Pulled

Pulled

Danielle Bannister 

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright @ 2011

My only love sprung from my only hate!

Too early seen unknown, and known too late!

Prodigious birth of love it is to me

That I must love a loathèd enemy.

Romeo & Juliet
Act 1, scene 5

Chapter 1

Naya

My heart is fluttering as I walk toward the brick building that will house the majority of my four years of college: Stanley Hall. Even though I’ve seen the building a million times on-line, seeing it in person leaves me breathless. I actually have stop in mid-stride to take in its beauty. The worn red brick coupled with crisp New England
charm make the theatre complex nothing short of intimidating.

Tucking a stray strand of my too-straight, too-black hair behind my ear, I take a nerve calming sip of my coffee mug and march toward the door, determined to not let my fear of not measuring up get the best of me.

“
You made me give up Florida
State
for this?” a voice whispers in my ear.

I just about jump out of my skin. “Seth! You scared me!” I scream, punching him lightly on the arm.

“
You know it's not nice to hit,” he says, pleased with himself.

“
Sorry. I’m just a little…intimidated at the moment,” I say, tucking that same damn strand of hair behind my ear again.

Seth just laughs at me. He takes my chin in his hand, forcing me to look at him. “Hey, remember what my dad says. 'Never let them see you sweat,'” he says before he pulls me in close to his chest.

“
Right,” I say, putting on a brave face. Seth hates to see weakness in people. Especially in me. “I should go.”

I push him away gently and turn toward the theatre and take my first tentative steps before I am struck by a thought. I turn around and find Seth still there, smirking at me.

“
What are you doing here anyway? You don’t have any classes today.”

“
I know,” he grins. “I just wanted to see my girl before her first class.”

Or check up on me
, I can't help but think, but I smile, because a smile is what he expects.

“
You’ll meet me for lunch and tell me all about it,” he says, before he presses his cool lips to mine. I nod in understanding before he lets my hand go.

I watch him disappear down the hill toward his dorm before I turn back to my face my current nemesis.

Here goes nothing.

As soon as I walk into the building, any courage I had managed to build up disappears and I am overcome with childish jitters. Nervously, I pull out my schedule, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, to look again at the room number of my first class: 111.
Honestly, Naya, how hard is that to remember?

Casually glancing up at the doors as I walk past, I notice that the numbers are climbing up; I'm heading in the right direction. When I round the corner at the end of the hallway, I find it. ‘Movement for the Actor.’ Butterflies fill my stomach. Squaring my shoulders, I steady myself and walk through the door.

A quick survey of the room reveals nothing overtly intimidating. It’s just a large, open space. In the corner there is an area set up with chairs and a movable white board. Along the back wall are his and her bathrooms. The opposite side of the room is lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Aside from that, the room is completely empty.

Great.
Not only am I a freshman with no friends (because let’s face it, boyfriends shouldn’t count), I am also
that
girl: the one who is always early, eager, and ready to learn.

Dragging my much-too-prompt feet toward the chairs, I plop down in the back row and pull out my tattered copy of
Romeo & Juliet
from my backpack to create the illusion of being 'otherwise engaged.' It's my favorite play, and not because of their ridiculous, unrealistic love affair. It's Shakespeare's use of poetic irony that is simply priceless: just when you find Mr. Right, death comes knocking. It's perfect. But then maybe, just maybe, I'm a little bitter and the subjects of love and death are still too raw for me.
Maybe.

Opening to where I had dog-eared my page, I settle deeper into my chair. I’m just about to dive into Act Two, when
he
walks in.

Etash

I’m already awake when the sun comes up, but I'm too annoyed to get out of bed; I hate first days.

When I'm finally able to talk myself into a shower, I debate briefly whether to shave the beard I've been trying to grow all summer, or keep it. Screw it. I'm shaving it. The damn thing never grew in where I needed it to anyway.

I'm hopeful that this year will be easier since most of the student body got their 'grand reveal' last year, it'll only be the freshman I'll have to try hiding from until they've managed to sneak a peek
. Thankfully, after a few weeks, they too, will ignore me and then I'll be able to breathe and be myself again.

Pulling into the almost-empty lot, I turn off the engine of my '89 VW, yank out my schedule and shake my head. Acting. Although I can understand the rationale for having to take acting classes as part of my directing major, I’m still not happy about it. This face needs to be offstage, not on it.

The only thing that will make this class bearable will be Professor Williams. As a former Broadway star, he knows his stuff. I was able to stage manage for one of his shows last year, so he and I get along nicely. I do as he asks and he keeps his eyes off of me. A perfect working relationship.

Checking the clock on the dashboard, I note that I'm 20 minutes early.
Right on time.
Being early is one of my few indulgences; it allows me just enough time to find a seat without a ton of eyes watching my every move and whispering remarks behind my back.

So when I open the door to class, I am extremely annoyed to find that another student has beaten me there--forcing me to walk past her and her predictable stare.

Naya

There is nothing unusual about how he enters the room, unless you notice his dark eyes glued to the floor, which I do.

I am instantly struck by how uncomfortable he seems to be. His shoulders are slumped so low that it looks like he’s trying to crawl inside his shirt. He grabs a seat in the front of the room, diagonally from where I sit, his left side facing the wall.

Needing something to do with my hands, I push up the sleeves of my deep plum v-neck. The dark color does nothing to hide my overt paleness, but I haven’t worn light colors since… well, a long time.

Several minutes pass and we remain the only two in the room. I feel like I should introduce myself, or at least say ‘hi,’ but there is something about the way he sits in his chair that makes me hold my tongue. It's as though he's willing himself to blend in with the room and not be noticed. I can respect that; I want the same thing.

Picking up my book again, I try to move my eyes back to the page, but no matter how hard I try, they disobey me. They stay transfixed to the back of his dark, curly hair; mesmerized.

Perhaps it's because I have never seen someone with his exact coloring before. It isn’t tan. No, definitely not tan, but more, what, olive? Is he Asian? No. Middle-Eastern? Indian?

I want desperately for him to turn his head, just a little, so I can get a glimpse of this person from whom I can’t manage to pull my gaze. But he holds his focus on a book he's drumming his thumb on. Curious to know what he's reading, my eyes allow a quick move towards the cover. It looks familiar--really familiar.
No way.
He's reading
Romeo & Juliet
too. I actually laugh out loud. No, laugh is too polite a word. I guffawed. His dark eyes turn over his shoulder, ever so slightly, to glare at me. The girl who is openly laughing at him.
Shit
.

My mouth hangs open as I try come up with an apology for my overt rudeness, but the second our eyes meet, I feel a sudden liquid-hot jolt run through me which causes me to flinch. Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see him do the same, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. He just keeps his dark, piercing eyes focused on me, waiting for an explanation for my outburst.

“
Ah, we seem to be reading the same thing,” I blurt out, holding up my copy.

“
So it would seem.” He continues his over-the-shoulder stare for a long moment as though trying to figure out some great mystery.

The sound of the door opening breaks the spell and I'm able to look away from him. Alarmed by the blush that is creeping onto my face, I bury my head in my book.

I force myself to focus on the words printed on the page, to breathe in and out and forget about the boy with the dark eyes. Slowly, I begin losing myself in the world of Capulets and Montagues. But even The Bard can't keep my attention held for more than a few minutes. The desire to sneak another peak at the dark boy is too strong.

Lowering my book a fraction of an inch, I chance a glance up, unable to resist any longer. Thankfully, his eyes are safely focused on the professor that I didn’t notice come in. In fact, there are quite a few new additions to the room. Looking around the once empty space, I find that it is now almost full.
When did that happen?

Nearly all of the chairs have been taken; save for the row I am sitting in. Apparently the back of the class is
not
the place to sit in an acting class. Who knew?

“
Good morning everyone. I am Professor Williams and this is Movement for Actors. And for the record, I’m no more thrilled with this 9:00 am
slot than any of you are,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee for emphasis.

He is dressed casually; dark corduroys, paired with a light sweater, and light brown sports coat. Only the worn cowboy boots seem out of place.

Professor Williams scans the room briefly, getting a feel for his newest crop, when his eyes stop on mine.

“
You, in the back, what’s your name?” he asks.

I clear my throat, finding it very hard to speak at the moment.

“
Naya. Naya Adams,” I manage to croak out.

As I look back down to my chair, I notice all eyes in the class are on me; all of them.