by Pam Godwin
I stare down at the printout of my afternoon schedule.
Music Theory
Piano Seminar
Performance Master Class
Private Lessons
The last half of my day is in Crescent Hall. Room 1A. All taught by Marceaux.
During English Lit, I overheard some of the girls blabbing about the hotness that is Mister Marceaux, but I haven’t worked up the nerve to wander over to Crescent Hall.
My insides coil tighter as I mutter aloud, “Why does he have to be a he?”
The locker door beside me swings shut, and Ellie angles around my arm, glancing at my schedule. “He’s really pretty, Ivory.”
I whirl toward her. “You saw him?”
“A glimpse.” She wiggles her little mousy nose. “Why does the he part matter?”
Because I’m more comfortable around women. Because they don’t overpower me with muscle and size. Because men are takers. They take my courage, my strength, my confidence. Because they’re only interested in one thing, and it’s not my ability to play the last bars of Transcendental Étude No.2.
But I can’t share all this with Ellie, my sweet, sheltered, reared-in-a-strict-Chinese-home friend. I think I can call her a friend. We’ve never really established that, but she’s always nice to me.
I stuff the schedule in my satchel. “I guess I was hoping for someone like Mrs. McCracken.”
Maybe Mr. Marceaux is different. Maybe he’s gentle and safe like Daddy and Stogie.
About a head shorter than me, Ellie smooths a hand over the cowlicks of her inky-black hairline and does this bouncy thing on her toes. I think she’s trying to stretch her height, but mostly it just looks like she needs to pee. She’s so tiny and adorable I want to tug on her ponytail. So I do.
She bats my hand away, smiling with me, and drops back to her heels. “Don’t worry about Marceaux. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
Easy for her to say. She’s already locked in a cellist spot at Boston Conservatory next year. Her future doesn’t hinge upon whether or not Marceaux likes her.
“I’m headed to the gym.” She lugs a backpack half her size over her shoulder. “You coming?”
Instead of an organized PE class, Le Moyne provides a full fitness center, personal trainers, and a myriad of conditioning classes like yoga and kickboxing.
I’d rather cut off my 5-4-3 fingers than jump around in a mirrored room with disapproving girls. “Nah. I’m going to run the track outside.”
We say our goodbyes, but my curiosity about Marceaux has me calling after her.
“Ellie? How pretty exactly?”
She turns around, walking backwards. “Shockingly pretty. It was just a glimpse, but I’m telling you, I felt it right here.” She pats her stomach and widens her angular eyes. “Maybe a little lower.”
My chest tightens. The prettiest ones have the ugliest insides.
But I’m pretty, aren’t I? I’m told I am, less so by people I trust and more often by people I don’t.
Maybe my insides are ugly, too.
As Ellie bounces away and flashes her pretty smile at me over her shoulder, I stand corrected in my generalizations. There’s nothing ugly about Ellie.
In the locker room, I change into shorts and a tank top then head outside to the track that encircles the twenty-acre campus.
The humidity deters most of the three-hundred students from venturing out of the A/C this time of year, but a few laze on the park benches, laughing and eating their lunches. A couple dancers practice their synchronized warm-ups beneath the imposing steeples of the Campus Center building.
As I stretch my legs under the shade of a large oak tree, I stare out over the lush green grounds and rubberized walking trails. The same trails I walked with Daddy when my head barely reached his hip. I can still feel his big hand swallowing mine as he led me along. His smile was so full of sunshine when he pointed out the old cathedral-like stonework of Crescent Hall and speculated on the grandeur of the classrooms within.
Le Moyne was his dream, one his parents couldn’t afford. He never seemed sad about that. Because he wasn’t a taker, not even when he dreamed. Instead, he gave his dream to me.
Bending at the waist, I reach for my toes and let the stretch heat my hamstrings as the memories warm my blood. I look like Mom with my dark hair and dark eyes, but I have Daddy’s smile. I wish he could see me now, standing here on the campus, living his dream, and wearing his smile.
I grin wider, because his dream, his smile…they’re mine, too.
“Holy mother of God, I missed that ass.”
I snap straight, smile gone and my body too stiff to turn toward the voice that makes my shoulders hike around my ears. “What do you want, Prescott?”
“You. Naked. Wrapped around my dick.”
My stomach caves in, and a bead of sweat trickles down my temple. I straighten my spine. “I have a better idea. How about you tuck your dick between your legs, dance like Buffalo Bill, and go fuck yourself.”
“You’re so nasty,” Prescott says with a smile in his voice as he prowls into my line of sight.
He stops an appropriate distance away, but not far enough. I step back.
His long hair stops at his jawline, the blond strands bleached by the Caribbean sun or wherever he spends his summers. If his tie and button-up are stifling him in this heat, he doesn’t show it as he takes his time unnerving me with his wandering gaze.
I don’t understand why the girls at Le Moyne fight over him. His nose is too long, his front tooth is crooked, and his tongue squirms like a worm whenever he shoves it in my mouth.
“Jesus, Ivory.” His focus zeroes in on my chest, burning my skin beneath the top. “Your tits grew another cup size over the summer.”
I fight my shoulders into a relaxed position. “If you’re asking for my help this year, try again.”
His eyes remain locked on my chest, his long fingers tightening around his sack lunch. “I want you.”
“You want me to do your homework.”
“That, too.”
The huskiness in his voice makes me shiver. I wrap my arms around my chest, hating how noticeable my boobs are, hating the way he flagrantly stares at them, hating that I depend on him.
His gaze finally lifts, landing on my mouth. “What happened to your lip? Catch it on a cock ring?”
I shrug. “It was a really big…ring.”
His expression darkens with jealousy, and I hate that, too.
“You should get one.” I tilt my head at the forced sound of his laughter. “Why not? It increases the pleasure.” I don’t know anything about piercings, but I can’t pass up the dig. “If you had one, you might actually make a girl come.”
His strained laugh cuts off with a cough. “Wait, what?” His eyes harden. “I make you come.”
Sex with him is a lot like removing a tampon. A quick tug that leads to a repulsive mess, one I discard from my mind until it has to be done again. I don’t bother telling him this. He can see it all in my glare.
“That’s bullshit.” He charges forward, crossing the boundary of what onlookers would consider friendly conversation.
When he reaches for my arm, I glance up at the Campus Center building and find the empty window of the dean’s office. “Your mom’s watching.”
“You’re a lying bitch.” He doesn’t look up, but his hand drops.
“If you want my help, I’m going to need an advance.”
He barks out a disgusted laugh. “Hells no.”
“Suit yourself.” I take off at a sprint, keeping to the grass along the track where it doesn’t burn my bare feet.
It only takes a couple seconds for Prescott’s long legs to catch up. “Hang on, Ivory.” Sweat forms on his face as he jogs beside me in his collared shirt. “Will you just stop for a minute?”
I slow my strides, anchor my fists on my hips, and wait for him to catch his breath.
“Look, I don’t have any cash on me right now.” He pulls
at the pockets of his slacks. “But I’ll pay you tonight.”
Tonight. My stomach buckles, but I smile through it and pluck the sack lunch out of his hand. “This will do until then.”
Lunch is the only advance I needed anyway. He has an unlimited balance in the cafeteria, so it’s not like he’ll go hungry.
He looks at my bare feet, at the paper bag in my hand, and pauses on my busted lip. For a guy who struggles with algebra, he’s not stupid. More like disinterested. Disinterested in my problems. Disinterested in the curriculum.
None of us are here to study quadratic equations or cell biology. We came for the arts program, to dance, to sing, to play our instruments, and to get accepted at the music conservatory of our choosing. Prescott would rather devote his time to fucking and playing classical guitar, not writing a history report en Français. Lucky for him, he doesn’t have to bother with academic coursework. Not when he can pay me to do it for him.
He isn’t the only entitled prick at Le Moyne, but I limit my services to those with the biggest wallets and the most to lose. We all know the risks. If one of us goes down, we all go down. Unfortunately, my little circle of cheaters is largely made up of Prescott and his friends.
And sometimes they take more than they pay for.
I peer into the lunch sack, salivating at the sight of roast beef on crusty bread, grapes, and chocolate cookies. “Tonight where?”
“The usual.”
Which involves picking me up ten blocks from school, parking his car in a vacant lot, and doing a lot more than homework. But I’m the one who established the rules. No swapping homework assignments on school property or public places. It’s too risky, especially with the way the dean watches her son.
“See you in class.” He strides away, his attention locked on the dean’s window and the shadowed silhouette within.
He swears she doesn’t suspect anything, but she’s been gunning against me since she stepped in as Mother Superior my sophomore year. Maybe it’s my slutty reputation or lack of wealth. Or maybe it’s my choice of college.
Leopold Conservatory of New York is the most selective university in the country and only accepts one Le Moyne musician each year. That is, if they accept any of us at all. Dozens of my peers have applied, including Prescott, but Mrs. McCracken said I’m the best. I’m the one she was going to recommend. Which makes me Prescott’s biggest competitor. At least, I was. Without her referral, I may very well be back to square one.
Curled up beneath a tree, I devour Prescott’s lunch and convince myself not to worry about him. Marceaux will like me. He’ll see that I deserve the spot. And tonight… Tonight, I won’t get in Prescott’s car. We can go over his assignments on the sidewalk, and if he has a problem with that, I’ll leave. Let him fail his coursework and drop out of the running for Leopold. I’ll find another slacker to make up for the loss in income.
As I run the three-mile track that winds around the tree-covered property, I strengthen my mind and body with the solidity of that plan.
When the five-minute warning bell rings through the buildings, I’m showered, dressed, and weaving through the crowds in Crescent Hall, my stomach lurching into a roil.
All you need is a moment.
Stogie’s confidence in me lightens my steps, but it’s the memory of Daddy’s energy that lifts my lips. If he were in my shoes, walking the halls he dreamed about, he would’ve been humming with unrestrained enthusiasm and gratefulness. I can feel it, his infectious dynamism, pumping my blood and hurrying my strides as I enter Room 1A, the same music room I was in last year.
An impressive display of brass, string, and percussion instruments line the far wall. Six or so of my fellow musicians gather around the desks at the center of the huge L-shaped space. If I walked around the corner, I would see the Bösendorfer grand piano in the alcove. But my attention snags on the man in the front of the room.
Perched on the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest, he watches the congregation of students with a brooding, irritated expression. Thank God he hasn’t noticed me yet, because I can’t seem to unglue my feet from the floor or look away.
He’s unexpectedly young, not student young but perhaps my brother’s age. His profile is ruggedly sculpted, his jaw cleanly shaved, yet so dark I suspect the sharpest razor doesn’t scrape away the shadow.
The longer I stare, the more I realize it’s not his face that looks youthful. It’s his style, so unlike other teachers with their conservative suits and modest demeanors.
It’s the way his black hair is arranged, short on the sides, long and messy on top, like a shove of his fingers left it falling across his brow in perfect chaos. His long legs appear to be encased in dark jeans, but closer scrutiny confirms he’s wearing slacks that are cut like jeans. The sleeves of his plaid button-up roll up to the elbows, and his tie has a different plaid design, which doesn’t match but somehow totally works. His brown fitted waistcoat is the kind a man wears beneath a suit jacket. Except there is no jacket.
His overall look is casual cosmopolitan, professional with personality, challenging the dress code without violating it.
“Take a seat.” His booming voice reverberates through the room, jarring my insides, but it’s not directed at me.
I exhale a moment of relief before he swivels toward me. His blue eyes move first, followed by his whole body. His hands grip the edge of the desk as his face comes into full view. Sweet merciful fuck, words like shockingly pretty dilute the effect of his image. Yeah, the first glimpse is a shock, but it’s not just his attractiveness. It’s his presence, his projection of self-assurance and command that makes me feel disoriented, breathless, and really fucking weird deep in my core.
He stares at me for an eternal second, expressionless, and his dark eyebrows pull into a V.
“Are you…?” He glances at the hall behind me and returns to my face. “You weren’t at the staff meeting this morning.”
“Staff meeting?” Realization punches me in the gut.
He thinks I’m a teacher, and now he’s looking at me like guys do, his gaze dragging over my body and arousing a twisted sickness in my belly. It reminds me how different I look than other girls my age and how much I hate those differences.
I pull my satchel over my chest, hiding my most noticeable parts. “I’m not…” I clear my throat and force my feet toward the nearest desk. “I’m a student. Piano.”
“Of course.” He stands, hands slipping into his pockets, voice gruff. “Sit down.”
His stark, icy eyes follow me, and goddammit, I don’t want to be intimidated by them. I attempt to fortify my swift steps with the confidence I felt walking in, but my legs are wobbly.
As I lower the satchel beside a vacant desk, his impatience thunders louder, sharper. “Hurry up!”
I drop into the chair, hands trembling and my heartbeat a heavy hammer in my head. If I were stronger, more confident, I wouldn’t care that his gaze is drilling into mine and tripping my pulse.
If I were stronger, I’d be able to look away.
Blindsided. That’s the best explanation for the stern volume of my voice and tightness in my usually-composed expression. I wasn’t prepared for this. Not for a tall, voluptuous, sexy-beyond-all-reason woman to walk into my classroom. My first thought? Beverly Rivard found the hottest music teacher in the country to place in my employ. To test me.
But she’s not a teacher.
I relax my fingers on the edge of the desk. Christ, that would’ve been a terrible inconvenience.
Except this is worse.
Distrust steels the girl’s gaze as she studies me from the front row. Sitting stiffly in the chair, she tugs the hem of her skirt over her knees and keeps her legs closed. Not the reaction I’m used to from women—or high school girls, for that matter.
I pride myself on being a strict, respectable educator. I know how female students look at me, and I’m immune to the bubbly-hearted infatuation in their innocent eyes. But there isn’t a h
int of naïve adoration in the deep mahogany eyes staring at me now. In my six years of teaching, I’ve never encountered a student who regards me as if she’s summed me up in a glance and disapproves of my intentions.
Maybe this girl heard about the mistakes I made with Joanne, the debauchery that led to her taking my job. Well, fuck that job. Only my parents know the depth of what I lost in Shreveport and the nature of my intentions.
Whatever this girl thinks she knows, I’m not beyond using intimidation or a show of power to demand her focus in the classroom.
I hold her incisive gaze as I speak to the class. “Find a seat and put your phones away.”
Several more students trickle in, and a quick count of eleven girls and nine boys confirms everyone is present.
As the bell rings, the latecomers choose their seats. I recognize Beverly’s son from the pictures displayed in her office. Prescott Rivard is cockier in person, wearing a smirk instead of a photogenic smile. He settles next to the brown-eyed beauty and leans over her desk to twist a finger through her hair.
She jerks away. “Stop it.”
The hipster boy on her other side angles toward her, his skinny body squeezed into tight pants, a checkered shirt, and a plaid bow tie. He stares at her mouth through black-framed glasses and whispers something too low for me to hear.
Her lips thin into a line, and the dark expression on her face seems to come from a place much deeper than simple irritation.
I need to know what he’s saying to her. It’s a weird sort of curiosity, pulsing in my chest, as I level a look at the whispering boy. “What’s your name?”
He reclines, flippantly slouching with his legs stretched out beneath the desk. “Sebastian Roth.”
I walk toward him and give the toe of his shoe a warning kick that propels him to sit straight. “What did you say to her, Mr. Roth?”
He leers at the girl, rubbing his mouth to hide his grin. “I was just commenting on how big her…uh…” He looks at her chest and lifts his gaze to her mouth. “Her lip. How big her lip is.”
Prescott bursts into laughter, followed by several boys sitting around him.
That’s when I notice the segregation in seating. Girls on one side. Boys on the other. With the exception of the girl who looks like a woman. Whether she chose her seat out of urgency or to deliberately sit where hard-dicked boys could flock around her, I intend to find out.
