Kiss the Stars (Devon Slaughter Book 1) (13 page)

THE SCHOOL
parking lot was almost empty. Getting my favorite space was no victory. My eyes
were grainy from lack of sleep and my stomach roiled from too much coffee. The
day ahead stretched endlessly.

I went to the
office to pick up the teacher’s text and Georgie’s lesson plans for the
sophomore English classes. I found the materials I needed in my cubbyhole.

When I got to my
classroom, I made a sign and tacked it to the door, in case some of the
students were confused about the change of location.

They were a
quiet lot with sleepy eyes and bedhead. At least I’m not the only one, I
thought.

The class
expressed zero interest in my explanation of why I was their new teacher. I
called on a gangly boy in the back row to summarize the course of the class.
Next, I asked a girl to tell me where they were in the text book, though of
course Georgie had marked it in red.

None of the
students made eye contact with me. When I drew a diagram on the chalk board, a
kid in the front row snorted. “Aren’t you going to use the screen?” he said.

I glanced up at
the pull down screen above me. “Um,” I pretended to think about it. “No.”

A girl sneezed. “I’m
allergic to chalk dust,” she said.

I peered at the
diagram I’d drawn, an old fashioned ploy to teach grammar. Grammar was a dry,
dry
subject. Georgie had really stuck it to me. I turned to the class. “How many of
you know how to diagram a sentence?”

They stared at
me indolently.

“If no one
knows,” I said. “We’ll have to keep practicing until we can do it in our sleep.”

The girl who
sneezed raised her hand. “I know how,” she said through a stuffy nose.

Slowly, almost
everyone raised their hand. The only one who didn’t was a boy in a black
leather jacket. I called him up and put the chalk in his hand. When I saw him
tremble, I felt a stab of guilt. “Think of a sentence,” I said.

“English sucks,”
he said.

“Okay. Which is
the noun?”

“English.”

“Write it on the
board. Okay. Now put in the verb.”

He wrote, “SUCKS,”
then put the chalk down and turned to go back to his seat.

“Not so fast,” I
grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. “Class, give us another sentence to diagram.
One with more than two words.”

“The poor kids
at school were subjected to torture on a daily basis,” someone said.

It was more
complicated than I’d had in mind. I glanced at my scowling student. “Can you do
it?” I asked him.

His hand hovered
next to the board, holding the chalk so tightly his knuckles were white. I
talked him through it. When he finished, I clapped. Then I went to my desk and
opened my valise. “Close your text books,” I told the class. “I don’t like
them.” They suck, I added silently.

Books slammed
shut.

“Come up here
and choose a book from my suitcase. Any one you want.”

They filed up,
darting questioning looks at me. Once each student had selected a book, I said,
“Inside your book, no matter which one you have, you will find examples of
shockingly poor grammar, also known as poetic license. Your assignment is to
circle the errors you find and write out the sentences correctly.”

There was
groaning.

“Or we can
diagram more sentences,” I said.

At ten, when the
bell rang, I’d only had two classes and already it was time for my long (thank
you, Georgie) lunch.

I ate celery
with peanut butter, sitting at my desk and reading
Tristessa
.

I thought of
Devon quoting the whole opening stanza, his eyes on mine. What if one of my
students had got the book for their grammar assignment? They would have to
circle every single sentence. They would be up all night.
Imagine…
correcting Jack Kerouac’s grammar
.

I started
laughing, silently. My shoulders shook and a teardrop slipped from my eye. I
didn’t know if it was that funny, or if I was just that sad.

* * *

When
my
senior class saw the grades on their mid-midterm essays, there was stunned
silence. They were superior students or they wouldn’t be in my class. Grade
point averages mattered to them. Someone, sitting in this class, right now,
would be the valedictorian.

“As you know, I
don’t grade on a curve,” I said. “The highest grade was a B.”

They stared at
me, like I’d betrayed them. I didn’t entirely disagree, though I’d already
discovered, in my short career, seniors could be like old dogs—hard to teach
new tricks. Especially the gifted ones who thought they knew all the tricks. I
should know, I’d been one.

I tapped the
chalkboard where I’d outlined the five paragraph essay. “Remember this? Very
simple. And yet not a single person turned in an essay that followed this
model. I’m interested in your opinions, your insights, and your passions. But
only if they are presented in this format. You understand? It’s non-negotiable.
Do not toy with the five paragraph essay until you’re James Joyce.”

There was a
ripple of nervous movement, whispers.

I turned and
wrote on the board: “Why do we have art?” I set down the chalk and brushed off
my hands. “I would suggest pondering that tonight.”

A few smirks and
lifted eyebrows, sidled glances. Someone muttered, “That will definitely
happen.”

“It may or may
not be the subject of the do-over essay which you will have a chance to write
tomorrow morning at seven o’clock sharp.”

Gasps and
murmurs broke out.

“If you like
your grade,” I said. “You can sleep in.”

For the rest of
the period they were subdued but polite, pretending to be fascinated by the
finer techniques of essay writing.

When the bell
rang, I headed for the bathroom and caught sight of Henry at the end of the
hall. He was gazing down at his phone. I whirled around and ducked into the
next hall, running smack into Mr. Stroop.

“Whoa there,”
Mr. Stroop said. “Why is Ruby in such a hurry?” He wore sweats and emitted a
damp odor. “Are you looking for me, per chance?”

“No! I mean,
yes,” I forced myself to smile, thinking he could fire me at Georgie’s urging. “There
is something I wanted to tell you…” My mind raced, like a rat on a wheel,
wondering what in the world I could possibly want to tell him.

“What a
coincidence then,” he said and chuckled.

He had a white
towel around his neck, like he had been working out. He appeared different,
somehow. Maybe I’d just never seen him in anything but a suit and tie. Or maybe
his shoulders were bigger. Was he sucking in his belly?

At least he’s in
a good mood, I thought. “I just wanted to say don’t worry about the sophomores.
I’ve got the grammar totally covered. We’re going to zip right through that
bloated textbook.”

“Bloated?” he
said.

“Superfluous,” I
said. “Do you want to see my new lesson plan?”

He grunted. “I
think I’d better.”

* * *

At
nine
to four, I had my diary open (the one I promised to write in, along with the
workshop girls). I stared at the blank pages. There was a rushing in my ears,
like hearing the ocean inside a seashell.

I couldn’t shape
the thoughts drifting through my mind like dust motes. Why wouldn’t the words
come? Panic rose in my throat. When I stood up, I got dizzy and grabbed the
corner of the desk.

I sat back down.
Through the window the sun lit the late afternoon a warm yellow.

I had to write
something.
Anything
. I had promised. I stared at the second hand on my
watch. Five minutes, four and half…three minutes.

I pressed my pen
to the paper and wrote one word, consisting of one letter—I.

Finally, I
wrote: I dreamed of love. The words flowed then. My hand moved down the page
faster and faster. When the first workshop girl showed up, I had filled five
pages in three minutes. I wasn’t proud of my meager offering but I was relieved
to have written anything at all.

Sitting in our
circle, we talked about surprise, surprise by what we wrote, of how we wrote
and when and why. “Did anyone else write about love?” I said.

“I purposely
avoided it,” Chastity said. Her sister snickered.

Scarlet Rose
lifted her hand. “Guilty,” she said.

I was about to
direct the girls to pass their journals to the person on their right but
Scarlet was seated to my right and I wanted to read what she wrote about love.
So I switched directions.

Scarlet stared
at me. “What?” she said.

“We’re going
this way,” I said.

“Wait…are you
sure?” she cast her gaze around, as if imploring the other girls to help her.

“Don’t you want
me to read yours?” I said.

Her skin was
mottled. She looked on the verge of breaking out in hives. “I just—I didn’t
think I’d get you.”

“There are no
rules, Scarlet. You won’t be in trouble for what you wrote.”

“I know. But it’s
embarrassing.”

“Which means it’s
good.” I was now more eager than ever to read her diary. I had to tug to get it
out of her hand.

Later, it felt
strange to be driving home so early, when it was still daylight. But I was
struck by the sheer blue of the sky. It was a color so pure, it made my soul
feel like a physical entity that could be caressed.

* * *

Night
came,
cool and glistening. I didn’t go to the bar. I was actually tired at an
appropriate hour, for once in my life.

I wanted to
start a new ritual and go to bed, like a normal person. I put on my softest
white gown and stood at the kitchen sink, listening to the coyotes yapping,
before opening the bottle of Lexapro. The childproof cap didn’t outsmart me
this time.

I tapped two
white tablets into my hand and choked them down with water. One of the side
effects was loss of sexual appetite and I thought that might not be so bad,
especially if Devon had dumped me already.

I couldn’t
believe I didn’t have his phone number or any way of reaching him. But he was…whatever
he was, which most likely meant he didn’t have a phone number. Or so I told
myself.

Upstairs, in the
lamplight, I fluffed my pillow and crawled under the covers. I opened Scarlet’s
diary. The first entry was titled,
A Stranger In My Bed
.

11 pm
—

Listening to
The Stones, ‘Dead Flowers’. Moonlight spills through the window. I am prostrate
with the weight of how much my life sucks. Sins of the mother.

“Send me dead
flowers…” Mick Jagger whines.

I’ve been
looking for my kitty all day, imagining the worst that could befall him, though
at least I know he’s not dead. If, or when that happens, my mother will be sure
to inform me, without sparing any gory details.

She’s psychic
and proud of it. It is not enough that she goes around meddling in people’s
affairs and screwing up their lives (I’m living proof). She is writing her
third book about it!

A lot of
people come to her readings. It is probably just because her books are free and
she foists them on people. Why can’t she get any money for her books, like the
price of a freaking coffee? Then maybe we wouldn’t have to live in abject
poverty.

“And I won’t
forget to put roses on your grave…” Mick is still singing.

The song
fades and I hear a thump on the porch. I listen for footsteps. I’m greeted by a
yowl, instead. KITTY. I fly down the hall to fling open the door. Kitty is
being strangled. By a total stranger!

“That’s my
cat,” I cry out. “Let him GO!”

Kitty darts
past me, mortified.

“Sorry,” the
stranger says. His eyes—almond shaped and dark as night—are flirting. “Forgive
me?”

My knees go
weak. How could I not forgive HIM? He’s six feet of sexy in faded jeans, big
black boots. I want to burn his image onto my flesh and wear him, like a
tattoo. I don’t even care why he was trying to kidnap Kitty when he is looking
at me like he could eat me up.

I blinked. Eyes
as dark as night? Six feet of sexy?

Devon wore faded
jeans and big black boots. I’d never seen him in anything else. But it couldn’t
be Devon. Could it?

I kept reading.
Pornographic words leaped off the page. My eyes burned.

He rips off my
clothes. I take him eagerly, all hard heat and throbbing ache. We do it for
hours. He fills me, like the moonlight. Again and again
…

I DIDN’T feel him
leave, and that’s what I should be teaching my students, preaching to anyone
who would listen. You never get to say good-bye. You will never know which
moment is your last with anyone who has ever mattered.