When Reason Breaks (5 page)

Kevin grabbed her and lifted her in a hug. Emily let out a little scream and then laughed.

“For someone who doesn't want to attract attention, you sure make a lot of noise,” Kevin said as he put her down.

“It's too dark in here to see you,” Emily said. “What is this place?”

Kevin pulled out his cell phone and turned on the flashlight function. He waved the light around so Emily could see the room. Costumes hung on rolling clothes racks, and small props cluttered most of the room. One table held several wigs and cases filled with makeup, the thick kind that won't melt off the actors' faces under the glaring lights.

Emily stared at a large sketch of the tragedy and comedy masks that covered one wall. The weeping Tragedy seemed both frightened and sorrowful, while the laughing Comedy was oddly sinister.

“It's a storage room,” Kevin said. “I discovered it last year when I dated Thalia, the drama queen.”

“Don't be mean.”

“No, I'm serious. She starred in almost every show, so I called her my drama queen. Not in a bad way, like a nickname,” he explained.

“Cute.” Emily crossed her arms in front of her chest and turned away a little. She grabbed her small silver crucifix pendant and pulled it back and forth along her thin necklace.

“Thanks,” he said. “Let's not talk about her.”

Kevin left the flashlight function on and set his phone on a nearby table. “It's not candlelight, but …” They stared at each other for a few moments. “Come here.”

Emily let her backpack slip off her shoulders. She walked slowly to Kevin. When she reached him, she slid her hands around him, locking her fingers across the small of his back.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Remind me.”

Kevin didn't hesitate. He lifted her face and leaned down to kiss her. Emily closed her eyes and pulled him so close there was no room for worry or fear. The rest of the world melted away. His kiss on her neck and his hand through her hair were the only things that mattered, the only things she needed or wanted.

When they stopped kissing, he whispered, “You taste so good.”

“It's bubble gum,” she said and giggled.

The bell rang.

“That's the first bell,” he said. “We have time.”

“Not enough,” she said.

“Says who?”

They laughed.

“Kevin, we are in
school
,” she said. “I don't want to get suspended on the first day.”

“A suspension on day one would be bad, but then everyone would know. No more worrying about when or how or if to tell them. Problem solved, right?”

“Not exactly.” Emily gently pushed herself away from him and stepped back. She grabbed her backpack and slung one strap over her shoulder. “You don't get it.”

“I get it. Everyone will talk about us for a few days, and then something else will happen, and we'll become old news. I give us a week, two tops, and then nobody will care.”

“I don't know,” she said. “I mean, that picture of us was everywhere and my dad was so mad. Madder than I've ever seen him.”

“But wasn't your dad more concerned about the beer in your hand than the kiss?”

“Trust me, my dad cared about the kiss
and
the beer. My point is, it was all public. I was embarrassed and had to do that ridiculous community service and I was grounded forever. If everyone knew we were together after that …”

Kevin moved close to her and cupped one side of her face in his hand. He stroked her cheek with his thumb.

“They'd what? Think you were stupid? So what? I've been called a lot worse. Who cares, Em?”

“I do,” she said and pulled away from him. “Abby and Sarah are my best friends, but they can't keep things quiet. And everything I do gets back to my dad, like it or not. I'm
part of a family that's in the public spotlight. I hate it, but I can't do anything about it, except keep a low profile.”

Kevin shook his head.

“We've got to go,” she said.

“Fine.” Kevin grabbed his cell phone and aimed the light at the door. “You go first.”

Emily opened the door and peeked out to see if anyone was in the hallway. Before she walked through, Kevin said, “I'll see you in first period, but don't worry. I'll act like I don't know you.”

She stared at him for a second, but didn't say anything. She wondered if it really had to be all or nothing. If it did, then which would be worse: being exposed again or being ignored? She couldn't decide. She turned away from him and smoothed the front of her shirt with both hands. She looked out the door one more time before she left.

When she reached the upstairs main hallway, she slipped into the noisy crowd and headed to her first period English class. As she walked, she pressed a palm to her flushed cheek and then swiped her fingertips over her bare lips. Before entering her class, she pulled out the pink lip gloss from her pocket and smeared on a fresh layer.

Elizabeth could peg a teacher within twenty minutes, and she gave them one class period to amuse or impress her. If they did, then she'd engage. If they didn't, she'd do barely enough to get by. If they weren't going to try, why should she?

As she approached her period one English class, Elizabeth saw Ms. Diaz standing near the door with a welcoming grin on her face. Elizabeth tried to speed through the doorway, with Tommy close behind her, but Ms. Diaz jabbed something into Elizabeth's elbow. Stunned, Elizabeth turned, her eyes wide and her hand clenching the strap of her messenger bag that cut across the front of her body.

“Sorry, but you'll need one of these,” said Ms. Diaz. She handed Elizabeth a bookmark that read: “Dwell in Possibility –” Emily Dickinson #657.

Elizabeth crossed the room to join Kevin, who sat near the windows. She slid into a desk in front of him, and Tommy sat on her other side.

“What's up, Davis?”

“Hey, Kev,” said Elizabeth.

“I told Tommy to kiss you for me. Did he?”

“Dude …,” Tommy started.

“Obviously not or he'd be in the nurse's office right now,” said Elizabeth.

“So, I see summer didn't melt the Ice Queen,” Kevin said and laughed.

“Shut it, Kev, or I'll shut it for you.” Elizabeth sat back and scanned the room.

On the largest wall, a poster of Shakespeare hung to the left. His large, pale forehead stood out against his dark, curly hair and the poster's deep-red background. His lips smirked beneath his moustache, and his brown eyes glanced casually to the left, like he just told a dirty joke.

To the right was a black-and-white poster of Henry David Thoreau. He wore a black suit jacket and a bow tie just below his wide-collared white shirt that was buttoned high up the neck. His scruffy half beard and mussed-up hair contradicted the outfit, which was way too uptight for someone who was a tree-hugging rule breaker.

Between these men sat Emily Dickinson, straight and tall in a chair, her right arm gently resting on a nearby table, her left hand holding a flower, a violet maybe. She wore a dark dress with a high, scooped neck, topped with a tiny row of
white lace. It had long sleeves and pleats across the top and throughout the waist. Around her neck was a black ribbon edged in white, buttoned at the nape. Her dark hair was parted down the middle and pulled back tight. She stared straight ahead with her serious, dark, penetrating eyes. Her round cheeks led to full, unsmiling lips. Her pale, porcelain-like skin seemed to glow against the darkness that surrounded her.

After everyone arrived, Ms. Diaz started to seat her students in alphabetical order. No surprises there. Granted, it was probably the easiest way for teachers to learn their names, but still. Elizabeth had been sandwiched between the same students for years. She had never been friends with either of her D-named neighbors, and considering the exchange she had with one of them on the bus, she wasn't looking forward to what was coming.

“Tomás Bowles,” Ms. Diaz started.

“Here,” he answered and moved to the seat nearest the door.

“Interesting combination.”

“My mom's Mexican, my dad's English-Irish,” he explained. “You can call me Tommy. My mom hates that, by the way.”

Ms. Diaz smiled and made a note on her roster. “I'll be sure to use ‘Tomás' during parent conferences.”

Elizabeth took a good look at Ms. Diaz: tanned skin and black hair that was parted down the middle and fell below her shoulders in loose curls, almond-shaped, dark-brown eyes, and a full mouth painted deep red. She was petite
and slim, but she had curves. She wore a knee-length black skirt, no stockings, a business-casual purple shirt with three-quarter sleeves, and black shoes with three-inch squared heels.

She was put together and cared about making a good first impression, knowing it could stick for the rest of the year. She also moved and spoke with confidence. Students are like dogs; they'd take over if they sensed the slightest bit of fear. Elizabeth knew Ms. Diaz wasn't a first-year teacher, which was a good thing. Elizabeth hated first-year teachers.

After a few more names, Ms. Diaz called, “Emily Davis and Emily Delgado.”

Emily Delgado moved first. Elizabeth stayed seated near the window and watched as Emily pried herself away from her friends to take her seat.

Elizabeth snarled at Emily in her creepy-horror-chick way. Emily shifted her gaze and stared at the top of her desk.

“Emily Davis?” Ms. Diaz called again.

“Since we look so much alike, you can call me by my middle name, to avoid any confusion,” Elizabeth said as she walked to her new seat.

“Which is?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Okay then, Elizabeth,” Ms. Diaz said in a pleasant tone while changing the name on her roster. “Do you prefer Liz or Lizzie or Beth or anything like that?”

“No,” she responded curtly.

“So, Elizabeth?”

“Yes, ma'am,” she confirmed and saluted Ms. Diaz with two fingers.

Tommy smirked, all too familiar with Elizabeth's rough edges. Kevin smiled and saluted her back. Elizabeth nodded but kept a straight face. She folded her hands Catholic-school style, but her knuckles faced the front of the room and her palms opened toward her.

Ms. Diaz scribbled something down. Elizabeth was sure it was more than a name change. She would love to read all of the side notes written about her since last year.

Once all of the students were seated, Ms. Diaz began with the basics: expectations for behavior, her grading policy, and the year's curriculum. She explained that they'd often read, analyze, and write poetry to cultivate their creativity and encourage them to consider the power of words.

“Because in poetry—more so than other genres—every word matters,” Ms. Diaz said. At this point, she seemed lost in thought and emotion. She talked about the power of words and the importance of being a great communicator in an increasingly competitive world that ruthlessly splits people up based on education levels.

“Even if we set aside the importance of mastering words for our futures, think about how words affect us each day in different ways. A note or comment from a friend can make us feel better or infuriate us. Dialogue in a movie can make us laugh or cry. And music … How many of you play a song over and over?”

Hands shot up. Ms. Diaz walked around the room. Elizabeth held one hand in the air and scribbled in her notebook with the other. She covered the pages with her forearm when Ms. Diaz walked by.

“Why do we play a song repeatedly?” She didn't wait for an answer. “Because it speaks to us in some way. The words hit us here,” she pointed to her heart, “and here,” she pointed to her head. “That doesn't happen in math class,” she said with a smile.

Students laughed.

“Don't tell your math teachers,” she added with another smile. “My point is words are powerful. We will read them, explore them, use them wisely, and use them wildly. We can disagree with each other, but everyone's ideas will be considered. We can analyze, even criticize, one another's comments and work, but choose your words carefully. Words can uplift and they can wound. I do not want anybody wounded here.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. She never figured someone might get hurt in an English class. Woodshop, yeah. Science, maybe. But English? Still, one thing was clear to Elizabeth: Ms. Diaz loves this stuff.

She was impressed.

Of course, not everyone would be.

“Are we going to have to write one of those what-I-did-on-my-summer-vacation essays?” Kevin asked.

Ms. Diaz stopped in front of his desk and stared at him for a second, purposely creating an uncomfortable silence.

Elizabeth predicted her teacher's response:
Kevin, didn't you hear a word I said? Do you really think someone who worships language would ask you to waste words on an essay about the countless hours you played video games?

“No,” said Ms. Diaz.

“Really?” he said. “Cool. I always thought those were dumb.”

“Dumb?” she asked. “An essay is neither dull witted nor unable to speak.”

“Huh?” he asked.

Elizabeth laughed.

“I think you mean ‘pointless,' ” Ms. Diaz suggested.

“Sure. Pointless.”

“I agree.”

“Really? Cool.”

“Very,” she said. “Instead, let's get right into a bit of literary analysis.”

“Ugh,” Kevin responded. “Not cool.”

“Sorry,” Ms. Diaz said with a smile and then walked to the front of the classroom.

Elizabeth was amused.

“Take a look at the bookmark I gave you,” she said, holding one in the air. “It's the first line of an Emily Dickinson poem. She's one of my favorites, so we'll read several of her poems this year. The whole first line is ‘I dwell in Possibility.' On a sheet of paper, I want you to respond to the first line as best you can.”