Kiss the Stars (Devon Slaughter Book 1) (3 page)

He left me
leaning against the wall, the click of his steps getting farther and farther
away. As I stood in the eerie quiet, I felt a presence again. I searched up and
down the hall, sure someone watched. But no one was there.

* * *

After my last
class, waiting for the students in my writing workshop, I stood by the window,
gazing out at the jagged skyline of China Town. Urban legend claimed it was
haunted. I found it to have a stark beauty. The brick buildings had spires
jutting into the desert sky.

When the door
opened, I turned around. The first two students in my after school writing
program had arrived. I’d only admitted nine girls on the basis of a writing
sample. No boys had applied.

The twins,
Chastity and Charity, almost always spoke in hyperbole. “Hi, Miss Rain!” They
weren’t identical but looked alike because both of them had dyed their hair red
like mine. Each carried a pink suitcase.

They wore
matching black dresses. “Love your outfits,” I said.

Scarlet Rose
came ten minutes late, slouching in after we’d arranged our desks in a circle
and were discussing the assignment: What Would Emily Dickinson Do?
The
twins made a space for her.

She was tall and
slender with long black hair, the only senior in the workshop. She tended to be
taciturn. Her attendance was spotty. But there had been something compelling
and even poignant in the writing sample she submitted. She was always alone
when I saw her in the halls, her head lowered so her hair covered her face.

I didn’t have
her in any classes but I knew she was on scholarship. I worried about her
because she seemed so careless about school. Didn’t she know what her education
was worth?

“We’re going
over the assignment,” Chastity told her. She said she and her sister had texted
each other using slant rhyme and dashes. They also tried to make contact with
Emily Dickinson using a Ouija board. One girl read a story called The Great
Darkening, inspired by Dickinson’s own description of her impending death as a “great
darkness coming.”

Scarlet didn’t
volunteer. When there were only a few minutes left, I asked if she wrote
anything.

Her violet eyes
met mine. “No.”

“Do you have any
thoughts to share?”

She looked down
when she spoke, “I think about Emily Dickinson a lot,” her voice trembled with
a sudden intensity. “And I think,” she blushed furiously. The other girls
stared. A rash crept across her neck.

“Tell us what
you think,” I urged.

“Emily Dickinson
would rebel,” she said, vehemently. Charity, sitting next to her, flinched.

I leaned toward
her. “Who would she rebel against?”

“Her
fate.”

* * *

Wind
rattled
the windows. It was after seven and the students from my adult literacy class
were leaving. I called to a man in a Harley Davidson T-shirt. He turned from
the doorway and came back to my desk. “Thank you for reading aloud,” I said. “You
made a perfect Thor.”

“Aw, shucks, Ma’am,”
but he grinned. He had a braided beard.

“Here, I thought
you might enjoy this,” I handed him a copy of
The Outsiders
. “I wouldn’t
be surprised if you aren’t long for this class. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you
too. Truth is, I never had a teacher I liked before.”

After he had
gone, I couldn’t resist opening the essays written by my seniors. Even though I
could hear a storm building force outside, I felt cozy, reading in the warm
glow of the lamp on my desk.

An hour later, I
packed my valise with folders and assignments and the ever-changing books I
used for teaching. I allowed my students to turn in laser printed work but no
emailed papers, and most of the writing I assigned was done in class with pen
and paper. I had a rule about electronics. All devices had to be turned off in
my classroom.

The halls were
unusually quiet. Despite my late schedule, I wasn’t always the last person to
leave. Many clubs had meetings that ran into the night. Often, I encountered
people as I was leaving. But tonight, I saw no one.

Getting my
office mail was one of my favorite things. Since I didn’t acknowledge email, I
got real letters, like I was living in a Jane Austen novel.

Tonight, there
was no light coming under the office door. It made me nervous. I hesitated,
before going inside.

I fumbled for
the light switch. Panic rose in my throat as I slid my hand along the wall. The
scent of mold made me sneeze.

Suddenly, lights
came on, bright and shocking. It was Mr. Stroop. His chuckle pealed out,
surreal and obscene. “Well, hello there,” he said. “What’s Ruby doing creeping
around like a little mouse?”

Had he been
waiting in the dark? Knowing I would come for my mail? I gripped the handle of
my valise.

“Hungry yet?” he
said.

My eyes darted
to my mailbox in the row of cubbyholes behind him. Mine was empty. He held a
letter in his hand.

“Is that for me?”
I said. “Just one letter?” My mind raced over the idea that he had done
something with my mail.

He seemed to be
contemplating me. I forced myself to meet his gaze. Outside, the wind moaned
and cried. “Not even a cup of coffee around the corner?” he said.

I couldn’t
answer. Heat flooded my face.

His demeanor
shifted. “Alright. Straight to business then. A couple of things, Miss Rain.
First, there’s a new green policy. No more of this mail nonsense cluttering up
your cubbyhole. It’s a waste of paper. You need to check your email like
everyone else. Are we clear?”

I heard my voice
ring out, unbelievably, “Miss Rain is clear.”

He blinked. The
confusion I saw in his expression mirrored my own. Yet I felt the need to
finish what I’d started. “Clear and ready for takeoff,” a smile quirked at my
lips. I resisted saluting him, though my fingers twitched with the urge.

His eyes
narrowed. “The other thing is, I’m changing the schedule. Georgina Hartly is
going to take over Adult Literacy.”

“But—
Why?
”

“She’s more
qualified,” he said.

“How is she more
qualified?”

He coughed into
his hand. “I need results. Look here, Ruby, you’re excellent with the gifted
students and you’re very creative,” he made a circular motion with his index
finger, like being crazy and creative were the same. “But these remedial
students, they need to be actually reading by the end of the semester. You
understand? It’s come to my attention you are not using the approved
curriculum.”

“I am. I do
follow that—whatever. But I consider it my job to enhance it.”

“It is
my
job to ensure our extra resources serve the community in the best way possible.
You must use the method approved by the Board.”

“Why?”

“Because it
works.”

“With all due
respect, Mr. Stroop, they’re not first graders.”

“They still have
to learn the alphabet and how to put it all together.”

“Most of them
can’t read because the approved methods didn’t work the first time around.”

His face turned
ruddy. “You’re missing the point.”

“I think the
point is these students need a creative teacher more than anyone. Someone who
helps them learn in their own way. I have to warn you, they won’t like Miss
Hartly.”

“They don’t have
to like her,” he said. “It’s not a popularity contest.”

I wondered. Had
Miss Hartly (
George-ee
) got flirty with Mr. Stroop like she had with
Henry? Why did she want my Adult Literacy class?

Now I was
gripped by real panic. “Mr. Stroop, please don’t take my students away from me.
They trust me. You see, they’re afraid of words and books. Can you imagine how
horrible that is? To be afraid of books? I swear. On my grandmother’s grave.
Every single student, without exception, will be reading by the end of the
semester. I promise. Mr. Stroop, listen. I want my students to love reading
with their whole heart.”

He cleared his
throat. “It’s already done. Starting next month. Here’s the new schedule,” he
handed me the letter he’d been holding.

“But that’s next
week,” I felt the sharp edge of the envelope.

“I tried to tell
you this morning. I wanted to explain how I came to the decision.”

“You invited me
to dinner,” I said.

* * *

Rain poured down
the windshield. It was hard to see the road. Several times I felt the car
sliding. After I pulled into the garage, I waited a moment before getting out.
I felt hollow.

Inside, I
stripped down to my slip, leaving my wet clothes in a pile on the floor. I dug
into a jar of almond butter with a spoon. As I licked the spoon, I eyed the
envelope I’d left unopened on the table.

Forget it
.
Forget you, Mr
.
Stroop
.

In the bathroom,
I took down my hair and brushed it.

Back at the
dining table, I ate a macaroon. Mr. Stroop’s cruel missive bore his special
stupid seal. I stared at it, before tearing it open.

It was bad.
Worse than bad. My first class, sophomore English, was at eight.
In the
morning
. I would have to find a way to sleep at night, like a normal
person. Anxiety pricked the back of my neck. I’d been down this road before, in
college, and landed in the hospital. From sleep deprivation.

Two more
required classes followed at nine and ten. Then back to my usual schedule from
one to four. Stroop and Georgie didn’t even have the decency to give me a
regular nine to five. Georgie had cleverly unloaded her early classes. But that
couldn’t be the only reason she’d sabotaged me.

I crumpled the
schedule into a tight ball and threw it across the room.

I opened the
cupboard above the sink and got down my bottle of Seagram’s. I took a swallow
and shuddered. It tasted better with 7-Up. The clock on the stove read almost
nine.

I picked up my
dice, two burnished pink cubes with tiny rhinestones. My mother had brought
them back from Vegas when Javier took her to the House of Blues. They were the
last thing she had given me. It soothed me to rub the cubes together so they
made a soft clicking noise.

I rolled an
eight. Not as good as a seven or a nine but better than a six. No matter the
number, even snake-eyes; you couldn’t roll again for a better number. There had
to be rules. Otherwise, I could spend the rest of my life rolling dice. And I
loved rules. As long as I was the one who made them.

Before leaving
the house, I teased and ratted up my hair, so it was big and high, securing it
with Aqua Net. I found a black dress with a tight lace bodice. I put on black
nail polish over the sparkly blue that had begun to chip.

Outside, the air
was fresh from the rain. Clouds drifted past the rising moon.

I always went to
the same bar down by the river. It was dark and grungy and the bands that
played there were dark and grungy too. It was the only way I could get through
the long nights.

THE TUNNELS
beneath the city had been closed for half a century. Public safety, they said,
but I was hardly part of the public. When I discovered the passage beneath my
building, I gave the steel door a few good kicks and I was in.

The tunnel went
from China Town to the boardwalk. Tonight when I came out the air was balmy. On
the beach two girls juggled fire. Flames shimmered on the water behind them.

Music clanged
through an open door. “I.D.,” the bouncer crossed his arms to make his muscles
bulge. I slipped past him when he blinked.

I felt her
presence, before I saw her.
Ruby
. I’d swiped a book of matches from her
coffee table, last night. The name of the bar was printed on the cover.

She sat alone.
Her hair was teased up like a red cloud. Her neck was long and breakable.

She gasped when
I suddenly appeared beside her. “Hey,” I said. “Remember me?” Again, I was
struck by how pretty she was, even dressed in black and looking very Goth.

“
Oh
,
hi-i-i,” she breathed, something people did in books I hadn’t realized was
possible.

A guitar
shrieked as it was unplugged. When a bleached blonde in tight jeans brushed
against me, I gave her the eye. She eyed me back. There was plenty of time for
that later. I turned back to Ruby.

“I’ve never seen
you here before,” she said. Normally, it would be a line, but she sounded truly
surprised.

“I don’t come
here,” I shrugged. “Why? Is it your favorite haunt?” She did kind of haunt a
place.

“I come here
every night,” she said.

“Every single
night?”

She lowered her
gaze.

I wondered if
guys hit on her or if she was too weird. “You must have heard some good lines,”
I said.

“No…” she
stirred her drink and gave me a shy glance. “If I was going to use a line, I
would quote from a great book. And if they didn’t get it…well, then at least I
would know. And I wouldn’t have to go to all the trouble.”

“What trouble?”

“You know. Of
talking
.”

I never had to
talk to anyone. “Okay, let’s hear it,” I said. “Give me a line.”

She flushed. Her
lips moved ever so slightly. I swear she was counting under her breath. She
stopped at eight. Something wrong hovered in the air. And then she went into
character, putting her hand to her breast, imploring me with her incredible
black ringed eyes. “Kiss me. But don’t
look
at me. I don’t want to see
your lying face,” her lips quirked. “You miserable conniving bitch,
Catherine
,”
she broke into giggles.

I sidled closer.
“I don’t remember Heathcliff calling Catherine a bitch,” I wanted to put my
hand on the back of her neck.

Her eyelashes
fluttered. “Your turn,” she said.

What came to me
was the opening of
Tristessa
, which I had committed to memory last night
in her living room. I quoted word for word. The rest of the world fell away. It
was just the two of us, until I came to the end of the longest run-on sentence
known to man.

“I love that
book,” she said. Her eyes were so huge and gorgeous and desperate, I thought
they could swallow me. She was like a wounded animal, caught in my snare. A
look of panic crossed her face. She checked her watch. “I—I have to go home.”

What did she see
with those big eyes that warned her against me?

I touched her
neck, brushing my thumb against her pulse. Her skin was hot. When she met my
gaze, I remembered. For just a second, I remembered how life felt when it was
painful and fragile and fleeting.

“Goodnight,” I
whispered.