Star-Crossed (23 page)

After class, I made a bee-line for the bathroom, shut the door, and splashed water on my face. The girl in the mirror stared back; disappointed, dull-eyed, too pale to be considered even porcelain. There was an ugly translucence, a paper-thin tissue that covered my face and hands; the florescent lights rendering every blue vein visible.

I closed my eyes as a stall door slammed. When I opened them, Piper was at the sink beside me. She was alone, which was unusual for someone who was typically surrounded by her posse of Lancolm-lipped beauties with identically parched-pale tresses. Her hands were clenched, her cheeks stained.

She had been crying.

“Piper,” I started, then paused; uncertain, uncomfortable. I dug around my purse until I could find the small pack of unopened tissues, and offered one to her. “Is everything okay?”

She sniffled, shuddering, clearing her throat.

“Everything's fine,” she said. A lie, and I knew it. “There's just a few personal matters that I've been dealing with.”

She wiped her eyes, and for the first time ever, I felt a warming fondness towards her; a confusing sadness that welled in my chest.

I wet one of the tissues, smiled weakly, and wiped away the smeared makeup. She let me, appearing both stunned and appreciative.

When I finished, she let out a brief, stuttering sigh; her weary eyes tilted down towards the floor.

“Do you think you could tell your brother to give me a call?” she asked.

A part of me wanted to say that I was nobody's messenger. If she wanted to confront Marius, she could do it herself.

“Yeah,” I said instead. “I'll tell him.”

Piper reached a hand out, touching my cheek with a startling gentleness. Her poppy-wide eyes danced back and forth, swollen and tired. It was as if although I felt sorry for her - she felt sorry for me, too. We were both apologizing for each other's misfortunes; although mine were still yet to come crashing down.

The halls were buzzing with their normal banter; I spotted Marius standing by his locker, talking to one of Piper's friends; her name, however, I didn't know. He smiled that same, devious smile. He let her touch his hair, laughing, leaning down so that she could have a better grab at the messy strands.

She kissed his cheek, he laughed. I could feel him watching me as I walked away, resisting the urge to turn around and throw him up against the wall; grab his collar, choke him, make a complete scene.

Instead, I went into Will's classroom, where he sat alone, grading papers. He looked up at me, smiled, and motioned to one of the empty desks.

“Everything alright?” he asked. “You look a little morose, my love.”

I watched him scratch his pen against a few more papers, flipping them over noisily. His desk felt oceans away from where I sat, my feet barely brushing against the floor.

“I'm not sure,” I said. “I suspect I'll find out soon enough, though.”

Bell rang. I jumped up, kissed Mr. Tennant on the cheek, and bolted out of the room before any of his students were left to wonder.

That night, I spent the evening watching old film clips of Will when he was younger; auditions, random home videos, a few from when he was at school. Riding scooters, standing next to statues while striking a pose. I marveled at the way everything surrounding him looked so different; cobblestone streets, gothic-style cathedrals. Every building seemed to have a story.

We played Scrabble; he won. We tossed the board aside; he picked me up, and carried me into his bedroom. We made love quickly, frantically, like it was the last time we would ever touch each other.

After it was over, I tried not to cry.

“What's wrong?” he asked, brushing the hair from my forehead. “You're obviously upset.”

“Nothing,” I lied. Another lie. Another nail in the coffin. “Nothing. I'm fine. I promise.”

I had finished the reading before the final chapters had been assigned. I had watched Kubrick's adaptation, taped a photo of a candy-eyed
Lolita
on my wall, and spent countless hours highlighting and rereading certain quotes. However, there was one that continued to stick out; on the very cover, in the form of a Vanity Fair blurb:

The only convincing love story of this century
.

I stared at the chandelier, sprawled across my bedspread, wondering if this was really and truly true.

Marius tapped on the door. I let him in.

“Have you seen my journal?” he asked. “I can't remember where I put it.”

I sat up, pressed my lips together, and looked at him.

“Did you bring it with you to that party you were at the other night?” I asked. “The one where you came back smelling like you were dunked in a tank of whiskey and liquified sex?”

His eyes narrowed.

“We need to talk,” I said. “I saw Piper in the bathroom earlier. She was crying.”

A slow, slumping fall followed; Marius closed his eyes, ran his hands down his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “What did she want?”

“To talk to you,” I said. “But you've been ignoring her, haven't you?”

His tie loosened, then tightened again, like Marius was trying to choke the answer out of himself.

“Not entirely,” he finally said. “It's complicated, Kaitlyn. I don't want to talk about it. I just want to find my damn journal so that I can vent without making the same mess that everyone else does with their emotions.”

I threw my book at him; it sailed and smacked against the wall.

“That's utter bullshit,” I said. “I told you that you needed to stop sleeping with her. You didn't, obviously. And now she's hurt because, like always, you stopped coming around. Good going, Marius. You bagged and broke the heart of the Headmaster's daughter.”

Marius jumped up, clenching his fists.

“You have no idea what you're talking about,” he hissed. He hissed, then paused, then each proceeding syllable seemed to fall like broken glass. “You have no fucking clue.”

“Try me,” I said. “What happened with you and Piper?”

He didn't answer for several seconds. I could tell that something inside of him was hesitating; I simply didn't know why.

“I screwed up,” he said.

“How?” I asked. “Because that's not exactly breaking news, Marius. This wouldn't be your first.”

Marius let another long pause fall; his mouth fell open slightly. He turned away from me, and stared at the wall as if there was something there to look at. As if my sailing copy of
Lolita
had left a mark.

“I got her pregnant,” he said quietly. “It was the night of the masquerade - the first time. But she didn't keep it. She handled the situation on her own.”

The room went cold; a numbing silence fell over Marius. He looked at me, and I could see the sudden shift; the cry of that drowning, sweet-spoken boy that lived so far inside of Marius he could never make it up for air. But he still floundered, gasping, clawing for the very chance of being noticed.

“For the record, she never told me,” he said. “She did it without telling me. Not that it would have helped – I don't even know. I don't know how I would have dealt with it.”

“Probably because you ignored her. You treated her terribly. You treated her like a damn animal.”

“I forced her into nothing,” he snapped. “Piper
chose
to keep seeing me. She kept coming around and wanting me in her life even though I tried to avoid her, I tried to tell her that it wasn't going to end the way she wanted; flowers, a proposal. Some faraway destination with a white-sand beach and clear water. A future.”

I remembered him laying in the pool, surrounded by the gentle waves. His smile forlorn; sincere even in the twisted pull.

“I know I'm a real bastard,” he said. “But I still feel things. I feel them just like you and everyone else. I'm not the demon that everyone makes me out to be. I simply have them; and most of the time, I like to think we can coexist.”

A dropped note, a fallen glance.

“My life is profoundly fucked up,” he said. “I am. I'm incredibly messed up.”

Reaching out, he touched my lips, tracing over the skin with his thumb. His breath barely made a sound

“She wasn't what I wanted,” he said. “She simply stuck around hoping that I would wake up some day and change my mind.”

“I'm not sure how you can sleep at night. Knowing that you weren't there for her when she needed you,” I said. “Knowing you punctured the heart of an otherwise unsuspecting girl. But you deserve whatever comes to you.”

Marius nodded, head low, not a single protest spoken. He stood, straightened his shirt, and cut me a final glance before closing the door behind him.

I walked into the bathroom. I turned the shower on, watching the steam as it slowly fogged the mirror.

I slid a hand down over the condensation, painting streaks of clear clairvoyance. A piece of my own reflection; and in many ways, Marius had been right. We were one in the same. The only difference between he and I was that I hadn't been figured out yet.

So do you
. I reminded myself.
So do you
.

EIGHTEEN

I think one of the hardest parts about being eighteen is that you're suddenly old enough to do all of these adult-oriented activities – have sex, go to war, order products off those late-night infomercials that nobody ever ends up using – and yet you're still stuck in the technical teens. The technicolor smear of uncertainty and excitement; a youthful face, adult bones, a near fully-developed brain. But none of the real responsibility; none of the trials and tumultuous experiences that, in time, can make us cynical. At eighteen, you have your entire life ahead of you; college, falling in love, getting married and maybe having a few kids. Taking out a mortgage, buying a car, hiring someone to mow your lawn and trim the hedges so that the neighbors don't complain. The adult things. The grown up things.

All at once, I was reminded of that scene from
Trainspotting.
I had watched the film with Tyler; the two of us wide-eyed and horrified at every turn and topple that the characters took. Heroin consumption had never appeared so harrowing.

There's a point in the movie when Renton, one of the junkies, goes on a stretch about all the things in life that we can choose: good health, low cholesterol, health insurance. But ultimately, we all choose life. We all do; whether it's happy or sad, long-lived or short. Whether we live until we're old and fragile, or choose to end our lives (an overdose, a bullet to the head) when we're in our prime. Dying at our own hands while we're still capable; before someone else – more than likely – makes the choice for us.

But the point is, there exists this period of in-between; in between birth, and in between death. Much like the small line, the dash, between the two dates on a tombstone. That small line symbolizes more than our own mortality; it speaks of a life lived. At my mother's funeral, someone had read a poem about it. During this, I was staring at the ground that my mother would soon be actively rotting beneath.

So far, my choices had consisted of:

Playing a game of seduction

Making my first real friend

Losing my first real friend

Giving up my spot at Yale

Falling in love with my teacher

Lying

Losing everything mentioned above (tentative)

The list went on; but mostly, it consisted of my own choices that, ultimately, lead towards the great and glorious, inevitable train wreck. I was the conductor; straight-shooting myself into the Hell-storm that was about to erupt. Holding on to the precious time that I did have; surrounded by the other choices, the other things, that I wanted.

There are all kinds of articles, magazine or otherwise, that could answer my unspoken pleas for some kind of solution: tell the truth. Put all the cards out on the table. Tell Will that he had initially entered my life because a bet was involved. Because I was selfish, and wanted a different kind of security than my father was willing to provide, or I was willing to forge on my own. Because I wanted money. Because I was a selfish little rich girl, as Tyler has made so abundantly clear. Just the same as any other blank-eyed face at Trinity Prep. My existence was the same smoke-and-mirrors illusion. I was nothing at all.

It's hard to tell the truth, though. A part of me genuinely believed that I wasn't a terrible person - I had just been momentarily lost in a terrible deed. But all the while, the feelings were real; the way my heart swelled when Will spoke, or touched my hand, was real. I had wanted him, maddeningly so, from the first moment that I had set eyes on him; when I confessed, to you, dear reader, that while I had never believed in love at first sight – I had felt something.

It was enough, I felt. To trade that something; that small shard of reasoning that was lodged into my conscience like a marble slid through a straw. It didn't fit; it didn't justify the action; my silence, my burrowing the truth. But it felt right.

In the grainy whirl reminiscent of old television screens, I was wandering along the Island as I contemplated these things. I had traded in my shimmery Balenciaga frock for a torn T-shirt on which the NASA logo was imprinted; a pair of destroyed denim jeans and a pair of mismatched sneakers.

The lady at the desk regarded me quizzically.

“Are these yours?” she had asked, running her fingers along the fabric. I was already dressed in my tattered wear, feeling more liberated than I ever had before.

“Yes,” I told her. “I don't want them. But I trust this is a fair exchange.”

I didn't take any money. I just wanted the clothes. I wanted to wander without feeling the hot-glued sets of leery gazes; green-eyed, envious stares. I wanted, mostly, to just feel normal. To exist outside of my palatial dwelling; the identity that I had been stuck with – the rich man's daughter.

Coney Island was a blur of hot sweat and salt; all of our collective blood was whizzing through the sugar-laced air. Everything smelled of grease and cotton candy; the lights illuminating the dizzy smiles of lovers holding hands, spinning by on their sneakers or rollerblades or bikes. Laughter sang above the sounds of jovial screams; an aria of carnival-ride music and chiming bells.

I sauntered straight towards the same burger stand that Tyler loved; plunked myself down on one of the candy-apple red stools. The same boy was running the place, removing a basket of french fries from the bubbling grease. They were still dripping with the stuff; the tang of salt was biting.

“You're alone,” he remarked, eyebrows raised. He wiped his hands on an already soiled T-shirt. His accent was thick, and he laid it on like a heavy spread with each word. “You okay, sunshine?”

I liked this guy. There was something sweet, endearing about his calling me sunshine. It felt nicer than being called lovely, or pretty, or gorgeous. It felt authentic, genuine; all warm and fuzzy.

“I'm great,” I told him. He wasn't wearing a nametag. “What's your name?”

“Joey Shapiro,” he said. He looked like a Shapiro, too. Perfect, olive skin; not a single blemish or pimple, even despite working in a grease bucket. Dark hair, dark eyes. Italian to a fault. “What about you?”

“Kaitlyn,” I said. “Kaitlyn Laurent.”

Joey had no idea who I was. It was wonderful. He just made me a milkshake; threw me a basket of fries. I tried to hand him a few bills, but he shook his head.

“Don't worry about it,” he said. “On the house.”

“You're a nice guy,” I told him. “I hope they treat you well here.”

We talked for a bit, and I ate the fries until my stomach was thoroughly coated in in a slick layer of sodium and chocolate syrup. When I left, I hid the bills underneath the basket; a small surprise. An unspoken
thank you
.

There's a lot I needed to acknowledge about myself. I had done something terrible; I had engaged in something awful. And yet, as I regarded the sparkling array of varying faces all dancing together on a pier lit by the firefly lights of a gargantuan Ferris Wheel, I didn't feel like like the monster I had claimed to be. That night, in that shadowy corner, enveloped in Mr. Tennant's arms. I felt human. I felt young. I felt like a stupid girl who had done a stupid thing, and now felt incredibly sorry.

I pulled out my phone, and called Tyler. No answer. I didn't bother leaving him a message. I wanted him with me; I wanted to eat cotton candy and try to win some flea-ridden teddy bear from one of the game stalls. I wanted to look at the water with him; the sand like sapphire in the moonlight; the people so distant and dressed in neon-bright things; a kaleidoscope of color both in clothing and skin. He was the one, after all, that had torn me down; that had saved me. Oddly enough, not through excursions to a gritty-getaway, or his small apartment, or his doting mother.

He called me Kait. He wasn't afraid to butcher my name – to slice it in half.

He knew me all along. I loved him for it, and I hated myself for lying to him.

I wandered near the dive-bar, poking my head inside. There was no karaoke going on; just a few occupied tables. Aside from that, it was eerily empty.

Tyler's cousin was at the bar; he regarded me with a nod and a smile.

“Where's Tyler?” he asked. “Not around?”

“He's mad at me,” I said. “I've sort of been being a terrible friend.”

“Oh?” he grabbed a plastic cup, filled it with coke and ice, a dash of Sailor Jerry's. I accepted it hesitantly. “You want me to talk to him?”

“God, please don't. No. No thank you.”

I took a sip, pausing, sinking in the smell of polished wood and cigarette ash. All of the booze that had seeped through the pores of patrons and was now permanently soaked into the walls.

“”You look different,” Greg said. “Kind of normal. Less dressed up.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I kind of went to my first thrift store ever. Got rid of my clothes, traded them in for some well-worn threads.”

Threads
. I grinned, tilting back the semi-flat cola and feeling it slide down my throat with a pleasant balance of sweet and spice.

“You're alone on a Friday night,” he remarked. “Aren't you lonely?”

“There's a difference between being lonely and being alone. I'm perfectly alright with being alone.”

Now who was I lying to? Myself. I was lying to myself.

He poured me another drink, which I downed happily; I wasn't drunk, or even remotely buzzed, but I felt warm.

“No tab,” he said as I hashed out my wallet, noting that I had given all of my paper cash to Joey. “Just make sure, whatever it is you did, to apologize to my cousin. He's a good kid. A little weird, but good.”

“I like that about him,” I said. “He doesn't care. He just is.”

The evening was cool; crisp, hazy. I wished for a jacket, or even a thin sweatshirt. When I left the bar, I stood in front of the sign and watched the people come and go. Most of them looked happy; occupied with their thoughts, their lives, all that momentary bliss.

I smiled to myself, inwardly, without moving my lips. Eventually I became aware that my phone was vibrating from inside my pocket; I yanked it out, answering quickly.

“Will,” I breathed. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said. Then, pause. “Are you available?”

“Is that code for something?”

He laughed. I did, too.

“I just miss you,” he said. “It's growing harder. I want you here all the time. I'm becoming selfish.”

I glanced up at the green sign, one of the letters was blacked-out. A boy passed me, whistling crudely. I flipped him off, my hand still shoved into a denim pocket.

“Come to Coney Island,” I told him. “I feel like riding the Ferris Wheel.”

My heart twisted as we hung up; I was girlishly giddy and completely conflicted. It's hard to be transparent and honest when you can't bear the thought of parting with happiness.

Would the truth ruin it? Absolutely.

I looked down at the marks on my palms; the high of my excitement fading. Suppression had already started to take a physical toll; the rest was simply a matter of time.

When he showed up, he was dressed in a pair of jeans and a The Mars Volta T-shirt. He had appeared to have walked a bit from where the taxi had left him; his hair was wind-blown, swept around his face.

“Kaitlyn,” he said, proper and sweet. He kissed my hand. “You look lovely. Those aren't your clothes, though.”

“Thrift shop,” I said quickly. “Let's walk.”

We shared a plate of fried dough; I let him taste the powder sugar from my fingers. He wanted a Sprite, which we split with two straws. We held hands and drifted along in the current of walking feet; occasionally we laughed at someone's passing remark.

“I love this,” I told him. His smile was hopeful, happy. “I missed you, too. I'm always missing you.”

People were crowded on the sand, whooping and romping and rolling around. Teens were running amok with sparklers, their hair varying ribbons of color; golden, burgundy, chocolate. They were all at once a fire-storm of calico-tank tops and lace dresses; shirtless boys in sagging jeans, dirty sneakers.

On the pier, numbers were being exchanged between whispering couples separated by a cloud of cotton candy; they would cover their profiles as they leaned in for a kiss. Will and I slid around children who were chasing after their parents, parents chasing after their children; the two of us remarking about how it was late, and maybe they should be in bed. But also, maybe their parents were doing something right by letting their kids simply live. Their smiles were toothsome; they were all baby-blue taffeta skirts and snuggled curls and happy laughs. They scrambled over each other with their fingers sticky and their mouths covered in caramel or bits of popcorn.

The Ferris Wheel was a moving dazzle of white bulbs; everything surrounded us in a saccharine fog. We were both high on the fumes of packed-bodies leaking their human essence like motor oil; it was all a mesh of floral perfume and ocean water. The baskets, all crowded with clinging, kissing shadows, hung like rusting gems. Their decay was visible, but nobody was bothered by it. It was about the ride; that little bit of time spent suspended in air, entirely isolated, the entirety of Coney Island's glistening void below.

When we started to lift, gradually ascending to the very top, Will's eyes scattered over the ground with an endearing awe, like he too was a child again. The verve was real; alive and beating along with the sounds and screams.