Star-Crossed (4 page)

“Do you mind?” he asked, plunking himself down anyway. “I know you're kind of solitary.”

“Yeah. I guess I do enjoy my solitude,” I mumbled. Tyler blinked, brushing back his hair and smiling that same, goony smile. It was adorable in a sweet-seventeen kind of way. Totally infectious.

“Do you ever eat?” he asked, opening his bag. “I can share. I've got like half a peanut butter sandwich I can spare.”

“No thanks,” I told him. “I don't eat much.”

“Well, that's not healthy.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, you're probably right.”

I glanced at him. He was still smiling.

“I'm not trying to be weird or anything,” he added, his smile finally dropping into a milder expression that still hinted at a potential seize of elation. “It's just, I thought that you might want some company. Or maybe I just want some company. I don't know. But we sit in the same courtyard, practically steps away, and we've never acknowledged each other.”

“You don't think there's a reason for that?” I asked.

The corners of his lips fell slack, then into a twisted shape, like he was trying to figure out what disappointment looked like.

“I'm sorry,” I said quickly. “I'm not trying to be a bitch. I'm just the kind of type that would rather spend whatever time away from the daily grind of this place with some peace and quiet.”

“Oh,” he said, picking at the plastic wrap that covered a rather dry looking excuse for a sandwich. The crusts, too, were cut off. I wondered if that was his mother's doing. “I guess you've just always looked lonely, is all.”

“I'm not lonely,” I swore, repeating the same words that I had a thousand times, both to everyone and to myself. “I'm just okay with being alone.”

I let him stick around anyway, and for the first time in my three and a half years at Trinity Preparatory Academy, I carried a conversation during the exactly forty-five minute and fifteen second time period that encompassed Lunch. Small-talk, mostly. The worst kind of gap filler. But Tyler was content with talking about anything, and seemed to be in a state of sporadic awe when he realized exactly who he was sitting next to. Like I was a saintly figure of the highest regard.

“Your dad, he makes clothes and stuff, right?” Tyler rambled. “Kirsten & Laurent or something. Who's Kirsten?”

If I had a cigarette, I would have taken a long drag and then exhaled the smoke slowly. Only I didn't smoke, because it ruined your skin – and I guess I just never found it an attractive habit.

“My mother,” I answered. Tyler nodded for a solid minute; his brow furrowed as he balled up the plastic wrap of his devoured sandwich and tossed it into the trash-bin. “But she's history, so don't ask.”

“Oh. Well, I'm sorry. That really sucks.”

“Don't be sorry. I'm not.”

Tyler pressed his lips together, straightening his tie that was horribly wrinkled. His shirt, too, was tucked in poorly and unevenly ironed.

“It's just a tragic thing, you know,” he paused. “Losing a parent.”

He talked a bit longer about school, and how that morning someone had written a note on which was scrawled, in bold lettering, FUCK YOU – and left it in his locker. Only then could I see the hint of loathe, just like me, start to seethe; it barely broke the surface of his skin. But unlike mine which was a constant simmer, his quickly evaporated. Tyler Dawson wore his affections like a lovingly patched-up sweater; worn ragged but still entirely beloved.

I felt an internal twinge, and was thankful when the bell finally rang. Tyler stood, brushing off his pants and looking down at me with another subtle sigh of awe.

“So you're auditioning for the play?” I asked lightly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I'm insanely excited about it, actually. I know I might come off as a little awkward, but hell. I figure it's worth a shot. Are you?”

“No, no,” I told him. “I'm going to see if there's maybe something involving scenery that I can help with, though. In the event that Mr. Tennant is in need of the assistance.”

“I see,” he said quietly, his eyes grazing over my legs as I stood. “Well, he seems cool. I think he'll make a good director. Plus, he's not old or anything. Kids respond more to youthful appearances.”

“Do they?” I offered. “He seems like an interesting enough guy.”

“I think he lives nearby, too.” Tyler said. “I saw him leave his apartment this morning while I was stuck in traffic. He walked here.”

Tyler had no idea, of course, how this kind of information would actually interest me. So much so that I actually regretted watching him turn to leave, ending the discussion right then and there. Hanging open like a gushing wound with no tourniquet in sight. I needed closure.

I needed help. In more ways than one.

“Have I heard of the building?” I asked. From a distance, Tyler paused only to shrug with a weight that gave me a silent answer.

“Probably not,” he said. “It's not your kind of dwelling. It's a crumbling joint right by the park.”

Then he was gone, and with some brief jogging of my memory, I immediately knew where it was that Mr. Tennant lived.

After final bell, I left Marius to go home solo.

“Why?” he demanded.

“None of your business,” I told him.

“Fine,” he said. “But you're finding your own ride home.”

Watching Marius disappear from sight, I took a walk around the corner, to the park. I watched from a faraway spot beside a well-shaded Maple tree as Mr. Tennant, suitcase in tow, walked up the steps and into the old apartment building.

Shame came flooding like a syringe shot straight into the vein, mixed with an undeniable thrill. I was both the stalker and spy.

When I returned home, the house was quiet. Neither Vivian nor my father was around. They had gone out for drinks.

I took the elevator up to the third floor, not wanting to walk. My legs felt like a wooden doll's - easily detachable and ready to fall off.

As the doors opened, I was met with the distinct sound of faint moans coming from the direction of Marius' room. I treaded carefully; each footstep light as I approached the doorway. But the door was open enough that I could still see everything.

My insides screamed for me to run; my feet remained rooted to the floor, unshakably frozen.

I had never in my entire life seen two people having sex. Ever. Even in my cinematic exposure, I'd been granted nothing other than choppy editing, eluded lovemaking, and the classic fade-to-black. Everything left to the viewer's imagination.

From their positioning on the bed, all I could see was Marius moving above a waify figure; a crop of white hair plastered with sweat to pale skin. Marius, from behind, moved inside of her with a harsh aggressiveness, hissing through clenched teeth as the girl cried out out, one hand digging fingernails into his back. She gripped the sheets like she was in pain, though I couldn't see her face. Their ragged breath hit my ears like a crashing cymbal. The screams were concentrated and carnal, animalistic. Grabbing her hips, the thrusts became more rapid, frantic as his moans became more of a plea for release than the expression of pleasure.

And although I was a virgin, inexperienced, I stood and listened to the unmistakable sound of an orgasm as Marius gave one last thrust and collapsed. Mattress-springs creaked; both of them sighed.

That was the last thing I heard before I quickly darted away, my hand still covering my mouth long after I slammed the bedroom door shut, fell to my knees, and didn't move until there came a knock on my door.

Marius.

Opening the door, I looked at him from where I sat on the edge of my bed. His hair was a fine mess; he was clad only in a pair of slacks.

Without wasting any time, I extended my hand.

“I've decided to play your game,” I said quietly. “But only because I'm certain that I'll win.”

Marius smirked.

“You do understand what I mean when I say
seduce
,” he said carefully. “This isn't about making googly eyes, or holding hands, or even kissing. I don't care how many love notes you write to each other, or how many hearts you draw with his name inside of it.”

I nodded, swallowing.

“Sex,” I answered plainly, grabbing his hand. “I think I get it.”

Marius tightened his grip, shaking my hand like the most cordial of businessmen.

“If you're certain.”

“Oh, I'm certain.”

“Well then,” his murmur was dark, his fixed gaze even darker. “Let the games begin.”

FOUR

When I first met Marius, he had been seated next to me after arriving late to class. His hair was a disheveled frenzy; his tie hung loosely around his neck; his eyes lowered with glossy embarrassment. After the teacher scolded him, she pointed to the empty chair beside me and, much like a dog, ordered him to sit.

He rested his hands, one folded atop the other, on his lap as he listened to the lecture. Periodically, I felt his eyes slowly drift and settle on my frame; only snapping away when he thought I was looking. There was an innocence about it; a genuine interest when he met my focused face that was only feigning attention to the jagged text on the chalkboard.

After class, I confronted him about it.

“Are you okay?” I asked him. “I caught you looking at me.”

Marius, finally realizing that he didn't exactly look the part of a proper school-boy, straightened his tie and smoothed his hair before speaking again.

“Last I checked, it wasn't a crime to look,” he said coolly. “But don't flatter yourself, because it wasn't
you
I was looking at.”

He leaned in, his fingers running down a lock of hair and removing what appeared to be a piece of dried leaf; caught up, no doubt, from the brisk fall weather. I had walked to school that morning.

“You're welcome,” Marius smiled, pressing the tiny leaf into my palm.

Looking back, it was amazing how only three years had aged him so tremendously. At fifteen, he was still kissed with the gentle sincerity that youth had so handsomely graced him with. It gave his cheeks a wanton glow and his step a certain bounce. His eyes were wide; not in shape, but in inexperience and a yearning for all the things he was yet to discover. “And you're Kaitlyn Laurent, aren't you? I saw an article about your dad in the Times. Impressive.”

“Yep,” I smiled smugly. “And you're Marius. Marius St. Vincent.”

“But far from saintly,” he said. “Anyway, I guess I'll see you around the corridors.”

“Or in class,” I grinned. “I'll see you around.”

And then I watched him go, smiling that lovely smile that still rang with sweet delight in a way that only your early teens can grant you; I was oblivious to the man he would become.

While our parents were dating, I was able to maintain an almost-friendship with Marius. With a mutual acknowledging that we should at least have gotten to know each other, we spent some evenings watching movies or taking walks around the city. Occasionally, we'd stop at one of the bridges and admire the picturesque scenery; the autumn colors and heavy clouds and buildings like giants. I'd watch the people pass by, sometimes with my arm looped around Marius as he guided me – a gentleman's gesture – and we'd laugh about one thing or another. Classes both academic and of social stature. Gossip and typical jokes.

But this was all thwarted when during one of our evening strolls, I spotted a young girl – a fellow freshman – and remarked:

“Didn't you sleep with her?”

At that moment, I hadn't even meant to offend him. It had been all around the halls of Trinity, and I'd simply never brought it up.

Marius yanked his arm away, infuriated.

“No,” he insisted. “I didn't. It's just a stupid rumor.”

When she turned, spotting him, she giggled and waved. Marius returned the gesture, automated. Like a robot. I decided to drop the question and opt for something else, but Marius was fixated on the idea that I believed the slander of his own truth. He kept repeating the question, over and over again, until I was so flustered that I finally just caved and gave him the answer that he wanted to hear. The only answer that he'd hear.

That's the thing about insisting. We don't beg to know the things we already know. We beg for the things we want to be true. Denial is a potent drug.

“Yes!” I cried. “Yes, I believe it. And it's hard not to when that girl
clearly
seems infatuated with you.”

Marius dropped his shoulders. I shook my head.

“And Marius,” I said. “You know, she was the one that started it. I heard her talking in the bathroom.”

He said nothing, I said nothing. Our only accompaniment was the symphonic clashing of street sounds; car horns, screeching breaks, laughter and wind through the tree branches.

“You're right,” he confessed. “I just - I don't know.”

“You don't know what?”

He looked at me, his expression unreadable.

“I guess I just wanted you to think differently of me.”

What those words meant, I didn't know. As a friend, as a step-sibling. And no doubt, I understood his attraction. But as I watched him run off in the direction of this girl, scooping her up in his arms with a sugary-sweet laugh, it was hard to take any of his further advances seriously. Especially when his promiscuous ventures eventually erupted, and Marius exchanged numbers and trysts like they were exchangeable gifts with a receipt tucked away in their panties. When finished, he traded them in for the next best thing.

It wasn't long before our parents married. Marius moved in, along with Vivian, along with his boat of equally-expensive belongings, and along with his attitude.

“I hope you don't hate me or anything,” he said during the very first night in the mansion. I was in the Great Room, practicing my violin notes.

He stood in the doorway, silent for a few moments like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he walked away.

I don't hate the player
. My answer, if spoken, would have rung through the halls, if only to fall on deaf ears.
I just hate the game
.

The irony was only bitter now.

The first rule of seduction, unquestionably, is that you don't waste any time. Stretching out your ulterior motives might work for people like Marius; but when it came to my circumstances, it was best to start planting seeds early as possible. I didn't want to leave him wondering. I wanted things to be very, very clear.

Still, it was hard to control my fluttering anxieties; especially when I arrived in the theater early Friday morning, fifteen minutes before auditions were to start - knowing that Will would likely be alone.

Breathing deep, I heaved open the heavy barrier and stepped inside. Only to see, of all things, Mr. Tennant as he was buttoning his shirt.

He paused. The two of us froze for what couldn't have been longer than half a second, but he lingered just long enough for me to see the beginnings of his chest. Protruding collarbones; taut muscle covering fair skin.

On the chair beside him was a T-shirt.

I turned immediately, slammed the door shut, and didn't come inside until Mr. Tennant opened the door and cleared his throat.

“Terribly sorry,” he mumbled, chagrined. “Coffee spill. Come in.”

He made certain to latch the door behind him. When it was just the two of us, I smiled at him and he smiled at me, and he pointed to the rows of stadium-style theater seating.

“You can take a seat for now,” he said mildly. “The rest should be arriving shortly.”

He returned to his seat nearby on stage, focusing on some papers he was grading. I watched him, feeling for the first time a sort of awkwardness. Like I'd made some grand overstep.

He didn't look up at me once.

And that's when the notion came that maybe I had fantasized everything. The prolonged looks and soft sighs had been nothing but a tortured, ever-enveloping piece of my imagination.

“Mr. Tennant,” I said, after several seconds had passed. He looked up, eyebrows raised, and I was ashamed at my own hesitancy. “Is it true that Olivia Hussey has a nude scene in Zeffirelli’s
Romeo and Juliet
?”

His lips parted, then closed, then parted again.

“It's very brief,” he finally said. “Fleeting, really. Lasts a quick second.”

“Oh,” I mumbled, crossing my legs. “But there are no nude scenes in this play, correct?”

He fumbled; coughing and tapping a finger, more rapidly, against his desk.

“I'd say that's rather obvious,” he said. Then, finally, he scooted his chair back. “You ask a
lot
of forward questions, Miss Laurent.”

I smiled. He smiled.

“I think it's okay for you to call me Kaitlyn.”

Will laughed, loud and lovely and echoing a sound that I wish could have lasted forever. He didn't laugh much, so when he did, it was wonderful. I liked that I made him laugh.

“Mr. Tennant,” I curled my fingers into fists, releasing them immediately. “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” he answered, stopping himself. “Eight.”

“Twenty-eight?”

“Yes,” he said, tongue clicking against the side of his cheek. Eventually he took the papers that were on the small stage-centered table, stacked them into a neat pile, and shoved the desk noisily behind the curtain. When he finally emerged, it felt like the symbolic gesture had rendered him someone new. A resurrected William Tennant. “How old are you?”

“Legal,” I told him. His brow furrowed.

“Don't be crass,” he said. Was it sick that a part of me enjoyed his authoritative, borderline parental tone? Maybe. “What is your
age
?”

“Eighteen,” I said. “I turned eighteen in January.”

He smiled. Twenty-eight. A decade between us.

“Did you do anything fun to celebrate?”

He was closer now, but for some reason I had failed to notice in the span of time between my eyes falling to the ground and his silent footsteps sliding forward.

I considered telling him that my father had wanted to make the event into something big. A party of the grandest endeavor; something that Trinity Prep – and the parents of the highest social breeding of Trinity Prep – would be talking about long after the mess was cleaned up.

But because I didn't feel like being placed on display like my father's proper little china doll, I threw a very convincing teenage fit. Doors slammed, my father's bellows shook the walls, and when all was said and done, I succeeded in procuring the only real thing I wanted for my eighteen birthday: a quiet evening alone in my room, with nobody bothering me. No questions, prodding, or pedestals. Just the imagined facade that my life was something conceivably normal.

“No,” I said flatly. “I stayed inside and read horrible, mainstream bubble-gum magazines. It was perfect.”

He laughed again, and this time I was certain. At least, mostly certain, that I hadn't imagined it. There was something wading, waiting, weighed with a pending, pensive intoxication in Mr. Tennant's dark and lovely eyes.

But that was the last time we spoke personally, before the rest of those who were auditioning showed up, and I was reminded that no, we wouldn't remain alone together. There was an entire room full of students.

An entire school full of them. An entire city. An entire world full of potential risk and ruin.

I moved to the very back of the stadium seating, threw my bag down, and tried to remain inconspicuous.

Tyler was the first one in, looking nervous as he intensely flipped through his tattered copy of
Romeo and Juliet
. He paced around, avoiding the others as they quickly sifted in though the doors. Piper arrived, her eyes heavy as she rolled a wad of something around in her mouth. She had about the same subtlety of a cow chewing grass, but oddly enough, there was something sultry about the way her mouth moved.

“God, just let me paint props or something,” she muttered to the nameless girl beside her. “Unless I get Juliet, that is. I swear, I'd rather die than be given any other female part.”

“What, no Rosaline?”

Of all people, of all damned people, Marius showed up behind her. Thank God for the shadows and ability to hide in the back row, because the rage was already simmering.

“She doesn't have a speaking part, Marius.” Piper touched his face, and he snapped away. For a second, she looked hurt. “No words, no words, no words.”

“Perfect for you then,” he uttered, presumably joking; though Piper's bright expression dropped and she quickly stormed away.

When he saw me, he waved like the entire thing was nothing. I sank further into my seat, and was actually mildly relieved when Tyler spotted me and came galloping up the steps.

“Well, you doth teach the torches to burn bright, Kaitlyn. You sure look happy.”

I stared at him.

“You wouldn't happen to have a dagger somewhere in that giant backpack of yours, would you?”

Tyler looked alarmed. I decided to brush it off and let him slide into the chair next to me.

I caught Mr. Tennant glance up at the two of us, hold his gaze, and then look away.

When the seats were filled, the noise a subdued rumble, Will clapped his hands and the auditions finally came to a start. At first, they putted along with a pace that was almost anguishing. Every girl, of course, wanted to be Juliet; though their nerves, as Mr. Tennant watched them carefully, were evident. It resulted in a slew of shotty auditions; many of the girls giving their lines in large, bouting spills. Some would make a brief apology, ask for a re-try, and Will would agree and let them have another go. Not that it would save them.