Slammed (15 page)

My hands find the bottom edge of his shirt and I slide it up. Our lips separate for a brief moment as his shirt passes between us. I place my hands on his chest and run them over the contours of his muscles as we continue to kiss. His hands grip my arms and he pushes me down onto the couch. I'm waiting for him to find his way back to my mouth, but instead he pushes away from me and stands up.

"Layken, get up!" He demands as he grabs my hand and pulls me up from the couch.

I stand up, still caught up in the moment and unable to catch my breath.

"This—this can't happen!" He’s attempting to catch his breath too. "I'm your
teacher
now. Everything has changed, we can't do this.”

His timing sucks. My knees are weak so I sit back down on the couch for support. "Will, I won’t say anything. I swear." I don't want him to regret what just happened between us. For a moment, it felt like we were back where we belonged. Now, seconds later I'm confused again.

"I'm sorry, Layken but it's not right,” he says as he paces the floor. “This isn't good for either of us. This isn't good for
you
."

"You don't know what's good for me," I snap. I'm getting defensive again.

He stops pacing and turns toward me. "You won't wait for me. I won't let you give up what should be the best year of your life. I had to grow up way too fast, I'm not taking that away from you, too. It's not fair. I don’t want you to wait for me, Layken."

The shift in his demeanor and the way my entire first name is flowing from his mouth is causing the oxygen to deplete from the room. I’m dizzy.

"I won't be giving
anything
up," I reply weakly. I would have screamed it if I could muster enough energy.

He grabs his shirt and pulls it on over his head as he moves further away from me. He walks to the opposite side of the living room and grips the back of the couch, his head falling between his shoulders.

"My life is nothing but responsibilities. I'm raising a
child
for Christ’s sake. I wouldn't be able to put your needs first. Hell, I wouldn't even be able to put them
second
. You deserve better than third."

I stand up and walk over to him, kneeling on the couch in front of him. I place my hands on top of his. "Your responsibilities
should
come before me, which is why I want to wait for you, Will. You're a
good person. This thing about you that you think is your flaw-it's the reason I'm falling in love with you."

My last few words trickle out as though I've lost what little control over myself I had left. I don't regret saying it, though.

He pulls his hands out from under mine and places them firmly on either side of my face. He looks me directly in the eyes. "You are
not
falling in love with me." He says this as if it's a command. “You
cannot
fall in love with me.” His face is hard as he clenches his jaw again. I feel the tears begin to well in my eyes as he releases me and walks toward the front door.

"What happened tonight-" He's pointing to the couch as he speaks. "That can't happen again. That
won't
happen again." He says this as though he's trying to convince more than just me.

After he walks outside, he slams the door behind him and I'm left alone in his living room. My hands clutch at my stomach as the nausea intensifies. I'm afraid if I don't regain my composure soon, I won't be able to stand long enough to make it out of the house. I inhale through my nose and exhale from my mouth as I count backwards from ten.

It's a coping technique I learned when I was younger from my father. I used to have what my parent’s referred to as "emotional overloads." My dad would wrap his arms around me and squeeze me as tight as he could as we counted down. Sometimes I would fake the tantrums just so he would have to squeeze me. What I wouldn't give for my dad's embrace right now.

The front door opens and Will re-enters carrying a sleeping Caulder in his arms. "Kel woke up, he's walking home now. You should go too," he says quietly.

I feel completely embarrassed. Embarrassed of what just happened between us and the fact that he is making me feel desperate;
weaker
than him. I snatch my keys off the coffee table and turn toward the door, stopping in front of him.

“
You're an
asshole
,” I say. I turn and leave, slamming the door behind me.

As soon as I get to my bedroom, I collapse on the bed and cry. Although it's negative, I finally have inspiration for my poem. I grab a pen and simultaneously start writing as I wipe away smudged tears off of the paper.

7.

"You can’t be like me

But be happy that you can’t

I see pain but I don’t feel it

I am like the old Tin Man.”

Chapter Seven

According to Elizabeth Kubler Ross, there are five stages of grief a person passes through after the death of a loved one:
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

I took a psychology class during the last semester of my junior year when we lived in Texas. We were discussing stage four when the principal walked into the room, pale as a ghost.

"Layken, can I see you in the hallway please?"

Principal Bass was a pleasant man. Plump in the belly, plump in the hands, plump in places you didn't know could be plump. It was an unusually cold spring day in Texas, but you wouldn't know it from the rings of sweat underneath his arms. He was the type of principal that hung out in his office rather than the halls. He never went looking for trouble, just waited for it to come to him. So why was he here?

I had a sinking feeling deep in the pit of my stomach as I stood up and walked as slow as I could to the classroom door. He wouldn't make eye contact with me. I remember I looked right at him and his eyes darted to the floor. He felt sorry for me. But why?

When I walked out into the hallway my mother was standing there, mascara streaked down her cheeks. The look in her eyes told me why she was there. Why
she
was there, and my father wasn't.

"How?" I remember crying. She threw her arms around me and started to collapse to the floor. Rather than hold her up, I simply melted with her. That day we experienced our first stage of grief in the hallway floor of my High School:
Denial.

***

Gavin is preparing to perform his poetry. He's standing in front of the class, his paper shaking between his fingers as he clears his throat to read from it.

I wonder, as I ignore Gavin's presence and focus on Will, do the five stages of grief only apply to the death of a loved one? Could it not also apply to the death of an aspect of your life? If it does, then I'm definitely smack dab in the center of stage two:
Anger.

"What's it called, Gavin?" Will asks. He's sitting at his desk, writing notes into his pad as students perform. It pisses me off-the way he's being so attentive, focused on everything except me. His ability to make me feel like this huge invisible void pisses me off. The way he pauses to chew on the tip of his pen pisses me off. Just last night, those same lips that are wrapped around the tip of his ugly red pen were making their way up my neck.

I push the thought of his kiss out of my mind as quickly as it crept in. I don't know how long it will take, but I'm determined to break from this hold he has on me.

"Um, I didn't really give it a title," Gavin responds. He's standing at the front of the classroom, second to last person to perform. "I guess you can call it
Pre-Proposal
?"

"Pre-Proposal, go ahead then," Will states in a teacher-ish voice that also pisses me off.

"Eh-hem," Gavin clears his throat. His hands start trembling more as he begins to read.

One million, fifty one thousand and two hundred minutes.

That's approximately how many minutes I've loved you,

It's how many minutes I've
thought
about you,

How many minutes I've
worried
about you,

How many minutes I've thanked
God
for you,

How many minutes I've thanked
every deity
in the
Universe
for you.

One million

Fifty one thousand

And

Two

Hundred

Minutes…

One million, fifty one thousand and two hundred times.

It's how many times you've made me
smile,

How many times you’ve made me
dream,

How many times you’ve made me
believe,

How many times you’ve made me
discover,

How many times you’ve made me
adore,

How many times you’ve made me
cherish,

My life.

(Gavin walks toward the back of the room where Eddie is sitting. He bends down on one knee in front of her as he reads the last line of his poem.)

And exactly
one million, fifty one thousand and two hundred minutes from now
, I'm going to
propose
to you, and ask that you share
all
the rest of the minutes of your
life
with me.

Eddie is beaming as she leans down and hugs him. The classroom is divided as the boys groan and the girls swoon. I simply squirm in my seat, anticipating the last poet of the day:
Me.

“
Thanks Gavin, you can take your seat. Good job.” Will doesn't look up from his notes as he calls me to read my poem. His voice is soft, full of trepidation as he says my name. "Layken, it’s your turn."

I'm ready. I feel good about my piece. It's short but to the point. I already have it memorized so I leave the poem on my desk as I walk to the front of the classroom.

"I have a question." My heart is racing as I realize this is the first time I've spoken out loud to Will in his classroom since I entered it a month ago. He hesitates as though he can't decide if he should acknowledge that I even have a question. He gives me a slight nod.

"What if it doesn’t rhyme?” I say.

I’m not sure what he thought I was about to ask, but he looks relieved that this was my question.

“
That’s fine. Remember, there are no rules.” His voice cracks slightly as he replies. I can see on his face that what happened between us last night is fresh on his mind. All the better.

"Good. Okay then," I stammer. "My poem is called
mean
." I face the front of the classroom and proudly recite my poem from heart.

According to the thesaurus…

and
according to
me
…