A Season of Eden (7 page)

“Altos,” he addressed the group I was in and for a moment, he looked at me. Vainly, I tried to ignore how my heart quickened at his glance. “You’re a little flat on that first chorus. Switch around. Everybody find a different seat.

If your neighbor is flat, it can be infectious.”

He sent me a pointed look. I wondered what was going on. Inside I was raw. I walked up the risers to the back row. The girls made room for me as if I was royalty. I stood in the very center and glared down at him.

After he saw where I had moved, he lifted his baton, ready to continue, keeping an evasive gaze out over the class.

“From the first chorus,” he said.

We continued until we finished the song. I hated being that far away from him. His passionate conducting didn’t tickle the air around me with his scent: orange citrus and skin. His face was hidden behind the greasy heads of the two freshmen that stood in front of me. I couldn’t feel the air ripple when he moved.

When the bell rang, I didn’t look at him. I gathered my books and walked out.

•••

Sick disappointment stayed with me, a gutting flu from which my whole body ached. I went through the rest of my classes like a ghost. I was relieved no one tried to talk to me. Even my teachers seemed to sense that I was a walking shell. None called on me. Only Mr. Jones either ignored or couldn’t see that I was not in the mood to socialize. He waved at me from across the hall as I passed the teacher’s lounge on my way to Brielle’s car for lunch.

Forget it, I thought, slamming her car door. I stared at the teacher’s lot, just in case Mr. Christian happened to go out today.

“What’s up with you?” Brielle asked.

“Nothing.”

“Oookaay.”

We drove in steamed silence to the plaza. Seeing Matt and Josh sitting around our usual table was like looking at my own vomit. Joining them, submitting to the daily ritual, was like stepping back. I didn’t want to.

Matt lit up when he saw me, and I knew then that sitting at that table would be masochistic. “I’m going inside to get something,” I said, and strode into Wild Oats.

I didn’t feel like eating, I was swamped with boredom that I was even there. Browsing the shelves, I hoped to distract my thoughts. But they drifted back to Mr. Christian and class. Another jag of disappointment ripped through me.

“You really do eat here.”

The sound of his voice caused my head to snap up.

I forced my face to remain passive, though my heart pounded with thrill.

Mr. Christian. Next to me in the aisle.

“Yeah, I do.” I went back to browsing so he wouldn’t see that my cheeks were flushed.

“What’s good?”

I shrugged. Didn’t look at him. Felt stupid. He was trying to talk to me. Maybe he hadn’t noticed that I’d been pissed in class. Maybe he had, and was trying to make it up to me. Maybe I really was something special to him.

I looked at him, my insides softening like butter. “Any of the wraps are good.”

“Yeah?” He looked over the serving counter. “Maybe that’s what I’ll try.”

“Try the wraps.” I started off, pleased to be leaving him, then tossed over my shoulder, “the turkey’s pretty good.”

Why had he come over and talked to me, I wondered, now outside in the noon sun. I hadn’t seen him. He could have shopped, ordered his lunch, and gone without saying a word to me, or bringing himself to my attention. Clearly, he had sensed something had happened between us in class.

I bailed on eating lunch with Bree, Matt, and everyone else and walked back to school. The four block distance would allow me the privacy I needed to think this out. And he might drive by.

What
had
happened between us? I wanted to fantasize that he cared about me more than he cared about any other student. Did he care enough that he had taken the time to come to the plaza, knowing I ate there with my friends, and sought me out?

We had both sensed the difference in class today. A steady lift of my spirits brought a smile to my face. As cars drove past, I casually glanced inside, hoping I would see him.

But I didn’t.

After my last class, I walked to the faculty lot and stood near a corner hoping I wouldn’t be noticed. A stupid hope. You can’t flick on and off a switch, enjoying the spotlight when you want it. It follows you, blaring indiscretion as well as diplomacy.

“Hi, Eden.” Some girl I’d never met or seen before waved at me. I said ‘hi’ back, feeling stupid that she knew me and I had no idea who she was.

I wondered if James Christian had been popular.

I scanned the parking lot, watching teachers file to their cars. Today, I would see which car was his. Since I had a few minutes until the last period of the day let out, I decided to go home and get my car. I’d do more than see what he drove. I’d follow him home.

My white BMW idled just outside the parking lot alongside the low wall that surrounded the high school—the place parents sat in their Lexus’, Escalades and Mercedes waiting for school to end so they could pick up their students. The spot gave me an excellent view of the teachers’ cars pulling out of the lot.

In an effort to disguise myself, I’d stuffed my hair up into my pink Von Dutch hat and had my black glasses on.

But everyone knew my car.

The last bell rang at two forty-five. My nerves jittered.

I had the radio on, unable to listen to anything but nondescript tunes spewing from my speakers. Anything more would distract me.

Mr. Jones drove by, then Miss Beatty. Mrs. Carlson happened to look over and recognized me in spite of my disguise. She waved. I waved back.

Fifteen minutes later, the stream of cars dwindled to a trickle. I got out and stood looking over the waist-high cement wall that surrounded the school. Most of the lot had cleared. I guessed teachers were as anxious to split as we were.

Nearly ready to sigh and abandon my foolish wish, I looked out over the horizon. The golden sun sat as if deciding whether or not it wanted to disappear into the vast ocean beneath it. The site calmed me.

I looked back at the parking lot just in time to catch him: brown cords, yellow button down shirt and that adorable elbow-patched coat. His tie hung loose at his neck. He didn’t look around, just walked briskly through the near-empty lot with an armload of papers straight to a light grey, older model Toyota. He got inside.

I jumped back in my car and revved the engine, lowering myself in the seat so that when he drove by, he wouldn’t see me.

After a moment I heard his car pass. I shot up, saw his grey car in my rear view mirror and pulled into the lane, keeping a nice respectable distance between us.

I’d staked out guys before with Brielle, but it had been a long time. As long as I kept him in my sight and didn’t let too many cars get in between us, I doubted that he would notice me.

We drove along Palos Verdes Drive North at law abiding speed. My insides were so anxious I had to turn off the music. I wondered what music he listened to when he drove home—something relaxing or something that pumped?

I kept my focus on his old grey Toyota. Three cars cruised in between us. He took Palos Verdes Drive off the hill and into Redondo Beach, joining the throngs of traffic that now clogged the Pacific Coast Highway. I debated driving up next to him and casually waving. But then I’d have to bag the plan and follow him another day, and I couldn’t wait to see where he lived.

Turning right on Calle Mayor, I followed him into the watered-down version of the peninsula. An area of houses sitting on the fringe of Palos Verdes called the Hollywood Riviera. Homes were decent, and the tree-lush community was still considered prestigious to live in, watered down or not.

Less traffic forced me to drop even further him behind to protect my identity. He kept the speed limit and, from where I drove four cars behind, I was sure he couldn’t see who I was.

Then he took a right and I slowed before I trailed him onto a quiet, tree-shrouded street. We were the only cars on the street, so I pulled over and watched him until he disappeared to the right somewhere. I drove at a snail’s pace, searching each driveway for his grey car. The homes were small, old and quaint. Some had been restored.

Others remodeled and enlarged, making the most of the coveted real estate.

At last I saw it.

A Tudor-style cottage. I loved it. His grey car was parked in the circular drive, but here was no sign of him and I didn’t pause when I drove by. In fact, I kept my face forward, but strained my eyes to the right so that I could see as much of it as I could without actually looking over.

His house
.

Knowing where he lived settled me in the way a child settles knowing dinner will be ready and waiting when he gets home. A sigh escaped me. I wanted to drive back by but didn’t dare. There were rules to staking out, and the first and foremost was self control. No matter how much you want to steal another glimpse, risking discovery is not an option.

I drove home with a smile on my face. I knew where he lived now, and the little Tudor house was stuck in my head like a fairy tale dream. Later, when it was dark and night would hide me, I’d drive back. Any light from inside the house would mean I could see in.

I glanced at my car clock. Three forty-five. Three more hours and it would be dark.

•••

“So where are we going?” Brielle asked, checking herself out in the mirror of the passenger visor.

“On a stake out.”

“Somebody new?” Her brown eyes were wide. I wondered if she was mature enough to accept where my heart was going. We’d shared our deepest secrets through the years, but I knew this secret would blow the lid off our tightly kept jar.

“Somebody different.”

Brielle settled against the seat, eyes huge and hungry.

“Yeah?”

“I can’t say right now.”

“What? How can you do this to me? Drag me along without spilling the juice?”

“It’s…” My feelings for Mr. Christian were different, so different than what I had felt for any other boy. Though I had gone through the boy rituals of finding out his first name and where he lived, I wasn’t driven by some bubbly, hot fantasy that the two of us would flirt and play. What was inside of me for Mr. Christian had moved in with the permanence of a second heart beat.

I turned on his street and Brielle looked around. If I didn’t point out his house, she would never know. So I drove and casually took in all of the houses.

“He lives down here? In the Riv?”

“Yeah, so?” I was glad I hadn’t told her more. Her mindset was stuck in PV.

His house was dark and his car was gone.

Disappointed, I drove the length of the street so that Brielle would not be able to sense any difference in my mood or where I focused my attention. I even drove down a few other random streets, just to cover myself. Inside, I was awash with questions. Where would he be on a Thursday night?

“How did you even meet somebody from down here?”

“Dad’s partner’s son has a friend who lives here.”

“In the Riv? Nice try, Eden.”

“He’s a junior partner,” I shot, glad she couldn’t see my heated face. I hadn’t thought about logistics. “A transfer from another firm.”

Brielle was too busy checking out passing cars for guys to look at me and verify truth. “Let’s stop by Starbucks.”

Because I couldn’t drive by Mr. Christian’s again and I had no idea where he was, I agreed. Besides, the coffee would comfort me.

We pulled into the Starbucks in the Riviera. “You don’t mind if we stop at this one do you?” I teased. “It’s not
our
Starbucks after all.”

“Shut up.” She adjusted her walk from practical to seductive, in case she was being watched. For the first time I was embarrassed for her.

“So.” She yanked open the door and the sweet scent of coffee filled my head. “If you’re not with Matt anymore, and it’s really over, do you care if he, like, is with somebody else?”

“Of course not.” I’d stopped thinking of Matt weeks ago. “Far be it from me to deny some other girl his charms.”

“He’s so hot.”

I looked at her as we stood in line. She was studying the menu but that feigned look of indifference was bull.

She was covering up. “You want Matt.” She tried to look shocked. “You want him,” I repeated, shocked that I hadn’t seen this coming.

“No. NO. No way.”

“Yes, you do. It’s obvious. Look at you. You’re pink and… you’re, like, bubbling.”

“I am not.”

“Yes you are.” After the news settled in, I kept my gaze on the menu. “Go for it.” But I knew Matt wouldn’t reciprocate. I’d seen desire in his eyes just hours earlier…for me. Not once in our five months had he ever talked about Brielle in any way shape or form of a boy interested in a girl.