Star-Crossed (24 page)

I rested my head against his shoulder, and we took it all in. A part of me prayed that somehow we could absorb it through our skin; osmosis, melding with our DNA. I wanted to remember this more than through simply filtered memories.

Will pointed to the sky; a firework erupted, sending a cascade of white dust in the smog-smeared night.

“Will,” I said. The basket gently rocked. “I love you.”

Three words. That's all they were. Yet my heart still clenched; my blood went cold.

I could feel his smile, even though we were both still watching the last few sparks of pixie-dust fall; it was the most alive I had ever felt. The last few cries of festive laughter rang like a bird-song.

“I love you, too,” he said. “I love you, Kaitlyn.”

Fingers touched, curled, cold and trembling. We kissed as the basket swayed; a gentle rocking, a creaking lullaby. I was the wisest of sages and most stumbling of newborns all at once.

I rented a room at a hotel that was neither horrible nor anything special; clean sheets, a plain white bedspread. The windows overlooked the water, all black and without any sign of waves. All of the bodies had vacated; the sand was an empty, sprawling ivory.

We turned the shower on, falling into the bath mid-seize; our clothes quickly drenched. We peeled each other out of them, tossing shirts heavy with water onto ceramic tile. I ran my tongue down his lips, kissed them; his eyes were open lazily, his smile breaking the contact.

There were no toiletries, so we washed each other with our hands and the hot spray of water that still smelled of the beachfront. We rang out our hair, got under the thin-sheets, and made love feverishly; our fingers interlaced, each breath louder than the next. We hung on the edge of bliss for what felt like an eternity, each thrust of his hips against my willowy frame was painful in the very best way.

I came; he followed seconds after. Then we held each other: breathless, alive. Nothing but two pounding hearts in a dark room.

“I don't want to leave,” I told him.

“Then don't,” he said. “Stay with me. We'll find a way to reconfigure somehow.”

Each of us spoke sharply; not in sound, but by the lack of breath.

I sank into the mattress, his hand over my chest. I knew that he could feel my insides rattling; afraid and elated. In love and in total anguish.

“I just want to run away with you,” I whispered. “Somewhere. Anywhere.”

Will kissed my temple, pulling me against him. We fell asleep to sea-sounds and tricking sounds of fading breath.

That morning, we woke up early and ate breakfast at this little diner that served coffee so viscous it literally resembled mud. We took pictures in one of those tacky photo-booths; grinning at the camera and making the stupidest faces possible. Will was a little kid; giving me rabbit ears and stretching his mouth out as the camera bulbs flashed. I had never laughed so hard.

But the very last photo was romantic; a simple kiss, a classic pose.

Will insisted that the key to loving a place was finding the hidden gems; to treat each destination like a set of spies bent on locating all of the hidden magic that only existed in the spots you never thought to look. The hidden restaurants, the simple structure of a beautifully aged window. Or the old cobblestone streets, the vendors handling their produce with careful hands. The billowing smoke that erupted through the cracks in the road was beautiful, too. If you wanted to see it, that is.

It was hard to say goodbye; but goodbyes always are. After spending an afternoon sipping thick shakes through thin straws and skipping over the side-walk lines like school-children, we took a taxi back to my home. Twilight mocked us, making the sky resemble that same blue-and-pink whirl of cotton confection.

He told me he loved me, the words crystallized on his tongue. But it would never be enough. I wanted to carry the words around in my pocket; I wished it were something tactile, something I could hold and flip through. A blank book on which words would appear when we spoke; all of conversations bleeding like ink into paper. Permanent.

I told him I loved him, and he kissed me so intensely that the cab-driver barked for him to cut it out or walk home. I watched him go, still wearing my NASA T-shirt. Still in the ratty pair of jeans. Still feeling better than I ever had while wearing a label.

The paces back to the house entrance were painful; I trudged along begrudgingly, knowing full well what was waiting for me.

Inside, every room was lit. Music flared, glasses clinked. I spied Marius in the Great Room, playing piano while Vivian laughed; her sing-song voice accompanying Marius' tune.

He looked up, his mouth gaping open slightly. Vivian followed, and then came my father's eyes; horrified, disgusted. He stared at my clothes as if I had been wearing nothing at all; as if I was standing naked in front of him and his unbearable guests.

“Kaitlyn,” he said. “Where were you?”

“With a friend,” I said. “I was with a friend.”

Their eyes fell; discomfort, shame. It was all enough to render me time to slide up the steps and into my room. I stripped out of my clothes, throwing them on the floor with a ferocious discard. I didn't care one bit.

I was still on cloud nine, you see. I was still soaring. I was in love.

The last few days of May cruised by casually, as if there existed no hurry in the students waiting for the end of the semester. Class wrapped up; we acknowledged the coming exams; Opening Night for
Romeo and Juliet
was the coming Friday, and Mr. Tennant spoke about the conclusion of
Lolita
with an exuberant interest. With each word, he held the book in his hand, high above his head, like he was getting ready to shout holy scriptures.

“Tyler,” he finally said. “What did you think?”

We still hadn't been speaking. Not a word other than at rehearsals. Practice had been going unnervingly flawless. There was no inkling - none at all - of any tension between Tyler Dawson and myself.

Until he opened his mouth. Right there, in the classroom.

“I don't know,” Tyler said. “Disgusting. Horrible.”

“Pardon?” Mr. Tennant raised his eyebrows. “Would you mind elaborating, Mr. Dawson?”

He was silent for a moment, undoubtedly contemplating his next move; the next set of words that he would throw out like a hand of cards.

“I can see why you'd like the story so much,” Tyler said, smiling smugly. “It tries to justify something terrible.”

The room went silent. Mr. Tennant, sitting on the edge of his desk, combed back a crop of dark hair and stared at Tyler with a look that was both stone-cold and questioning.

“Tyler,” he said mildly. “What do you find so terrible?”

Their eyes clicked; quick, sharp. Watching the two of them made my stomach turn to lead.

“I can't do this,” Tyler said. “I can't. I can't do it.”

He scooted his chair back, grabbed his uniform jacket, and stormed into the hallway. After a moment of hesitation, I followed him. All sets of eyes followed me to the door as I slipped out, closing it quietly.

“What are you doing?” I hissed. “I thought you didn't want to make a scene.”

“You're only interpreting what just happened in there as a scene because you know you're doing something scene-worthy. You're doing something wrong.”

I stared at him. He stared back. We stared at each other as the bell rang, students sifted through the door, and Mr. Tennant eventually came outside. He waited until the halls were nearly empty before attempting to speak.

“Is everything alright?” he asked quietly. “You seem upset, Tyler.”

I watched Tyler's reaction; the gradual fall of his shoulders, the expel of hot air through his nostrils. His brow furrowed, his eyes dropped to the ground. Every movement screamed of a boy who wanted so badly to exclaim that he knew a great and disastrous secret.

But he didn't.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Tennant,” Tyler said. “It was wrong for me to snap at you. I really do apologize.”

Will nodded carefully, arms crossed. His blazer was buttoned, covering a simple, crisp button-down. His slacks were held up with a slick, black belt; his hair perfectly mussed. A pair of sunglasses peeked from his pants pocket.

“You're fine,” he said, but there was an edge to his tone. “Off you go, then. Kaitlyn, can you stay a moment?”

Tyler looked at me, his eyes weighed with a resentment that was unexplainable. Yet even in that understated loathing, there was a small light of something that wanted to break; to open up, to maybe forgive. That missed our mismatched friendship.

When I went inside, he stayed. He stayed by the door; his face a blur of colors from through the opaque window.

“Does he know?” Will asked. “About you and I?”

Don't lie to him.
My wretched insides wailed.
Do. Not. Lie to him.

“Yes,” I confessed. “He knows. But we're safe, I swear. He won't say a word to anyone. I promise, I would never put you at risk.”

First rule of loving someone: don't lie.

The second rule: don't make promises you can't keep.

In the span of a fleeting second, I had broken both.

Will didn't say anything. His arms fell, his breath was deep, his fingers curled into tight fists.

“I trust you,” he eventually said. “I believe you.”

He smiled at me, but I could see the anxiety etched in the lines that crinkled at the corners of his mouth. The belief was not unconditional; it wasn't fully there. It was like a glass nearly full, but not quite. Not enough to satiate.

I opened the door, and Tyler glanced at me.

“Plotting an escape?” he asked. “Plotting the next move?”

“Listen,” I said weakly. In fact, it was almost pathetic. “I've apologized to you. I don't know what to do anymore, Tyler. I screwed up. Please don't look at me like that, though. Like I'm the worst thing in the world.”

Tyler pressed his lips together, hands yanking at his tie like he was half-attempting to asphyxiate himself. When I looked down at my own hands, I was doing the same; we mirrored each other. The feelings were mutual.

“You know,” I added. “We need to practice.”

“We're perfect,” he said. “We always were.”

Bell rang. We were late. Tyler started moving back and forth, his eyes on the intercom.

“Listen,” I told him. “You can still hate me. I get it. Hate me all you want. But just tell me we can hang out and practice tonight. I don't want to fuck this play up. It's the one damn thing I've been looking forward to this semester.”

Correction: aside from leaving Trinity forever.

And just like that, there it was; small, quick, but still there. A faint smile.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess we can. Don't think we're all patched-up and everything, though. I still think what you're doing is shitty.”

“I know,” I said.

“No,” he said. “No. I don't really think you do.”

First rule of being a real friend: take the verbal battering when it's deserved. Pride is the ugliest mask you can wear.

NINETEEN

His house was empty; both his parents were working late. Tyler dropped his backpack on the kitchen floor, yanked open the refrigerator door, and grabbed two cans of 7-UP. We went into his bedroom, shut the door, and he threw open the window.

The room was a mess; his bed was unmade; clothes were littered all over the floor, piled up around various paper wrappers and crumpled homework assignments.

He shrugged.

“I've been busy,” he said. “I'm sorry my room isn't as nice or big or fancy as yours.”

“Tyler,” I sat down on the edge of his bed. “I really am sorry.”

“I'm not accepting an apology when you don't even really know what you're supposed to be sorry about.”

We pulled out our copies of
Romeo and Juliet
, set them down on our laps. The copies, since practice had started, had become worn; small tears, loose pages. We had run from start to finish countless times, and yet each time we read the words, a newly resurrected scene came forth. Each time was different than the last, adding something new and unexpected.

I opened my book first, and he followed. But neither of us started reading.

“Are you going to forgive me?” I asked him.

Tyler paused, eyes still on the page.

“Not today,” he said. “But you stand a better chance than Mr. Tennant. I'll never be able to look at him the same way ever again. I'm serious.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that,” Tyler sounded annoyed, his words clipped. “But you don't. God dammit, Kait. Students don't go fucking around with teachers.”

He combed his hands through his hair, let out a clean sigh. We both took a sip of our drinks; the carbonation, lukewarm, burned down my throat.

I looked at him, remembering my initial impression of the boy with the animated eyes; how he had used to maintain that happy, elated glimmer.

But since he had come to me in the courtyard that afternoon, since he wandered into my life, it had faded some. The bubbling elation was gone; replaced by a boy who, while still very much attached to his ambitious dreams, was more calloused. Quick to speak sharply. A realist had replaced the dreamer.

It was my fault.

“I made the first move,” I told Tyler. “I went to him. I was incessant. I seduced him.”

“Seduced?” Tyler raised an eyebrow. “I don't believe in the word. It's not a real one, you know. We just use it to take away the edge of the actions we make.”

He tapped his finger against the aluminum; his nails were heavily bitten. His hair fell down to the tip of his nose, wavy and soft. Like the rest of him.

“Are you in love with him?” he asked.

Tyler took a deep breath right then. As if preparing himself for the answer; for the hammer to drop. It killed me, seeing him like that. The small crack that had grown since my evening spent in the embrace of my teacher – his words, his love – was now shattered. The shards cut my hands.

“Yes,” I said. “I'm in love with him.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tyler exclaimed softly. “I just – I don't know. I don't have anything to say to that.”

So he didn't. He loosened his tie, took it off, threw it on the ground. He unbuttoned his collar, as if he was having a hard time breathing.

Then he turned the page, opened his mouth, and started reading.

On Opening night, Mr. Tennant gathered everyone around. Everyone was dressed in such finery that the lot of us were unrecognizable. The stage was set with props that were painted so well they could have tricked the untrained eye into thinking that the faux-stone structures and hand-crafted streets were actually those of fair Verona.

I was dressed in a silk gown – a dark, deep gold. My hair hung in waves down to my waist, and was adorned with tiny pearls. Tyler wore his costume coupled with styled hair and an actual sword that he held with an anxious excitement.

Will clapped his hands. We all turned to him, and I found myself barely taking in breath.

“We've all worked very hard to reach this point,” he said, his voice cracking with an elated anxiousness. “I'm very proud of you all. So go on, and do well.”

Tyler was a mess of bundled nerves, but I could see the joy on his face. This was his moment. It was our moment.

We were the stars, after all. And I loved the way it sounded; not like two celebrities, but literal stars. Burning lights in the heavy night.

Marius was toying with his own sword, a total Tybalt to a T. He was the Prince of Cats; perfectly unmarked by any kind of nervousness. He wore his costume – a modernized piece reminiscent of Zeffirelli's great classic – with such an air that he bled arrogance; anger. Rage.

I glanced around at the scenery; stone, vines and blood-red flowers. Everything was bathed in the garish white light.

“Are you okay?” Tyler whispered.

We touched hands. The curtain opened. The entire stage was a bathed in a chiffon gleam.

I had never before that moment considered that I would posses any skill when it came to acting; but right then, it all felt so natural. Each step, each line - each gesture as I laughed with the nurse and glared at Tybalt – wasn't really staged at all.

When Romeo and I danced at the masquerade, we had no recognition of the past deceit or anger or tear-shed. We were in love, instantly infatuated. The violins swelled, my heartstrings sang.

When we kissed on the balcony, the white light replaced with a gentle cobalt, I felt transported to some place different and new. Tyler had become a stranger; a foreign face; a truly besotted boy that I was madly, deeply in love with.

I watched him from behind the curtain as he held Mercutio, overwhelmed with emotion. A shrieking bellow swept over the entire theater. I covered my mouth as he battled with Tybalt; the final drop of his sword taking one of the Prince's nine lives.

I sobbed at the news of Romeo's banishment. I was genuinely wrapped in grief.

Romeo wailed when he learned of my death, collapsing to the ground, shouting a defiant roar to the stars.

In the tomb, the lights formed a Halcyon triangle over my frozen frame; every part of me was twisting. Tyler's lines pelted like arrows; his warm hands clutching my own with an anguished desperation.

When he kissed me, his hands fell on my face; my eyes fluttered open, my own fingers reaching up to touch his cheek.

I leaned up, our lips parting briefly as he looked at me with eyes that rang of impending death.

It worked. The subtle twist caused a wind of gasps from the audience.

He leaned down, kissing me again. It was organic, off-script; it was gentle and timid. I pretended to believe that he was acting; that as he ran the lines he was simply falling into the part of a mourning lover. But when he collapsed onto my chest, the paroxysm of his entire frame causing my body to tremble, I knew it wasn't an act. His hot tears dampened my shirt; I could feel them, warm, on my skin.

He wept. He broke sobbing, quiet as death, in front a sea of several-hundred faces, and there was nothing I could do about it. I could only hold him.

My Romeo looked up. One last glance, one gentle press of his warm mouth against my own.

And with a kiss, he died. I could feel the stinging tears pool as I cradled him in my arms; my own sobs as genuine as if he had actually stopped breathing. I could barely take in air; choking on the words as I drew the dagger from his sheath and held the tip to my clothed chest.

Another sob, another shattering cry. Not even for the sake of the part I was playing. Not Juliet; not the role of a wife, a devoted partner.

I had played a role in breaking Tyler Dawson's heart.

One last breath, my final line, and I fell onto his chest with the lights gradually dimming.

When the lights went out, and the curtain closed, all I could hear was the shared sound of our thudding heartbeats in the darkness. Awake, but not really. Dead, but still sentient. Still breathing. Still alive.

The audience stood, and the applause was triumphant. We all took stage once again, all holding hands, all bowing with a practiced grace.

I was glowing. When Will took the stage, tears brimming his own eyes, and thanked the audience for coming, I was overwhelmed. Floating. Everything, in the words of Shakespeare, felt much too sweet to be substantial.

Afterwards, we all shared an emotional hug. I smiled at Will, hugging him, and nobody thought anything of it. We were all embracing him. We were all suspended on our own exhilaration.

I searched the crowds with Tyler, finding Marius along with Vivian. His father hadn't come, and I could see the disappointment. It was mutual, shared.

Mine too was nowhere to be found.

“What was the excuse?” I asked, and Vivian appeared startled. When she said nothing, and Marius touched my arm gently, I pulled away. “No. Don't. I'm not even going to bother.”

Tyler softened, his hand on my wrist.

“My folks and I are grabbing dinner,” he said. “You're welcome to come.”

I smiled. He did, too. They were small, but it was enough.

“I'd really like that,” I told him. I told myself not to start crying.

We all walked to this little pizzeria down the street, sharing pizza sliced thick with melted provolone. It was simple. It was wonderful.

Inside my pocket, my phone vibrated. A message from Will. A photograph of the empty stage, still drenched in honey-colored light.

Will you wait up for me?
I asked him.

A moment later, he responded.

Always
.

After dinner, I stood with Tyler outside, reclined on the old brick-siding; my phone still in my hand. It vibrated again, and he glanced at me. It was hard to read exactly how he was feeling; not thrilled, but not angry either.

“It's him, isn't it?”

I glanced at the ground, sighing quietly.

“Yeah,” I said. “It's him.”

He smiled, then sighed, then glanced at his parents through the restaurant window. Both of them still had the dizzy-eyed look of newlyweds.

“You should go,” he said. “I mean, you can go if you want.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure,” he said. But his look was still heavy.

As I turned around, he called out again.

“We're okay,” he said. “We'll be okay. Just so you know. I don't think I'll ever understand, and I still think it's shitty, but I miss you. That's all.”

I threw my arms around him, hugging him tightly. He laughed, wrapping his limber arms around my waist and pulling me closer. His clothes were damp with sweat, skin covered in a faint sheen. Our faces were both still covered in stage makeup – pale faces, blush-powdered cheeks. A few people that passed by gave a second glance; sharing smiles as if they thought we were just another silly young couple. In love without any real idea of what it meant to actively live the word.

The cab ride seemed to take ages; the traffic and pedestrians congesting the streets like clogged arteries. But when I saw Will, waiting on those steps, I had forgotten that such a thing as time existed. Even with the sound of his clocks; the working one, and the frozen ones, and the one he wore on his wrist.

He took my chin in his hand, and kissed me.

“You were brilliant,” he said. “My shining starlet.”

I stood on my toes, hung my arms around his neck, and kissed him again beneath the streetlight. It would have made a perfect photograph.

We stayed up all night, playing board games and flipping through old photo albums and watching videos. Some we sat through, glued to the screen, while others only served as background noise to our needy bodies. Slow, savoring kisses.

That night, we made love gently. Slowly. We were two boats rocking on a gentle ocean, our eyes remaining locked, our fingers intertwined.

I touched the chain that hung around his neck, the ring an ornament.

“Tell me something,” I said. “Tell me you love me.”

“I love you,” he said. “I love you.”

Maybe it was foolish, but I didn't go home that night. When I discovered that my father had left that morning for a business-related gathering across the country in the City of Angels, I decided to spend the weekend with Will. We saw Phantom of the Opera, ate gelato with comically tiny spoons. We climbed to the top of the Empire State Building, our lungs aching, totally out of breath.

I lifted my camera, and snapped a picture to the backdrop of a city that never slept. A blur of lights and life. The last photograph taken of us together.

That was the Last Good Day, before everything came crashing down.

The silence when I first stepped through Trinity's doors should have been taken as a sign, but I was oblivious. My only thoughts were of how there were only a few weeks left before I could leave all of this behind me; Trinity Prep, mandatory chapel, all of the wary, glaring eyes that, on that morning were looking at me in a particularly harsh manner. One girl muttered something under her breath, another simply stared.

I went to my locker, and I should have suspected something when I struggled to open the door. Marius, who had trailed along behind me, had to yank it open with both hands.