School Ties (4 page)

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An hour later, I'm wishing we would've waited longer. There's a reason I don't do this. But it's been so long I forgot how dirty and abandoned it makes me feel. Like a pair of used socks that get tossed on the floor. Not even into the laundry basket. Oh, no. He didn't put me in the laundry basket. This is a one-time thing and now that he's had me he won't want me again. I'd had one tutor who, though she was sleeping with my father, had felt it appropriate to lecture me about how I should keep my legs closed.

“No man wants to marry a girl who gives it up easy. Especially a girl like you.”

I knew what she'd meant; she hadn't had to explain it. Pretty but not so pretty they'd keep me around for my looks. My dad had money, but not so much I'd be worth marrying for that. And this woman hadn't thought I was all that bright. What the heck did she know? She'd made the same mistake she'd warned me against, and it wasn't so long before Natalia wasn't my tutor anymore.

But for all her hypocrisy, maybe Natalia wasn't so dumb. I'll be just another campus conquest for Will. How many fellows has he slept with? God, am I stupid. It hadn't even been that good. Fumbling, awkward vanilla sex that happens between the drunk and/or hasty who don't know each other's hot buttons. I'd tried to figure out what he wanted but Will is not an attentive lover. At least we'd used a condom, hastily dug out of his wallet.

So I made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. I'm allowed to make a few mistakes, right? Except my dad convinced me from an early age that I'm
not
allowed. That whatever the consequences would be for other people, mine would be a hundred times worse. I'd be the kid who OD'd the first time I did drugs. I'd be the one who got salmonella from eating raw cookie dough. I'd be the one who got run over by a bus because I jaywalked.

These are the thoughts my father instilled in my head. I am not allowed to take chances. I am not allowed to take risks. I've been built to suffer and I shouldn't invite more heartache than I'll already have into my life. I figured out later it was his way of trying to make sure I didn't leave him like my mom had, but the damage went too deep. He thought he was carving it in stone, but I'm a piece of soap. It's not something I particularly like about myself, but I've always been soft, malleable. I don't mind so much being blown along like a feather in the breeze even if I sometimes feel lost, like I'd rather be plucked from a gust of wind and stuck in someone's cap.

Will left a few minutes ago, told me we shouldn't walk across campus together lest people figure out what went down, and I'd agreed. But now I'm alone, staring at the clock waiting for the ten minutes we'd agreed on to pass and I'm sorry. I'm sorry about it all.

“Screw it,” I mutter, and head out when there are three minutes left on the clock.

Chapter Three

Erin

Thanksgiving break is coming to an end. The boys will be filtering in in a few hours with hair just cut and suitcases of freshly washed clothes, maybe with a new video game or some gadget I won't understand the point of. For now, the dorm my tiny attic apartment is in is empty and I intend to enjoy.

I'd had Thanksgiving with a few friends in Somerville. They're all in grad school or law school or med school. I'm the odd one out with an actual job. They'd expressed envy over the fact that I earn a paycheck, but I placated their egos by insinuating how little I get paid.

Teaching at a boarding school has its advantages: room and board are provided, the benefits are good, and the strength of community is unparalleled. Rolling in dough is not one of them. It had been fun to see everyone and catch up, gossip about our classmates. It was good to not be alone in that in-between space: the not-quite-adult I have to be with my colleagues and not-quite-adolescent I'm not allowed to be with my students. But I'm an introvert at heart and it was a distinct relief to climb into my car at the end of the night and drive back to my own apartment instead of crashing on a futon.

But in the stillness of the empty dorm, the silence is oppressive. I've finished the book I've been savoring—one that's incredibly hot in a way I should be perturbed by liking because it's hovering so close to the edge of being not okay. Followed by taking a bath in my too-small tub to wash away the slickness of my arousal and the subsequent orgasm I'd rubbed myself to while imagining all of those invasive and intimate and hotly shameful things happening to me.

Once I'd gotten that out of my system (and put the book in the freezer), I'd watched a few movies while eating leftover Halloween candy and folding heaps of overdue laundry. I'm looking forward to the boys coming back, settling into the familiar routine that fills my waking hours. It gives me confidence to get through the day. In the meantime, my body is bouncing, full of energy. The athletic facilities are locked, won't open again until morning, so I've got one alternative: Dance Party.

I'm already decked out in my
Flashdance
best: cropped leggings, a tank top and a sweatshirt I'd cut the neck off. It's a short trip to turn on my laptop, hook it up to the speakers and crank up my eighties mix. Soon I'm rocking out hard, busting out my best moves. For a white girl, I'm not too bad, thanks to the hip hop classes I'd taken to blow off steam and take up time in college.

After a good twenty minutes of shaking what my momma gave me—one of the only things she gave me—I'm sweating. They've turned the heat on in the dorms though this fall's been unseasonably warm and my apartment's sweltering. I shove open the window that's been painted a dozen times, the last coat still sticky from when it was painted over this summer, and open my door to let the cross-breeze in.

My head is clearing while I'm doing my best Molly Ringwald impression when there's a knock at my door. Or, more accurately, my doorframe. I'm startled into a shriek and clap my hands over my mouth, turning to see who my intruder is.

Shep.

My face flames and I hold up a finger to tell him to wait. We won't be able to hear each other over Deniece Williams. Never mind I need a minute to collect myself. How long was he standing there? This is humiliating. Although it could've been worse. I could've been going to Funkytown. Or whipping it. Or it could have been someone other than Shep. Shep's not going to do an impression of me in the dining hall and he's not going to bust my chops about my sick dance moves in class. My mortification settles into a low burn of embarrassment. Shep will keep my secrets.

“Mr. Shepherd. I thought you boys weren't due back until four.”

He's standing there in jeans and one of the light fleeces all the kids seem to wear when they're not required to be in dress code, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He stubs an Adidas-clad toe into the dingy carpet of the hallway and looks down.

“My dad has to work tomorrow. He wanted to get home early.”

Right. His eyes find mine and his gaze makes me flush hotter. It's not a leer like I get from some of the boys, especially the ones who don't have me in class, but it is an observation. A study. I have a flashback to Shep's drawings in the art show and all the wrong areas in my body tighten when I picture him sketching me. I drag the cuff of my sweatshirt over my forehead to wipe away the sweat and shove some escaped tendrils of hair behind my ears.
Don't remember me like this.
My thoughts stutter as I try not to imagine how I
would
like Shep to draw me. A rational thought would be great, but my head doesn't seem willing to supply one. I'm grateful when Shep does.

“I told Mr. Foster before I left I'd have to come back early. I guess he forgot. Dorm's locked.”

“Of course. I'll get my key.”
Jeez, Erin, why did you think he was showing up at your door? To seduce you?
I hurry to the rack on the wall where I keep my keys, find the extra set to Ford, and shove my feet into a worn pair of flip-flops. “Let's go.”

Shep eyes me closely. “It's kinda cold out there, Miss Brewster.”

I wave a hand. “It's not far. Besides, I need to cool off.”

He tilts his head in a way that makes me want to run back to my bedroom and grab my warmest parka, but I've made my call. I shut the door to my apartment and scrawl a note on my white board to say I'll be back in five in case there are other early arrivals who come looking for me. Then I traipse down the stairs, Shep's heavy footsteps following mine.

I do my best not to look back at him and try to make small talk about his vacation as we cross the small quad. Shep's not a big talker anyway, but his one-word answers tell me home is not the greatest place in the world. It's possible he'd rather be here, feels more at ease on campus than he does with his family. He wouldn't be the only one. The Hill is the only place on earth where I can plant my feet on the ground.

By the time we reach the front door where a worn duffel and his familiar backpack are waiting, I'm shivering. My stubbornness has turned out to be stupidity. I use one hand to rub my arm while my shaking fingers attempt to get the key into the lock.

It's not that cold outside, but in my overheated state and sweat-drenched clothing, I'm freezing. My toes are thin and shivery, like they'd snap off if I stubbed my toe. The lock thunks open and I pull the door to let Shep in.

“Leave a note on Mr. Foster's door to let him know you're back, okay? See you in the morning.”

I turn to skitter across the frozen tundra to Oliver, hugging my arms against my chest and trying to rub warmth into my biceps. I'm stopped by a warm hand on my shoulder. “Miss Brewster, take my coat.”

Shep is stripping out of the fleece, revealing a hint of plaid boxers peeking out over the waistband of his jeans and a tantalizing strip of skin and a dust of hair trailing . . .
No, no, no no no!
I clench my eyes tight to get the picture of my fingers running over that skin, the ripple of muscle, out of my head. I open them to Shep holding out his fleece, a rugby shirt settled on his frame, mercifully hiding any more skin I might covet.

I hesitate. This seems inappropriate even if I weren't having the thoughts I'm having, and I am. I'm a second from waving him off.

“Erin.”

His voice is a command. It's almost the tone I've heard him use on the soccer field with his teammates, but there's a different edge. One that makes my knees weak and, heaven help me, everything south of my waist tighten and throb. I should scold him for using my name but my synapses are too busy sending signals to other parts of my body to get the words out.

“Take my coat. Please. You're freezing. I don't want you making yourself sick.” My lips part, revealing chattering teeth, and I reach for the coat. The expression on his face softens when I take it. He's back to being one of my students. “Can't have you missing class. There's too much to cover. I'll never pass the AP if we don't get through it all.”

I yank the fleece over my head, warm from his body and smelling of his clean, Ivory-soap scent. A lot of the boys wear expensive colognes. They smell like luxe department stores. Not Shep. His aroma is drug-store toiletries made irresistible by the fragrance of him layered underneath. I tug the zipper all the way up my throat and realize I'm swimming in it. I have to push up the sleeves so I can see my hands. I look like a toddler in my father's clothes.

“Thank you. I'll have this back to you tomorrow.”

He nods and bends to pick up his bags, slinging the backpack over his shoulder.

“Thanks, Miss Brewster.”

“Of course. See you tomorrow.”

I huddle inside the warmth of his coat, trying to deny the pleasure of being surrounded by him, and hurry across the quad. I look back before I open the door to Oliver. Shep is standing with the door open, waiting for me to go inside. Not until I swing the door open does he heft his duffel bag and go inside himself.

Shep

Could she be any cuter? I could've stood there all day and watched her. She's a good dancer and she wasn't even trying. She was having fun. I get glimpses of her silliness in class occasionally, more in Turner or when I walk her back to her apartment. But she still tries to keep it under wraps, be professional. But this was pure, exuberant Erin. I'd pay good money to see her that way again. Not likely, given how embarrassed she was.

I wanted to tell her, “Don't be sorry. I'm not sorry.” But instead, I'd let her ask me about break and given the shortest answers I could get away with.

Yes, I was at home. Yes, I had a good holiday. No, we didn't have a big meal.

I don't get into how my mom had gone to a food pantry to get us an actual turkey or how my dad had yelled at her for it. “We don't need anyone's help, Christy. I can provide for my family. We don't take fucking handouts. I'd rather go hungry than eat someone else's charity. It's bad enough Zach goes to that rich, faggot school.”

I'd hustled Caleb back to our room while they fought. Not that the thin walls did much to hide my dad's raving or my mom's crying. I used to try to stand up for her, but she's begged me not to so many times I stopped. I think she's worried he might take a swing at me. He'll scream the house down, but he's never hit her. I don't know what I'd do if he hit her.

Caleb and I sat on the floor between the twin beds with the mismatched quilts; his legs out straight and my knees bent because the room's so narrow. It's smaller than the one I have all to myself on the Hill. I'd talked to Caleb about school. He's got a crush on this girl Emily.

“Is she pretty?”

“Yeah. And she smells good.”

“Like flowers?” Like Erin? I don't even know what kind of flowers she smells like, but it's definitely flowers.

“No. Like . . . like cookies.”

I laugh, but I get it. Of course Caleb would fall for a girl who smells like cookies, food, a warm, welcoming home instead of the dark empty house we usually come back to. Nothing wrong with liking a girl who smells like cookies.

“Is she smart?”

“Yeah, she's the smartest girl in our class. She won the spelling bee.”

“Is there anything Wonder Woman can't do? She sounds perfect.”

“She's short and she doesn't run fast so she's not good at basketball.”

“You pick her for your team anyway?”

His forehead got all wrinkled like he wasn't sure what the right answer was. “Yeah?”

“Good man. Does she like you?”

“I don't know. She might think I'm stupid.”

Caleb makes okay grades. Mostly Bs, the occasional A and a sprinkling of Cs. He's not the smartest kid but he works hard. Brains aren't going to be his saving grace anyway. He's got this knack for getting people to like him. I don't know what it is about him, but even the meanest, get-off-my-lawn crank seems to have a soft spot for my brother. Kid's got sun shining out of his ass or something.

“If she thinks you're stupid, she's not as smart as you think.”

“Is there a girl you like?” I should say no, but his face is bright and eager. He's spilled on his crush, so why shouldn't I?

“Kind of.”

“Are you going to ask her to be your girlfriend?”

“I don't have time for a girlfriend.” It's true and an easier answer than “I can't, she's my teacher.” Caleb's head might explode. I wouldn't blame him. His current teacher is one I had, too. Mrs. Ellis is nice, but she could be our grandmother. Definitely not girlfriend material.

“How much time does it take? All you have to do is be nicer to her than you are to anyone else and eat lunch with her.”

I've never wished so hard I were ten again. But I'm not and life's more complicated than that. But . . . “Speaking of eating, sounds like dinner's ready.”

By “dinner's ready,” I'd meant Dad had stopped yelling and Mom had stopped crying. Later, I'd hear them through the thin walls while Caleb snored obliviously. Fucking. I didn't want Caleb to hear him using her, that she lets him.
How can she let him?

I'd buried my head under my pillow, tried to go to sleep. Failing that, thought of Erin. How I'd never do that to her. How I'd be different. How if she'd let me, I'd deserve it. Earn it. Finally it had stopped and I'd heard my dad's heavy uneven footfalls headed to the bathroom. Happy Thanksgiving from the Shepherds.

But now I'm hauling up the steps of Ford to let myself into my room, preparing myself to put all my stuff away. I usually get pissed off while I'm doing this because it's after a six-hour drive in the car with my dad, who's been sullen at best or a raging asshole at worst. This time he'd been silent, which was fine by me. But instead of meditating on what a dick my dad can be, I find myself thinking of Erin. I wonder if my fleece is going to smell like her, like flowers, when she gives it back tomorrow.