School Ties (2 page)

On the other hand, the promise of getting some one-on-one time with Will is appealing. He's cute, and above all, age-appropriate. I can hear the war stories whenever. Tomorrow night, in fact. I'm supposed to have dinner with Uncle Rett and Aunt Tilly. I've been proud not to slip, referring to them as Everett and Tilly like anyone else, but I'll be glad when it's the three of us sitting in their wood-paneled dining room and I can let my guard down and be myself. At least as much as I'm myself around anyone.

I agree with a nod and set my dishes down where one of the circulating caterers will be sure to pick it up. Will makes a move toward the front door, but that way's littered with blazers, beards, and canapés. Made bold by the glass of wine in my stomach with no food to soak it up, I grab his arm, getting a handful of elbow-patch suede.

“Come on; this way. I know this house like the back of my hand.”

I tug him toward the back of the house, making our way through the kitchen, where a harried cater-waiter is loading up yet another tray. Yanking at the polyester bow tie at his neck, he complains to a colleague, “These academics talk a good game, but they stuff their faces as much as Pats fans at a Super Bowl party.”

They hush when they see us and nod as we pass, embarrassed. I don't care. It's true some of my fellow teachers are blowhards and faculty members are renowned for their fondness for free food. We're as bad as college freshmen offered pizza and beer.

Will and I sneak our way down the back stairwell and out into the sunken garden where I played hide-and-seek over the summers. It's different now, of course. The plantings have changed and the lawn furniture's been replaced, but it retains that fairy-hiding-place magic I remember.

I don't linger, knowing someone could see us. Keeping ahold of Will's elbow, I steer us along the wall to stone steps leading out of the garden and toward the east side of campus. When we're away from the house, I drop my handful of his coat.

“So you having grown up here wasn't an exaggeration.”

“I wouldn't say I grew up here. I spent most of my childhood traveling for my dad's work. But summers and Christmas I was on the Hill.” I don't say it because it would sound crazy to him, but the Hill's been the only real home I've ever known.

My dad's business took us all over the world. We didn't stay in one place for more than a few months at a time. He loved the modern gypsy lifestyle; exploring new cities, trying strange foods, picking up bits of the local language and local women wherever we went. But I'm the opposite of a nomad. I don't have his facility with languages or companionship. Moving around all the time wasn't exciting. It was unnerving.

Over time, I developed my own ways to deal with it. In every hotel room, every apartment, I'd set up my room in the same way: same quilt at the foot of my bed; same scarlet and royal blue Hawthorn Hill pennant gracing the wall; same family photo of me, my dad and my grandfather on my nightstand; and the calendar the admissions office puts out every year tacked above my desk, red Xs crossing off the days until I got to come back to the Hill again.

“I'm surprised you came back.”

I shrug, not wanting to explain how precious this place is to me. If they hadn't hired me as a teacher, I would've applied for an administrative job. Maybe even the cleaning staff. My whole life I've been working my way back here. I'm not leaving, ever.

A bolt of surprise shoots up my arm when Will threads his fingers through mine. My breath quickens and I consider pulling away, but I like my hand being held. My father was not,
is
not, an affectionate man. When I got to college, I was both shy of and desperate for human touch. Still am, I guess. Even though I don't know what Will's intentions are, I let myself revel in the human contact, his elegant fingers twining between mine.

The boys are all at the athletic complex being entertained with movies, pizza and games by a skeleton staff on the other side of campus so I only look over my shoulder occasionally as we meander toward Turner. It's an older building, set away from much of the school. When we reach it, instead of strolling by, Will tugs on my hand.

“You have a key, right?”

“I do.” I pulled study hall hours for first semester and my assignment is to monitor the boys who have art projects to work on. I take the key from my pocket and slide it into the ancient lock, metal sliding against metal, worn smooth and accepting from being fit together so many times. Will drops my hand and I freeze when his hands slide into my pockets, his fingers gripping my hipbones through the thin layer of fabric as he lowers his lips to my ear.

“Pockets. Clever. Sexy.”

The lock unhitches and I push in the door, letting Will steer me by my hips into the building. Once inside, he drags me back, nearly tripping me when he closes the door by backing up against it and pulling me tight against him, my back to his front.

The hardness of his erection presses into the base of my spine and I squeak. Is “taking a walk” some kind of new euphemism I didn't get the memo about?

“Ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall . . . down.” His whispered rhyme in my ear makes me shiver and he takes it as an invitation to kiss my neck. The heat that flushes through my system is equal parts wine and arousal but it's doused when he licks from the neckline of my dress up to my ear and starts to suck at my earlobe.

The heavy breathing and the sloppiness of his tongue kill some of the buzz I've got going, but when his fingertips curl hard around my hipbones, digging into my flesh, my engine revs. He could do anything in conjunction with that and I'd melt.

I've always wanted a lover who was a bit . . . forceful. Rough. Controlling. Like those dominants I read about in the romance novels I plow through in my spare time. Those are the kind of men I favor in my fantasies, the type of scenarios that feature heavily in my dreams. Not that I've sought it out in real life. It seems dangerous, like something I should keep confined to the page. But maybe, if I've stumbled into the chance . . .

I don't get to speculate further because Will spins me around and backs me up against a wall. He runs his hand down my hip to my thigh, his fingers hook behind my knee to hitch my leg up and he settles his slim hips between my legs.

Rocking against me, he moans and I squeal. He doesn't bother trying to hide the hardness of his . . . his . . . penis as his tongue mirrors the motion in my mouth. If I knew him better, this could be very, very hot, but as it is, his forwardness is shocking. It's making me uncomfortable. He's pushing me too hard, and isn't taking any of my cues to stop: attempts to nudge his tongue from between my teeth, wedging my hands between us to make space between our chests.

Yes, I daydream about high-handed men who will fulfill my every wish of being ravished, but in reality, I know Will can't read my mind. Not only has he not asked for my consent, but he's not paying attention to me, not noticing I've gone from willing participant to freaked. I have to get less subtle and push back on him, hard, making him drop my knee in surprise.

“Will . . .” My heart is racing and it makes my words come out breathy and weak. “Too much, too fast.”

His face goes blank, as if he's been woken up from a dream. Then he smiles that dazzling white smile. “I'm sorry, I got carried away. You look . . . This dress. And I've been wanting to do that since the first time I saw you.”

“Really?”
Oh, god, Erin, could you be less cool?

“Really.” The backs of his cool knuckles being dragged across my cheek highlight the heat that's risen in my face. He smiles at me like he knows what I'm thinking and it's exactly what he wants me to be thinking.
Resist, Erin, resist. You're not allowed to be the kind of girl who makes out with near strangers. You're not allowed to be reckless or irresponsible.
Maybe, now that I'm here I could let go a little . . . but not that much.

“I should get back.”

“Back to where?”

“To my apartment. I have to revise my lesson plans for next week and grade the boys' homework. I promised I'd have it back to them on Monday but I forgot about summer brain. The ones I've looked at so far aren't promising.”

All that is true, but it feels like an excuse and it is. I don't want to discourage him entirely, but this needs to slow down. Way down. I need some space.

“Yeah, of course. See you around, Erin.”

I was hoping for some conversation, but he smiles sheepishly, rubs the front of his pants a couple of times before heading out, not bothering to offer to walk me home.

Shep

When I get back to my dorm, the green light is blinking on my phone. Voice mail. I'm one of half a dozen kids on campus who doesn't have a cell phone. I don't ask my parents for much because they're strapped for cash as it is, but this is one of those things I can't shrug away. It's really noticeable. Even though I'd said I'd pay for it myself, my dad said no. I'd gone so far as to ask more than once.

“What, your pansy-ass friends upset they can't get ahold of you at all hours to shine their shoes or suck them off or whatever it is you do for them to kiss your broke ass the way they do?”

Most parents would be proud if their kid managed to score a scholarship to the best boys' school in the country. Most of them would be thrilled when that kid made the Headmaster's List every semester, started on the varsity soccer and lacrosse teams, and moved up to varsity hockey their sophomore year after never having played before they set foot on campus. Most of them would be happy that their kid managed to fit in as well as I have. My mom is. My dad thinks I'm an asshole.

I stare at the blinking light. Is it going to be my mom calling to see if I can send some money because Caleb outgrew his shoes and my old ones are too worn out to last long and my dad wants him to suck it up and deal? My dad almost never calls, so I doubt it's him. It's not one of the guys; I just left them.

I have a fleeting wish that when I put in my password, it'll be Erin Brewster's voice on the other end, giving some lame excuse about having forgotten to give us part of our homework. I'd keep that voice mail for the rest of the year, play it over and over to listen to her soft, bright voice saying numbers in my ear. Watching her write numbers on the board does something to my insides. It's not the act of watching her write, although I enjoy the view. No, because there is something distinctly wrong with me, even her handwriting sparks something in my gut.

It's so . . . round. And neat. And cute. What the fuck is wrong with me? What kind of teenage boy gets off on his teacher's penmanship? But I swear, if she were writing dirty words instead of graphing velocities, I would totally get a hard-on. I'm starting to, thinking about it.

Before any more of these sick, sick thoughts can invade my head, I grab the phone and punch in the code to get my message.

Dropping into my desk chair, I grab a pencil and thwack it against the side of my desk. It's an annoying habit, but I've got a single this year so there's no one to tick off. Not like when I roomed with Caldwell. He'd throw a paperback dictionary at my head when I'd piss him off.

“Hey, Zach. It's your brother. Caleb.” Hearing my kid brother's voice makes me smile. His iffy telephone skills aside—a) I'd know his voice anywhere; b) I've only got one brother—the kid's pretty great. I miss him when I'm at school. I'd pack him in my duffel and keep him in my closet if I could. “You left your old soccer T-shirt here. Can I borrow it?”

I left it on purpose. My mom might be proud of me, but the way Caleb steals my Hawthorn gear whenever he gets the chance, you'd think I played MLB instead of going to prep school. He'll talk anyone's ear off about it. I guess the odds of either one of those happening for someone from our piece-of-shit, rundown coal town are about even.

“Don't call too late, but if you get this—”

“Caleb! Who're you calling?” Shit, my dad.

“Gotta go.”

“I hope that's not Zach—”

The message cuts out. Right, it's Saturday. My family calls once a week on Sunday nights, for ten minutes, because according to my dad, “Phone calls aren't free. Nothing about that goddamn school of yours is free, Zach.”

It's damn close. But whatever. When Caleb gets his two minutes on Sunday, I'll tell him he can keep the shirt, and to check the bottom drawer for the too-short track pants I left in there. He'll have to roll them up four times, but he'll wear them anyway. I hope he won't trip over them. He'd never forgive himself if they ripped.

I delete the message, not wanting to hear my dad's voice again, and flip open my planner. It's late, but I'm not tired. I've got some Latin translations to do, an AP Physics lab that'll take most of the day tomorrow and a bunch of reading for Contemporary Issues in the Middle East I started on the bus to the game today. I should finish, but instead I start the problem set Erin, Miss Brewster, gave us. I'll hear her voice and see her writing the answers out on the board, a preview of Monday's coming attractions. It'll bury that pissed-off edge to my dad's voice until my mom makes him say hello tomorrow. Why does she bother?

Chapter Two

Erin

It's a few weeks into the semester and everyone's settled into the day-in and day-out rhythms of school. It's comforting that every waking moment of my day is accounted for. I'd been the only kid I knew at Brown who had more structure at college instead of less. I grew up with nannies and then tutors, none of whom lasted long because they either slept with my father or didn't. My formal education was spotty at best. But I'd tested well and instead of flailing in a more rigid environment like my father warned me I would, I'd flourished.

He'd tried to convince me not to go at all. Told me I didn't need a degree. I could work for him; we'd be a great team. The thought of wandering around the earth for the rest of my life had curdled my stomach. Though my inclination is usually to go along—what does it matter? It's too hard to push back and not worth the trouble—
that
I had fought for. A socially sanctioned brand of security that wouldn't seem too odd, the comfort of routine and expectations, not having to look outside the window to know where I was.

Back on the Hill, that's turned out to be truer than I could've hoped. From six thirty in the morning until eleven thirty at night, every second is spoken for. It's a nice balance for how stressful I find teaching.

It'll get easier. I won't always be the new girl. But in this place that's wall-to-wall testosterone, I'll always have to prove myself. The boys have been respectful, though, even though I must look like a deer in headlights sometimes. For some reason, I get the idea it's due in part to Zach Shepherd. Or, as the boys call him, Shep.

Most of the boys aren't hard to read, but I can't get a handle on the guy behind those dark blue eyes. I can't bring myself to think of him as a boy, either, convenient as that might be. There are boys who look as old as he does—they won't stick out as obvious freshmen when they head to college next fall—but none of them share the same maturity or . . . gravity that Shep does.

Gravity is a good word for it. There's a density to him; the stoicism, the intelligence. These are the things on my mind as I walk across campus to Turner for study hall duty.

Turns out dark room duty is a sweet gig. The artsy kids are easy, not getting too rowdy. Plus they have better music than the jocks. Give me the nerd emo, the ironic eighties and the occasional Korean or Icelandic pop over hardcore rap or death metal any day.

I wander since no one else is on duty here. There's no need for them to be. The only things of interest or value are down in the photography and clay studios, which are side by side, a quirk of the topography. I hang out here during sports period for the kids who've got their off-season and want to catch up on their work or are doing an independent study, and after dinner, I supervise study hall hours. All the boys have a note, usually a semester-long pass that allows them to come down here, whereas the other kids have to stay in their dorms, the lounges or the library for study hours.

My fondness for study hall duty has nothing,
nothing
to do with the presence of a certain senior who has a penchant for pencil sketching. At least, that's what I tell myself as I wander into the second-floor studio where Shep keeps his things at an easel in the back. He's wearing a beat-to-shreds T-shirt he must've gotten his freshman year because it's too small. Mostly he wears a paint-splashed button-down over a T-shirt because Turner is notorious for its screwed-up HVAC system. But not tonight. Tonight, the fine lines of him are revealed by the thin cotton
.

Shep always shows up here around nine and stays until I lock up for the night at eleven. He must do his other homework before and save his drawing for last. I used to do that in college, save the best for last.

He's working on a still life tonight, a set of glass bottles set up on boxes. Not knowing much about drawing, it looks pretty hard to me. So many different curves and angles, the light reflecting off multiple surfaces. While he doesn't have to deal with color, it being grayscale, he does have to show the differences in shade. The whole thing makes my brain go staticky.

I walk up behind him, shuffling my feet so I don't startle him. He doesn't turn, but sits up straighter and I smile. He knows I'm coming.

“You've made a lot of progress since last night, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Yeah. We had time to work on it in class. Mrs. Germaine had some suggestions on that angle I was having so much trouble with.”

“She's a good teacher. She taught me how to draw in three dimensions when I was a kid.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. You know my grandfather was a teacher here, right?” He nods. Of course he knows. Everyone knows. I like the mantle of Kent Brewster's granddaughter, but I'm grateful we'll never be compared by the same students. It's bad enough to be stacked up against the impossible yardstick by the faculty and staff. “You would've just missed him, but I used to spend summers here. A lot of the faculty have known me since I was a baby.”

“That must be awkward.”

“Sometimes. Like when Mrs. Hawley brings up how I dyed her dog pink during a curriculum meeting.”

Shep laughs and it kindles something in me. He doesn't laugh a lot, not real laughs. I don't know how he gets away with being so serious and still being so well liked by his peers.

“Mostly, I like it. I like it here.”

“Me, too.”

We stand there, me with a hand in my pocket and him set on the edge of his stool. We don't have to say anything else. Even though there's something about him that makes me feel safe. Like I could say anything. Which is why it's probably better if we don't. Instead I watch him smudge in some shadows, and wonder how he knows how to do that.

After a few minutes, I figure I should continue my rounds. I leave with a nudge of my elbow to his shoulder. “See ya.”

His dark blue eyes look startled over his shoulder. I can't believe I did that. Like he's a college buddy I hang out with and not one of my students. Could I be any more unprofessional? But after a couple of blinks, a slow smile spreads across his face and he nods. “Yeah. Later.”

I back out, hoping not to trip over anything. When I've hit the threshold, I round the corner, slide down the wall and mash my hands into my forehead. “
See ya?”
Why don't you ask him back to your place for some gin and juice, Erin? God.

After berating myself, I move on, making small talk with the boys. There's a kid, Bruno, who can do some amazing stuff with clay. I watch him at the wheel for a few minutes, demurring when he offers me a shot.

“I'm not dressed for it and besides, I need to keep an eye on you boys. I know your goal is to get me elbow deep in clay and then set the place on fire.”

“Naw, we like you, Miss Brewster. If it were Mr. Jeffries? Maybe.”

I ward off my nod of sympathy. Conrad is the kind of teacher who's difficult to appreciate in the present. When students come back, they're able to express how much he taught them. But while it's happening? They'd rather bludgeon him with a hockey stick. I cluck at Bruno and shake my head. “Now, now, Mr. Diaz.”

“Hey, I'm not the one who brought up arson.”

“Fair. But get back to work.”

A skinny punk kid with hair that falls over his eyes is working in the photography lab when I stop by, looking at proofs and groaning over the Sex Pistols. And not in a good way.

“What's the matter, Monsieur Gerreaux?”

“None of them came out. None of them!” His usually light French accent is weighted with frustration, and he holds his hands like he wishes he had a cigarette in one and a glass of Burgundy in the other. Perhaps if he were at home, he would have.

“Can I look?”

He thrusts the magnifying piece at me and stalks off to grab his water bottle from another worktable. I bend over the sheets, examining the photos through the glass. He's right, they're mostly black. Except . . .

“What about this one?” I tap on the image and he strolls over, hand on his black-jeaned hip.

“What about it?”

“Could you try lightening it up? Maybe shorten the exposure when you print? You won't get the whole image, but this shadow might brighten up and you'll be able to see more. Maybe on these two as well,” I say, indicating the images on the next line.

“Maybe.”

“Worth a few sheets of photo paper?”

“To have something to show in class? Yeah.”

“Give it a try. I'll be back in ten to see how it's going.”

I wander until it's eleven and everyone's trickled back to their dorms except for Shep and Gerreaux. My suggestion had worked, and Jean-Philippe's been going mad experimenting on timing to reveal fractions of the shadows in the photographs.

I persuade him to pack up his stuff, promising he can have at it again tomorrow night. When he's done, he slings his pack over his shoulder and wishes me a good night on the landing.

I head up to the studio and Shep's still perched in front of his bottle drawing. It's done, and it's beautiful. Who knew you could make a pile of glass contain that much . . . I don't even know what to call it. It looks alive, despite being anything but.

“Lights are going out, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

His tone is irreverent so I don't get irritated. I correct the boys—
Miss Brewster, please
—because “ma'am” makes me feel ancient, but from him it feels like friendly teasing. As close as I can get to flirting without feeling like I've crossed a line.

Shep

I've been done with this drawing for twenty minutes and I've got a stack of flash cards to memorize for AP Physics before I go to bed, but I've gotten into the habit of waiting for Erin's duty to be over to walk her across campus. Not that she'd let me if she knew that's what I was doing. I'm hoping if I don't make it explicit, she'll let me get away with it. So far, so good. This is my favorite time of day.

Putting my pencil down on my easel, I wish I were wrapping up a palette full of oils, but my dad had made it clear he wasn't going to work a minute's worth of overtime to pay for my “prissy ass hobby. What the fuck do they put in that paint, anyway? Fucking gold dust?”

I hadn't bothered to explain that in some cases, yeah, the stuff that goes into the paint is pretty freaking valuable. So I'd dropped Oils III and wheedled my way into Drawing IV, not having taken Drawing III. I think I'm holding my own. From the way Erin looks at my drawings, like they're actual works of art, I don't care.

I tug my coat on and we walk out together.

“So, tell me something.”

“About what?” Her big brown eyes look up, wide and curious. I want to say, “About you. Tell me anything about you. What's your favorite movie? How do you make your hair smell like that? Why do you like Will Chase?” But those are questions I'm not allowed to ask. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No. Do you?”

“A brother. Caleb. He's ten.”

“Do you guys get along?”

“Yeah.” The corner of my mouth curves up, thinking about him and his sheepdog hair and his goofy laugh. “Not always, but mostly he's pretty cool.”

She nods, her mouth tightening up into a bow. “I used to—”

Her lips close around the word and I want to coax her open until I can reach inside and pull out whatever she was going to say. She's always locked up so tight, like she doesn't think anyone would want to hear what she has to say, or like she's not allowed to say it. Those are the words of hers I want. The secret ones she's afraid to say out loud. “You used to what?”

She shakes her head, looks down at the ground and crosses her arms over her chest. “I don't want to tell you. It's embarrassing.”

It's like she's protecting herself, like I might turn her words back on her and hurt her with them. I wouldn't and I want her to know.

“You know I won't tell, Erin.” Her name's slipped off my tongue without thinking and my face gets hot. I've just made it very clear I don't always think of her as just a teacher. But she doesn't scold me. Instead, she blushes, unless I'm imaging that by the lampposts strung along the path.

“Fine. I used to pretend I had a brother. That he'd gone away but that he was going to come back for me. That I wasn't alone.” Her expression's gone from embarrassed to sad and lost. Maybe she's still waiting. She seems to remember herself then, smoothing her hands down the sides of her pants before she picks up the pace and says in a canned light kind of way, “His name was Felix. He was quite dashing.”

I want to stop and hug her, hold her close until she's not lonely anymore. But I can't. I
can't
. I shove my hands in my pockets so I won't reach for her. I try to think of something to say, something that won't make her more self-conscious but let her know I heard her, that I'll keep my promise. My chest squeezes tight around the words. “I'm sure he was.”

Erin

It's the mid-semester art show and study hours at the studio have been more crowded than usual. It's meant less time spent checking in with Zach Shepherd. Shep. Not that he needs me to check in. He works independently, not bugging the boys who're slogging away but happy to take a look at a drawing or a painting if someone is struggling.

He gazes at the oil paintings and sloppy palettes with longing. Why is he taking Drawing if he likes to paint so much? I know from faculty chatter he's on full scholarship and most of his academic and athletic supplies get paid for through a special fund. Maybe it doesn't cover art supplies? If you know what to look for, you can tell his family doesn't have money, although he's better at hiding it than most.

I traipse around Turner, holding my cup of punch. It's Friday night. There's a better turnout than you might expect for an art show, but the boys are generous with one another. Everyone's clad in dress code, and some parents have shown up, a few from far away, including Gerreaux's parents all the way from France. Speaking of . . .