by Leah Raeder
I raced downstairs, flung open the patio door. The pool lights were off, the water gleaming darkly in the oozing, sauvignon twilight.
“Hi,” I said when I was alone. “Sorry about that.”
“‘Dad?’”
“Thought you’d appreciate the Freudian irony.”
He laughed softly. His voice, slightly metallic, ran down through my bones and settled warmly in my chest, like bourbon. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
You read things in romance novels like he made me melt, knowing this is physically impossible. Girls are not pats of butter. Yet my body was doing a damned fine imitation of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Girl, dissolving against the side of the house.
“So you called to torture me?”
“I know it’s late, but I want to see you.”
My eyes widened. “Do we have time for that?”
He laughed again, a little guiltily. “I actually just want to see you. Even if it’s only for a minute.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, it’s late. And yes I want to see you.”
I pictured him smiling. “Can you meet me?”
Wesley was messing around online when I went back upstairs. “I’ve got to run. Family shit.”
I had to convince him to not walk me home. I sang out a goodbye to Siobhan, and for a moment I was reluctant to leave that bright, happy house. But something even brighter was waiting for me.
#
I stopped at home to brush my teeth and change clothes, because I’m not above vanity. The lights were off, Mom’s van gone. I wished she’d never come back. That Siobhan would pull into the driveway, saying, Come with me to your new life, lovely girl.
When I biked out to the water tower he was already waiting.
I hopped off and let my bike ride on without me and ran to him. He pulled me down to the grass to a blanket he’d spread. I ended up atop him, my hair in both our faces. He held me, his arms coiling and relaxing, again and again, one hand buried in my hair at the base of my skull. Crickets made a creaking heartbeat around us. Cool aloe musk rose from the grass.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he whispered.
I brushed my cheek against his. The earth sank beneath us, pressed by the weight of the whole universe above. How could it set us up like this, every planet precisely aligned, if it didn’t mean for us to collide? His heart crashed against mine, fierce and steady.
I pushed myself up on my palms. “You’ve done something to me.” My voice was quiet, too, a ribbon of breath threading into the breeze that stirred my hair. “I feel like I’m waking from a long dream, and everything is so much more beautiful than I remembered.”
His eyes were pale and bright in the starlight. The hand in my hair pulled me to him.
I kissed my teacher in the shadow of the water tower, beneath the stars.
I’ve been pretty honest so far, haven’t I? So I’ll admit: it wasn’t innocent, blind love. His age drew me to him in the first place; now it was being my teacher that gave me a wild, terrified thrill every time we touched, infusing me with adrenaline, making my skin prickle. The danger was an electrode buried in my brain, lighting up my most primal fear and pleasure circuits. There was more to it, of course. Something was unfolding in me that had never opened before. But I wasn’t kidding myself. The forbiddenness was part of it.
I rolled onto my back and stared up at the sky. We propped our knees side by side. A tiny cut of light opened in the star-freckled face of the night, a shooting star. I raised my hand and closed a fist over it. When I opened my fingers, it was gone. Part of me now. You’re a creator. Wesley had seen the person he thought I was, some obsessive, narcissistic teenager. Evan saw both who I was and who I wanted to be.
“Why did you become a teacher?” I said.
He sat up, leaning on an elbow. “There are two types of teachers. The first kind always wanted to be teachers. They train for it. They’re passionate, caring, good people.” I could hear the smile in his voice, bittersweet. “The second kind wanted to be something else, but couldn’t. Crowded field, not good enough, not driven enough. Whatever. But they have a lot of specialized knowledge, so instead of letting it rot, they become teachers.”
“Which kind are you?”
“The third kind.”
“As in Close Encounters of?”
He pinched my upper arm. “The kind who doesn’t know how he got here or where he’s going. I was on my way somewhere else, but a detour came up.”
“Where were you going originally?”
“Promise not to laugh?”
I sat up too, intrigued. “Maybe.”
“You can’t promise ‘maybe.’”
“Cross my heart, hope to die.”
“I was going to be an actor.”
My jaw dropped. I could see it. That fucking gorgeous face. The way it filled with light, looking more alive, more feeling, more human than anyone else.
“Is that pleasant surprise, or ‘don’t quit your day job?’” he said.
I turned it into a grin.
Evan laughed, eyes downcast, actually shy. Or maybe acting shy. I looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. The lips that had been sculpted so delicately they stood out more than his other features, the eyelashes like gold dandelion seeds. I pulled out my phone.
“Tell me the story,” I said.
“While you film me?”
“Can I? This can be your audition.”
“For what?”
I couldn’t resist. “The role of my corrupt teacher. Of the third kind.”
He gave me an electric look. Even through the cheap phone camera it made my nerves tingle, lightning lacing up my arms. Our gazes met above the screen.
“I thought I already had the part.”
“Not until I get you on the casting couch.”
His eyes crinkled, his face folding into embarrassed laughter. “You’re a predator. I’m pretty sure you’re the one corrupting me.”
I sat behind my phone, relishing this. My power over him. The strange dynamic of me as the observer, him the observed.
“Why don’t you put that away?” he said.
“Why?”
“So you can corrupt me.”
I put it away.
“You owe me that story,” I said.
He tilted my face. Kissed me lightly on the mouth, then along my jaw, following it to my ear. My eyes half-shut, drifting to the carnival lights in the distance. The hot breath in my ear was unbearable, a chemical pulse straight to my spine.
Something rumbled out on the road.
We stiffened, listening. A car going past.
“Kids come out here,” I whispered, thinking of Wesley.
Evan took my hands and pulled me to my feet. Scooped up the blanket. I walked my bike toward his car on the road shoulder.
“I can’t last until Thursday,” I said. “I need to see you.”
He gave me that regretful wince, but it had become much less regretful lately, more longing.
“Rent another room,” I said. “At a different motel. I’ll pay for it.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. This is as much mine as it is yours.”
We stared at each other over my bike. Far down the road, two red snake eyes winked in the darkness.
“Okay.” His voice was a little strange. “When should I pick you up?”
“As soon as the last bell rings.”
He reached over and lifted my face and kissed me, so intensely I let the bike fall against him. This was an old-time, black-and-white movie kiss, with the orchestra swelling in my chest, hot tungsten lamps carving out our shadows. My bones turned to air, nothing holding me up but the fierceness of my desire. God, I just wanted to get into that car with him. Forget this whole fucked-up life and disappear somewhere together. I had to push him away, fight for my breath. Too much. I gave him an agonized look. When he spoke, his voice w
as guttural.
“I can’t hold on to you. You’re like that shooting star. Just a trail of fire in my hands.”
And the Oscar goes to Evan Wilke, for putting the first fine, hairline crack in the ruby of my heart.
#
Before Nan died, she set aside a small nest egg for me. $6,000 sitting in a trust fund, waiting for me to turn eighteen. For your future, she said, with a guilty tone that was clearly also an apology: Sorry you were born to my daughter. I made a promise to myself that I’d use it for college.
I ditched Wesley at lunch and got an off-campus pass and biked downtown to the bank. I wasn’t going to pay the ATM fee at school, and I didn’t want anyone—especially Wesley—seeing me take out money.
Key skill while having an affair with your teacher: discretion.
The bright-eyed, bushy-tailed teller made squirrel noises at me.
“I need to make a withdrawal.”
Squeak, squeak.
I slid my bank card through the reader.
Squeak.
I pushed my ID under the window.
“Oh, you’re Maise,” the squirrel said.
“Right. Who else would I be?”
Puffy-cheeked smile. “Well, it’s a joint account.”
“With who?”
“Yvette?”
Mom.
I waited as the squirrel counted ten twenties with her twitchy little paws, then said, “Can you take Yvette off the account?”
“Unfortunately, no. It was opened for a minor. But you could start a new account.”
I had all of ten minutes to get back to school. “Maybe some other time.”
Squeak squeak.
As I walked out, tucking the wad of bills into my pocket, I suddenly felt my grandmother watching me withdraw my college money so I could shack up with my teacher. Jesus, when was the last time I’d actually felt ashamed of myself? I made two promises as I unlocked my bike.
One: I will replace this money before I go to college. Every cent.
Two: I will pay my own way with Evan, no matter what. I’m not a child. I’m an adult, in an unusual but no less adult relationship.
Key skill: denial.
#
Fast forward.
Wesley flicking my ear in the hall and tossing me an apple.
Me and Britt getting kicked out of the library for laughing too loudly at a boy giving us googly eyes.
Evan in his aviators, picking me up at the ghost town gas station.
Me in the motel office in borrowed sunglasses, renting a room.
And then just us.
Press play.
Urgency and need, my skin hot as tinfoil straight out of the oven, fingernails clawing his back. Him taking out a condom and me saying I’m on the pill and him saying, “I don’t want you to worry, ever,” and I agree because I just want to be fucked. And I am. And then I can think again, a starving girl given her first meal in weeks.
Fast forward.
Trading life stories in our underwear on a motel bed.
Burgers and fries spread across the blanket and his laptop playing 2001: A Space Odyssey.
Evan doing the ending monologue from American Beauty and making me shiver.
Photos of us I take in the bathroom mirror: laughing at the camera, then his head turned to me, then mine to him.
Faster.
School days ending in motel rooms. Broken AC, humidity making the air cling like clear jelly. A thunderstorm releasing us from misery, and me running barefoot into the parking lot, screaming with crazed abandon. Evan taking my wet clothes off in the sudden chill of the room and getting into a warm shower with me. My hands unable to find purchase on his slick skin as he holds me against the wall and fucks me with his finger, the tiles printing a graph onto my back.
Wesley saying his mom invited me over to Sunday dinner, even though I know it’s him.
Siobhan hugging me before I leave, and me stopping on a dark street to cry and smell her on my shirt.
Hiyam formally inviting us to her homecoming party.
Mr. Wilke and I talking to each other in class as if we’re just teacher and student, though our jokes are a little too familiar, our glances a little too intense.
Making out with him in his dark classroom during fourth period while kids walk past the locked door.
Wesley asking why I smell like men’s cologne.
Me listening to stupid sappy love songs nonstop, getting addicted to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Wedding Song.”
Another bank withdrawal, and me and Wesley applying for jobs together online.
Mom mercifully leaving me the fuck alone.
Finally, homecoming.
#
Siobhan said we’d regret missing the dance.
“It’s just a bunch of idiots trying to conceive illegitimate children,” I said.
“We’re not missing anything,” Wesley agreed. “Blood, fire, heads exploding. We can just watch Carrie.”
Which we did.
Besides, I thought, who would we go with?
Insane fantasy of me and Evan showing up together, blowing everyone’s mind.
At nine, Siobhan drove us to Hiyam’s house. “Watch each other’s drinks,” she said. “Don’t take any mysterious pills. Call me if you need anything.” Her eyebrows rose with droll disdain. “And tell this child’s parents they’re trying too hard.”
Hiyam’s house could’ve been airlifted from Beverly Hills. There was nothing like it within a hundred miles. It sat on half a dozen acres, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Inside was a brochure spread of flagstone paths, landscaped shrubs, illuminated accent pools. It took fifteen seconds of walking before we even saw the house, a pile of geometric debris.
“It looks like a parallelogram fucking an isosceles triangle,” I said.
Wesley snorted.
Light bled from every window, clear chardonnay yellow. Silhouettes swam across it. The music was a murky underwater pulse that grew clearer as we approached. Kids sprawled in the garden, laughing drunkenly, lurking in shadows in various states of undress. Despite myself, I felt a flare of excitement. It seemed all two hundred-odd members of our graduating class were here tonight.
I poked Wesley in the ribs. “Have your camera ready.”
“Always do.”
We walked through open French doors into the house.
Half the kids were still in formal wear, the rest in street clothes, like us—Wesley in a graphic tee and skater cargos, me in a babydoll top and skinny jeans. The deejay had some Hot 100 shit on at skullfuck volume. I couldn’t see much through all the skin and rayon and sweat, just flashes of onyx granite and oxblood leather, a cut-crystal punch bowl, platters of canapés. Every room flowed airily into another and people followed the circuit, moving, mingling. They were all sleepy smiles, shiny eyes, duckfaced girls making out with boys who had less hair on their face than I’d shaved off my legs, everyone drunk and dumb and happy.
We hit the drink table hard. A guy had smuggled in some Grey Goose and I slipped him a twenty and Wesley and I matched each other shot for shot, one two three four until he stepped back, looking dizzy.
“Lightweight,” I laughed.
“You’re trying to take advantage of me,” he said dubiously.
The room with the soundsystem was full of blacklights. When I glanced at Wesley he grinned, showing me moon eyes and a mouth full of glowing teeth. I closed my eyes and grinned back.
“Creepy,” he yelled in my ear.
The crowd split us for a moment, skeleton kids dancing with their arms in the air. The deejay spun some lame Ke$ha, but it was infectious. I slipped into the rhythm, let my body ride the music, vodka flooding my veins with sugar and fire. Wesley tried to sneak away and I caught him.
“I can’t dance,” he said.
“Neither can they.” I took his hand. “Just let yourself go.”
He was such a giant, it was hopeless. So I stayed close to him, and he faced me, and it worked. We were in our
own little zone, surrounded by perfume and alcohol breath and damp young skin. A girl blew glitter in my face and instead of slugging her, I just laughed.
“This is so weird,” Wesley said when the song faded to the next.
“I know,” I said. “I feel like an actual kid.”
I grabbed his hand again and pulled him to the next room.
Hiyam was there, surrounded by her royal court of Mean Girls. She smiled and beckoned us over. Her subjects scattered like roaches when we neared.
“Having fun?” she said to me.
“I don’t know. Are we having fun, Wesley?”
Wesley stared at something across the room.
Hiyam’s feline eyes flicked to him, then to our clasped hands. I let go of him, suddenly self-conscious.
“Oh,” Hiyam said.
Jesus, awkward.
“I’ll catch you later,” Wesley muttered, slinking away.
I stood there feeling like an idiot. There’s nothing between us, I imagined saying. He’s kind of got this big sister crush on me and I’m kind of sleeping with our teacher. Also, I’m kind of drunk.
Hiyam was seventeen but looked mid-twenties: lipstick, heels, cream-colored cocktail dress. She had a sphinx’s face, stony and enigmatic. Her skin was amazing. Burnished bronze. I wasn’t sure of her ethnicity—Turkish? Persian?—but I felt utterly childish in her presence.
“I wanted to talk to you anyway,” she said. “Let’s walk.”
We drifted through the party, stopping occasionally for someone to talk to Hiyam. She listened with a half-smile, her eyes half-lidded. Regal boredom. No one seemed to realize it but me.
“Ever feel like you don’t belong with these people?” Hiyam said.
“Every day of my life.”
She smiled knowingly.
We ended up outside, on a terrace overlooking a pool. This pool was usable, not decorative, and a guy and girl were currently using it to make out madly in the shallows. The house pumped music into the night.
Hiyam produced a pack of cigarettes from somewhere mysterious and offered me one. I shook my head. She leaned on the granite railing.
“Mr. Wilke,” she said, exhaling a serpentine coil of smoke.
Alarm bells. I leaned on the railing too, so I could devote less of my brain to keeping my balance.
