Illicit(11)

An audible sigh escapes his lips before he looks down at the seating chart on his desk. “Miss Clarke, can you help Miss Michaels?”

Madison perks up and moves her body in a seductive manner. From the pucker of her lips, I can see she’s set her sights on him. An encompassing sickness coils its way into the pit of my stomach. It invades my bloodstream and takes over like venom. I clench my mouth tight, gritting my teeth against the invasion of emotions wreaking havoc in my body. The sound of my foot tapping on the floor makes me realize how badly I’m fidgeting from the anger and jealousy. I shouldn’t feel this way. I shouldn’t care. But why won’t he look at me? I keep staring at him, willing him to look back and praying he won’t. Trying to force my conflicting thoughts from emerging, I look down to my desk hoping he never calls on me and this class ends soon.

“The answer is expansion,” she says smugly.

“Okay, class. I want you to read to chapter five in your textbooks and be prepared to discuss it tomorrow.”

A collective groan emanates through the classroom, and someone behind me mumbles under his breath, “God, it’s the first day of class. Isn’t there a no homework rule?”

“Chapter five,” he repeats sternly. “Miss Adams, a minute please.”

I sit perfectly still in my chair, the ticking of the clock etching away at my nerves. As the last student leaves, I feel my hands shaking, so I slide them under my thighs to hide them as he makes his approach. He stands next to my desk and then, after a beat, pulls a nearby chair around to sit facing me.

“I don’t understand how you’re here.” His eyebrows lower, and a fine line forms between them. He reaches up and tugs at his hair, pulling it at the root. “Are you even eighteen?” His eyes close, then reopen with a flash. “Please God, tell me you’re at least legal?”

I boldly meet his eyes, trying desperately to hide the inner turmoil I’m experiencing. “I’m legal.”

With a deep breath, his tense shoulders relax. “Thank fuck for that,” he mumbles, and I purse my lips, trying my best to not let on that the extraordinary memory is now becoming tarnished.

“So, how are you here? This is an AP class, which is typically filled with juniors. I don’t often hear of seniors choosing to take this class as an elective.” His body is straight again. The mask of Mr. Blake has returned as quickly as it left.

“One, I needed an elective and my choices for this time slot was this or art. I have no artistic talent at all, and I actually really like history. Two, my mom held me back.” I leave it at that. I don’t owe him more of an explanation. Maybe in the Hamptons, underneath the canopy of stars as he peppered my skin with kisses, I would have confessed all my sins. But now? I most certainly will not.

“What are we going to do about this?” he muses, and then proceeds to answer his own question. “You will change classes.”

As much as my heart wants to stop, and I can feel the familiar sting of tears wanting to expel, I hold back my emotions, straighten my back and meet his eyes. “No, I’m not switching. It never happened,” I assert. At my words his face is expressionless but then something flashes beneath the surface of his hardened face. I can’t place the emotion.

“Yes. Perfect. We can never talk about what happened. We need to forget it all.” He nods to me, and for some reason I’m infuriated that he agreed so easily. First, he acts like I wasn’t here, and now the dismissal. Rage, anger, and pain fill me.

“Exactly. This,” I motion between us, “will never happen again. I’m sorry it ever did.” I jump up and head for the door, my head held high.

Self-preservation.

I walk out without a backward glance.




I spent the next class period in the bathroom, dry heaving the bile that collected in my stomach after my confrontation with Carson. Correction—Mr. Blake. After my third period class, I head over to the lunchroom. As I sit at the table, Bridget plops down and inclines her head to the side and looks at me.

“What up, biatch?”

“Nothing,” I mumble back.

She furrows her brow at my one-word answer, then narrows her eyes at me. “Where’s your lunch, Lynn? Are you feeling okay? You look a little pale.”

“I’m just not hungry.” A part of me wants to tell her, but embarrassment and rejection lock my jaw and make my head pound. I press my fingertips against my temples and start to massage.

“You need to eat something.”

I reach across the table and grab an apple off her plate. I take a small nibble, but the taste alone turns my stomach. “See, I ate.”