind my chair. “I don’t need to see a shrink. I’m sad. I’m allowed to feel sad! My sister is dead!” My hands are gesturing at nothing and then they come to land on my hips. “Just because she can pretend she didn’t lose a child doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t mourn her!”
“Livy.” James reaches out to me again, but I’m using the chair as a shield. His hand lingers a moment in the air and then falls flat against the table.
“No. I’m sorry. This was a mistake. I don’t need a shrink, she does.”
“Livy?” I look up and find my mother standing in the doorway. Her face is as white as the blouse she’s wearing. “Livy, this is Mr. Hale, he comes highly recommended—”
“I don’t care how highly recommended he is! I don’t need a shrink!”
“—by Steve,” my mother finishes. “It was Steve who sent him here for the time being.”
The room is silent while I look from my mom to James and then back again.
“He’s a tutor,” my mother says, enunciating each word clearly and deliberately, the way I’ve seen her do countless times before when she’s explaining something simple to her campaign team. Her color has returned but her mouth is pinched like she’s just tasted something sour. “His specialty is language arts. Steve thought he might be able to help improve your Spanish while he’s away.”
“Oh,” is all I can muster. Crap.
“What’s going on?” My father materializes just behind my mother in the doorway. It appears the only way to get him out of his study in the middle of the day is to start screaming at strangers. He’s wearing the same clothes I saw him in two days ago. His red-rimmed eyes narrow on James just as James comes to his feet.
“Hi Daddy,” I whisper and his attention shifts to me.
“Livy? What’s wrong?” he asks.
I wish I had the time to tell him. I wish I could lay it all out on the dining room table with flow charts and spread sheets, but I’m not prepared for the moment, so instead I say, “Everything’s fine, Daddy. I’m fine.”
The look he gives me nearly breaks my heart altogether, because in my father’s world there is no fine. There is only heartache.
It is my mother’s responsibility to smooth everything over. That’s what she does best, clean up and make pretty. In a matter of minutes my father is tucked safely back in his study, and after giving me a look that can only be interpreted as annoyance, she leaves James and I alone at the table.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That was kind of awkward for your first day. I apologize. We’re usually less dramatic than that.” At least, I am. I force myself to look at him even though I’d rather keep looking down at my hands.
“There’s no need to apologize, Livy,” he says, and I’m surprised to find that his expression is sincere. “I’m quite used to drama.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. My mother didn’t make it to State Senator without some grooming and that grooming has been instilled in me as well. “So.” I clear my throat. “Perhaps we could start again?” I reach my hand out to James and he slips his over mine. “I’m Livy,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
“James,” he says, his smile as bold as the twinkle in his eye. “And the pleasure’s all mine.”
CHAPTER SIX
The next night Sheila and I are at the movies. It’s some end-of-world thing where aliens or z
ombies — I lost track about a half hour ago — are trying to take over the world, but it’s difficult to follow along with Sheila and Grant playing find-the-tongue-who’s-got-the-tongue right next to me. Sheila doesn’t usually get into the whole PDA thing but Grant’s been out of town on some hockey tour. I guess when the cat’s away the heart grows fonder? Or something to that effect. Ryan was supposed to come but changed his mind at the last minute, and now here I am rolling with it like the third-wheel I am. I pull out my phone to check the time, wondering if I could sneak out without them noticing, when someone plops down in the seat next to mine.
“They all die in the end,” Meyer says and I let out a little gasp that sounds a bit like, “Oh!” I’m not sure if my heart is beating faster because it’s him or because he’s startled me. Either way I’m happy to see him.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, failing to hold back a smile.
“I figured if I spoiled the ending you wouldn’t want to stick around.”
“Do you have something else in mind?” I ask, sounding so flirtatious I barely recognize myself.
“Do you like fish?” He gives me this lopsided grin, the kind of grin you know is trouble, and I feel as if the happy switch has been turned on inside of me.
“That depends. Are we talking on a plate or in a tank?”
“The smell, actually.”
“Um…?”
Meyer doesn’t give me another second to think about it. He grabs my hand and drags me — albeit willingly — from the theater.
“Should you…?” He nods toward Sheila who hasn’t even looked up, and I shrug.
“I’ll text her,” I say without hesitation. Now that Meyer has appeared I just want to get out of here.
I follow him outside where the rain is still falling but once we take off in a run I barely notice it. It’s like we’re moving too fast for it to touch us. Meyer leads me down one street and then another until we arrive at the entrance to Pike Place Market. I love Pike Place. Jenna and I used to come here every Saturday. Her favorite thing was walking around the flower market, smelling all of the different kinds of flowers, especially the ones you don’t see every day like gerbera daisies and peonies. Even though I haven’t been here in a while the familiar smells hit me like it was just yesterday, and the sadness that follows rests heavy upon my shoulders.
“I’m sure you’re wondering what we’re doing here,” Meyer says. But I’m not, actually. I’m too busy dodging memories of Jenna to notice that we’ve stopped dead center in the middle of the fish market. To my left is the hot chocolate cart where we always began our shopping trip. Jenna would remove her lid so that after her first sip she could smile at me with a whipped-cream moustache. Next we’d wander over to her favorite fish thrower, Blaine, who’d always break into a song about Jenna, Jenna, the beautiful Jenna who smells like flowers while he smells of fish. Then he’d threaten to throw a large salmon at her while she’d scream and hide behind me. I realize with horror that I haven’t been back since Jenna died. What will I do if Blaine asks about her? What will I tell him? It’s not like I can yell, “She’s dead!” across a line of customers. Should I pretend she’s at home and then never come here again? I’m working this out in my head when Meyer’s face materializes in front of me, blocking out the flower market, Jenna’s favorite spot of all. How many hours had we spent wandering those aisles, reading each flower label as if she hadn’t already memorized them?
“Livy?” Meyer says and his look of concern snaps me back to the present. “Livy? What’s wrong?”
But I can’t tell him. My throat is so tight I can barely speak.
I shake my head and force out a smile. Not now. I can’t think about this now.
“Your next dare is awaiting, my lady.” He holds his hand out and bows dramatically. For a moment I think he might just get down on one knee, and how silly would that be, in the center of Pike Place Market? His smile is wistful, and beautiful. With the soft light of the Market falling upon his features he could be a lost soul who traveled here from another time period. Not just a boy who lives to play games.
“Wait, that’s not right,” I say slowly, attempting to drag myself out from under my memory-induced misery. He lifts an eyebrow and I explain, “It’s my turn to ask. Not yours.”
He nods in consent and without me even asking, throws out, “Suffering.”
“Alright.” I glance around the market, wishing I’d been better prepared for this moment. Had I known I’d see Meyer today I would have made a list of dares and truths. “Just give me a second…”
“If you can’t come up with a dare, you forfeit your turn and you’ll be faced with a dare or truth by yours truly.” Meyer is circling me now as if he is the lion and I am the gazelle. You have only a few seconds,” he says dramatically, “before the tables are turned.”
“Hold on.” In a panic I look around for inspiration, taking in the crowd and everything I have to work with, but nothing is coming to me.
“10, 9, 8, 7 —”
“Just let me think a second,” I say, covering my ears to keep his countdown from distracting me, but silly me, it’s not the numbers that distract me, it’s him. His challenging stare is almost threatening as he continues to circle me.
“6, 5, 4, 3 —”
“Sing!” I yell and he comes to a stop. “I want you to sing in front of all these people.”
“Is that all!” he scoffs. He seems disappointed by my lack of creativity.
I hold up a hand. I’m not finished yet. “I want you to sing as loud as you can — an entire song, not just a note or two — right here, in front of everyone.” I’m smiling as I finish because I know this is a dare that would make almost anyone uncomfortable, especially me, and if he fails to do it he must answer a question of my choice. At least that’s how I think the rules go.
Meyer is watching me. He is so cocky in his casualness. He tips his head in acceptance of my dare and then he begins to whistle.
The market is crowded for a Wednesday night. Most of the shoppers appear to have just gotten out of work and are looking to throw together a late dinner before they retire in front of the TV. The last thing they are expecting is Meyer belting out a tune. And the last thing I’m expecting is his voice when he does. He starts out slow, struggling to fit each word to its note. I wonder if he’s making it up as he goes, but just before the second verse his voice grows louder. Stronger. He sings about a boy lost at sea with only his heart to steer him home to the girl who is waiting for him. As engaging as his song is it’s his voice that captures my attention.
That melodic lilt to his voice is thicker now, as if it’s part of the melody. The crowd shuffles past, their footsteps slowing, until they form a circle around us. Meyer sings on until he reaches the chorus, where the boy calls out to his lover in the dead of night, and his eyes lock onto mine. She is mine, he sings. And I am lost.
I don’t notice when he closes the distance between us because once he started singing it felt like I was being drawn toward him anyway. But it’s still a shock when he takes my hand and bows over it with a dramatic finish. The crowd breaks into applause.
“I do believe it’s your turn,” he says. Then he winks at me, a slow rakish wink that in the aftermath of his performance makes me dizzy. I’m the one on stage now, and I’m so caught up in the moment I just might fall off.
Meyer knows he has won when I remain silent. He’s unnerved me. The smile that soon follows leaves me without breath. It’s not fair this power he has over me. Not fair at all.
“Well done,” I tell him. His body is so close we cast one shadow.
“Are you ready?” he says, and there’s no need for me to answer. We both know my curiosity is piqued.
He takes my hand, leading me back toward the hidden shops behind the market.
We enter a shop I’ve never been in before; truth is I’ve never even noticed it. In the window is an assortment of costumes, some looking very renaissance while others are as clich
é as a simple white dress with angel wings. Inside the store it feels crowded until I realize that the only other patrons are Meyer’s friends, the kids from the Sculpture Gardens. They greet him and even wave to me. Not one questions my being here.
“Pick something, Livy,” Meyer says. “But keep in mind, whichever costume you choose, you are that character for the rest of the night.”
“Are you serious? We’re playing dress-up?” I’m shocked, but it doesn’t last long. My hands are already reaching out and touching the row of ball gowns hanging to my left.
“I dare you,” Meyer says, leaning in so that I can hear him over the loud chatter inside the shop, “to be someone else tonight. Someone you’ve always wanted to be.”
“You mean like a princess?” I point to the blue and gold gown one of his friends is carrying into the dressing room. “I have always wanted to be a princess…”
“Have you?” He shuffles back a few steps, bouncing on his heels, even though his words are anything but playful. “Or was that someone else, I wonder?”
“What do you mean?” I say, but even if he’s heard me, he doesn’t answer. He disappears behind a wall of hats.
There is an odd odor to the air, like time and dust have all gotten lost here. The costumes are all hung up or displayed on mannequins, not folded and crushed into a plastic bag like you’d find in some run-of-the-mill Halloween store. As I walk through the aisles I notice most of Meyer’s female friends have chosen to be maidens or princesses. There’s even the occasional fairy. I know that Jenna and Jilly would have gone straight for either the sparkling princess dresses or the whimsical fairies. But tonight my disguise is up to me, and me alone. This new adventure seems silly, so childish. Who plays dress-up at our age? In fact I’m surprised everyone is going along with it. The kids I know wouldn’t. But Meyer isn’t like most kids, and apparently neither are his friends. I know Sheila would be appalled if she knew what I was up to. Which makes me glad I left her back at the theater.
