by C. R. Jane
“Sit. I’ll get the first aid kit.” The command comes as he guides me onto a couch. I’ve no room for argument when he uses that tone, so I relax with my head back and eyes closed. A pulse has started in my hand. Just when my breath finds the same beat, a flutter of knowledge prompts my eyes open. Alexander is staring from the doorway, watching me.
I search for something to say, anything to break the tension sweeping through the room, but he does it by walking to my side and sinking down. He places the first aid kit on the desk next to the bed and says, “Let me see.”
I thrust it in front of him, but I don’t watch the handkerchief come off or peek as he pokes around.
“Adeline.” His tone forces my eyes to his. “You need to go to the nurse’s office for stitches.”
I push myself up and try to pull away, but he holds on. “No, no stitches.” Just the idea of needles near my body nauseates me. “Please, can’t you help me?”
He sighs. “I’ll need to clean the cut. It’s going to hurt.”
“I trust you won’t hurt me,” I tell him, and the way he looks at me after I say it tells me that it means a lot to him that I would say that. But I’d take anything over going to the nurses and getting stitches.
I grab his arm; even through the expensive fabric of his uniform his strength ripples beneath my fingers. My breath finds that ragged pace and my body comes to life, flushed and achy, under his appraisal. “Please.”
Shaking his head—to get me out of it or to admonish my decision, I’ll never know—he searches for the materials needed to clean me up. “Close your eyes.” Again he commands, and I tease with a “Yes, sir” and a mock salute.
But a second later I’m hissing, “Holy shit.” His hand clenches around my wrist, pulling so I can’t escape as the disinfectant burns. I groan and roll my eyes to catch his guarded gaze.
“I’m going to do it one more time.” His voice is pinched, as if he’s enduring the pain with me. One more douse of the torturous liquid draws out a weak mewl, but I hold back the real expletive I would like to hurl to the heavens. I count to ten and look to him when the heat of his breath soothes the sting. “Better?”
“Yes,” I whisper, bewildered by his proximity. I lift my head and find that our lips are suddenly a whisper apart. Neither of us moves. His gaze strays to my mouth as our breath mingles together in an excruciating invitation to unite. I want him to kiss me. Badly. His eyes flash to mine and back to my mouth as his tongue strokes his bottom lip, and it’s nearly my undoing. I moan. I do—a desperate, bleating sound that rips from my lungs. I’m drawn to this boy: this powerful, strong, elusive boy, and I want him to kiss me. Closing his eyes, he leans toward my mouth, inhaling deeply, breathing into me not once but twice. Two long, deep, intimate breaths.
“Alexander.” Even to my own ears I hear the desire hanging in the word, yet I’m surprisingly not embarrassed.
“Adeline.” A flush spreads up my chest at the intensity with which he says my name. “I can’t.”
Wait. What? He drags his gaze away from me to grab the butterfly strips he laid out prior to cleaning the cut. And just like that the moment is over, my lips cold with the undeniable air of rejection. With deft fingers he closes the gash, setting bandages along the jagged line in perfect congruity. He finishes by wrapping it in white sterile gauze. “You shouldn’t get your hand wet for a few days; let the wound begin to heal before you do. Re-bandage it tomorrow and look for signs of infection. If it’s inflamed, swollen, or deep red, you need to go to the nurse.”
I hear him, but I can’t answer. I’ve been repeating his decree over and over again: I can’t.
“Adeline?” His voice is firm, compelling my eyes to seek out his.
“Why can’t you?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.” He hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have a girlfriend. I have a complicated life. You don’t know me.”
“Shouldn’t I decide what I think about you? What I want?”
I think he’s stopped breathing, and I wait for him to say something, the silence ramping up to uncomfortable the longer it continues.
“I can’t,” he whispers finally.
I get up and leave the room as fast as I can. Heat crawls up my neck and over my cheeks, and I just want to hide under a rock and cry. What’s wrong with me, thinking he wants someone like me. But the farther I move from him, the more the hurt feelings change to confusion on why in the world I’d ask him about his girlfriend?
Chapter 8
The next day I rush into class with Mercy at my side, and we take two empty seats close to the door. Across the room, the clouds through the window smear across the skies. I don’t remember seeing the sun since arriving to the Academy.
“So, this group I joined online believe the moon doesn’t exist,” Mercy rattles. Meanwhile, I’m looking outside and can clearly see the ghost outline of the moon against the blue sky between two parting clouds.
“I swear you visit the strangest Facebook groups.”
She slouches in her seat, curling a strand of hair around her finger. “Yeah, I’m thinking of ditching it. This one is just too out there for me.”
I cut her a stare. “Says the girl who told me yesterday she thought Vincent Van Gogh was Jack the Ripper.”
Her expression tightens. “That one’s true. I have facts to show you.”
I nod and laugh because as insane as she is, I adore her company, and despite our differences, we click. Maybe it’s that we both feel like outcasts in a strange school, or that she brought me a muffin this morning when she came by on the way from the cafeteria. I never say no to two breakfasts.
At the rear of the room, I catch Alexander looking my way, and my cheeks burn as I remember our conversation from yesterday. Me asking him if he has a girlfriend? Who does that to someone they just met? Especially to one of them. I haven’t told Mercy for two simple reasons. First, I’ll die of mortifying embarrassment. Second, I know she’ll reprimand me, and despite her warning, something about all of these beautiful students intrigues me. Every time I’m in close proximity to them, I seem to lose my mind.
She pokes me in the arm, and I turn back to face her. Her eyes are narrowing.
“You’re playing in dangerous waters, my friend.”
I shrug. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
We both start laughing. “I’m attracted to bad boys too,” she whispers. “A few months ago, a new family moved in next door, and their son’s a hunk. Rode a motorbike and had sleeves of tats. Anyway, one night he came to my bedroom, and he was incredible! I still shiver just thinking of him. My parents didn’t think so when they walked in on us and his head was between my thighs. A week later I got the invite to Raven Academy, and they shipped me off despite my protests.”
My mouth drops. “I have so many questions right now.”
Mercy pushes her dark glasses back up her nose. “Babe, I’ll give you all the juicy details.”
I smirk, damn curious. I’ve kissed guys before, even went to second base, but my first question isn’t about the boys. “So, did your parents apply for government assistance too?”
She tilts her head sideways, studying me as if trying to piece together my question with regards to her story. She shakes her head.
“My school principal had apparently recommended me for the scholarship as Raven Academy approached lots of schools for submissions.”
I ponder her words, remembering how Mom wasn’t too sure why I received the scholarship, and the fact that the Academy is paying for Dad’s treatment. What school would offer such benefits? And why?
The door shuts with a thump, and we turn to face Professor London strolling into the room. I’m captivated as usual, swallowing past my suddenly dry throat.
Yep, I’m a walking contradiction. I hate admitting it, but something about him draws me to him, and after yesterday’s visit to his office wher
e he ignored me, it’s clearly all one sided. But then I’d made the first move with Alexander as well, asking him about a girlfriend, so what exactly is going on with me? Am I going crazy? Mom always says I was a late bloomer, and no other guy at my previous school affected me this way, so maybe that’s what it is?
I lean my elbows onto my desk, tucking my hands under my chin as I watch him set down several books on the table. He’s no longer wearing a jacket. Just tailored black pants, and a white button-up shirt, opened at his throat. The muscles in his neck and the width of his chest tells me he works out. His tanned skin indicates he loves the outdoors. And his expensive suits say he has style. Well, I may not have the style when it comes to fashion and I don’t exactly work out...but I do love the outdoors. That’s something in common.
He’s talking and I’m barely listening when Mercy kicks me under the table. I flinch and look over to her.
“Careful, you’re drooling,” she teases.
I stiffen and sit back in my seat, wiping my mouth just in case I have been drooling, which I’m not.
My focus turns back to Professor London. I loved the class because he was the professor of course, but I probably would have loved it no matter who taught it because of the subject. Literature. Although I've had my fair share of terrible teachers on the subject, there was nothing that could dampen my enthusiasm about getting the opportunity to talk about books.
My parents had always said that half the time I lived in another world because of my books. They were probably right. A pang hit me as I thought about the book collection that I had left at home. I’m sure the library here was amazing, but it wouldn’t be able to replicate the feeling of having one of my well-loved paperbacks in my hands.
Today we were talking about Wuthering Heights. The book wasn't really one of my favorites, but it was stuck permanently in my mind because it served as the catalyst to one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.
Sophomore year I had applied at a local law firm for an after school front desk job. They had brought me in for an interview and everything had been going great until I stood up to leave. The interviewer asked me right before I stepped out of the office randomly what my favorite book was.
Now mind you, I’ve read thousands, maybe millions, of books in my life. But at that moment I could not think of a single book. I blurted out the Bible for some reason and he laughed at me like I was the most hysterical person he had ever met. Which I probably was. Then he told me to suggest another book. My mind was still blank for a good minute before one finally popped into my head. It was a book that I had actually never read and only knew the plot because it was in another series that I had read several times.
You guessed it. It was Wuthering Heights. And the only reason that I knew anything about Wuthering Heights was because it had been discussed in the Twilight series as Bella’s favorite book.
While I was never a Twihard, I was definitely a fan when the series came out. No judging.
Regardless of my lack of knowledge of what Wuthering Heights was really about, I proceeded to talk about how I loved the fact that the heroine was able to see past the disfigured man in the book to the person that lay inside.
Now it would've been funny enough that I had just talked about a book I had read about in Twilight. But no, the story will forever stick out in my mind because my interviewer was an incredibly disfigured man with a hunchback and gnarled hands.
So basically, I was telling him a story that he thought was referencing him.
Needless to say, I wasn’t hired.
"What do you think of Heathcliff. Is he a force of evil or a victim of it, Ms. Jones?" Professor London suddenly asks, bringing me back from my trip down memory lane.
All thirty of my classmates look at me, and I flush under their scrutiny. Professor London is looking at me with a slightly bemused smile, as if he knew that my head had been off in the clouds and he wanted to bring my attention back to him. The thing was, it didn't seem like he cared that much about my attention to the subject he was teaching, he only cared about the fact that I hadn’t been paying attention to him. I can see that look in his eyes, wanting me to only focus on him.
I think for a moment before answering. “I don’t think he’s either if you look at it from the perspective of Ms. Bronte. Heathcliff is a deeply flawed character, isolated from society, a true individual unconstrained by any human laws or conventions. But she meant him to be a hero, not a villain. I don’t think anyone who could love like he loved could ever really be a villain.”
"That's quite the interesting answer, Ms. Jones," Professor London says to me as he walks towards me, his eyes appearing to drop down to where the hemline of my skirt has risen up. “He shall never know I love him: and that, not because he’s handsome, but because he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same,” he quotes softly, a playful look in his eyes as they come back up to meet mine.
I blush again at his look, but also the soft and admiring way he is speaking to me.
A scornful voice rises up from the back of the room. "And what exactly makes that answer so interesting?" Alexander blurts out.
It seems like everyone in the room stills and collectively inhales their breath. I knew that Alexander wasn’t really challenging what I had said, he was challenging Professor London’s response to me.
And I wasn't quite sure why.
"Hmmm, someone sounds jealous," Mercy murmurs next to me. I roll my eyes, but it's hard not to wonder if what she just said was the truth.
"Please, Mr. Dachnavar. Do tell us your thoughts about Ms. Jones’ response." Professor London’s order is filled with sarcasm. He sits down on an empty desk, his arms crossed casually in front of him as if he isn’t bothered at all with Alexander’s attitude.
“I mean it’s obvious that Heathcliff is the villain in this story. Seriously, come on, Cathy's life was ruined because of him. Maybe she should've found someone… more suitable to have feelings for."
I almost gasp, but I manage to hold it in. I watch as Professor London’s eyes darken. And I can’t help but wonder if what Alexander is saying relates to whatever is happening or isn’t happening between Professor London and me. That our would-be relationship is...unsuitable.
"Well, Mr. Dachnavar, I have found that the simple minded have a hard time with Wuthering Heights. It requires a certain temperament to understand the underlying theme, a certain sophistication if you will, which many of you in the room seem to lack."
He says this while staring directly at Alexander, a challenging smirk on his face. I look back at Alexander and see fury etched across his features.
"Sophistication, hmmm. Looks like I’m needed,” jokes a voice from the doorway. We all look over quickly and I’m shocked to see that the Dante boy is standing there, a sheet of paper in his hand.
"Mr. Moroi, so pleased that you could join us,” says Professor London in a tight, displeased voice. As Dante saunters inside the class, he casts a critical look around the room. His eyes stop briefly on Alexander before connecting with mine. A satisfied smirk spreads across his face. "You know how Admissions is, Professor, always taking their time. Looking around though, I do wish they would have hurried up," he says. But his eyes aren’t on the rest of the room, they’re still on me.
Hot shivers slide down my spine. I don’t know if I can handle three of them in the same room as me.
"Do you need a new pair of panties?" whispers Mercy from beside me.
Dante's eyes widen briefly as soon as she says that, and his smirk grows even wider.
It was impossible that he had heard Mercy, right? I could barely hear what she had said, there was no way that he could hear her.
There happened to be an open desk right behind me. Dante saunters over and slides inside, making sure that his hand brushes against my shoulder as he does so.
"At least I'll be enjoying the scenery," Dante whispers from behind me, his face so close to my neck that I can fee
l his breath across my skin as he speaks.
I shift in my seat nervously. Professor London clears his throat and I look up. He has a disgruntled look on his face, and his gaze is directed right on Dante and his proximity to me.
I remembered his warning about Dante from the day that he showed me around campus. I think it was pretty obvious that he didn’t like Dante. That dislike seems to have grown now that he was sitting behind me.
Alexander scoffs from the back of the room. I stiffen in my seat even more feeling like he and Dante are burning holes in the back of my head. I have no idea what the boys are going to do next.
There is an underlying tension across the entire room, and everyone seems uncomfortable at this point. Professor London chooses not to further engage either of the boys. Instead he proceeds to continue his lecture on the merits and themes of Wuthering Heights.
It’s hard to concentrate for the rest of the class, Dante continues with his inappropriate comments after everything that Professor London says. Professor London’s eyes inexplicably flash every time Dante speaks, even though there’s no way that he can hear what Dante is saying.
Does everyone in the room have superhero hearing or something?
I sigh and take a wistful look at the clock. It’s going to be a long year.
Chapter 9
Lunchtime can’t come quick enough, and neither can leaving Professor London’s class. The tension in the room had been a bomb ready to explode.
Mercy nudges my shoulder with hers as we stroll down the corridor. “Seems Professor London has competition.”
I glance over at her, arching a brow, knowing exactly where she’s going with her comment. “Whatever was going on in class has nothing to do with me.” Though I’m kidding myself because they all circled me, stared at me with a hunger in their eyes, reacted so aggressively to one another like a pack of predators ready to attack a deer lost in the woods.
Mercy fake laughs, her hand pressing to her stomach. “And I’m the Queen of England. I see the way you look at them all, and maybe they’ve picked up on your little crush. I mean, every girl in school has a crush on Professor London... and them. Although, it’s annoying how the untouchable guys get away with anything and walk around the school like they’re gods; the girls seem to love it though. And somehow, you’ve caught their eyes... How did you manage that?” She rambles on from one thought to the next without pause.
