10

-NINE-

Tuesday, May 28

It was my first day back, and the mood at school was charged. Seniors were kicking off prom week, not to mention we were two weeks from graduation.

Most classes had some token instruction, and we still had finals to contend with, but the reality was most of the teachers were just as ready for summer as the students.

The obvious exception was history. The project counted as our final exam, so there wasn't a test. Mr. Delacourt used his exam time for the last batch of presentations.

My name was nowhere to be found on the presentation schedule, so I stopped by his office at the end of the day. It felt a lot like the first time: he was grading, same posture, same green pen. His navy suit coat hung on the back of his chair, and he had his shirt sleeves rolled up.

"Hi Shelly," he said before I could knock.

"How did you know it was me?" I asked, closing the door behind me and coming around to lean on his side of the desk.

"I just knew," he said, shrugging. I closed my eyes, exhaling as I felt the back of his hand graze my thigh. Down low, below the line of the desk. My green Tartan skirt was on the shorter side, but still well within the rules.

"So," he said after a pause, "are you here to show off your legs or did you want to talk about something?"

"I need to talk to you, but if you keep touching me like that I'll probably forget all about it."

He almost stopped. Now it was just one finger slowly working up the back of my thigh from my knee. I started breathing harder as I thought about what else I wanted that finger to do.

"Fuck," I whispered, "that's not fair."

He looked up at me placidly, slowly pulling his hand away and clasping both of them on top of his desk. I exhaled loudly, then went and sat in one of the chairs across from him.

"You don't have me listed on the presentation schedule," I said.

"I ran the numbers, and your grade on the paper is such that it won't affect your grade for the semester. After last week and your performance throughout the year, I made the decision to forgo your presentation."

"I told you I didn't want special treatment."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He said it with a sly smirk. It was simultaneously endearing and infuriating.

"Mr. Delacourt," I said firmly, fixing him with a stern look. "I have to insist you add me to the schedule."

And then fuck me right here on the desk,

I didn't add.

"Sorry, no can do." He didn't sound sorry. "Schedule's already packed. We lost a full day when I was out unexpectedly. Family emergency. You missed that day as well, if I remember correctly."

"I don't want special treatment."

"Shelly, I'm not giving you special treatment. It's an exceptional situation. You've done excellent work all year, and I have deep admiration and respect for the courage you showed outside of school last week. I'm not doing anything I wouldn't do for another student in the same circumstance."

His eyes conveyed a feeling that didn't match his more formal words and tone. The look was both full of love and an entreaty to let this one rest. If I'm honest, I hated what was happening. We sat silently regarding each other across the desk while the ceiling vent hummed softly. Down the hall, someone started making photocopies.

"Paul, please. I can do this."

"I know you can, Shell." His voice had softened to match my own. "If I thought otherwise, we wouldn't be having this conversation. But you don't need to. I know you said you don't want special treatment, but you are, in fact, special."

He held up one finger in the universal

wait a moment

gesture, then went to the gray metal file cabinet behind his desk. He pulled out the envelope I had used to turn in my paper, and handed it to me.

"Shelly, I won't pretend my feelings don't come into play at all, but truly, this paper would've blown me away on a blind submission. You set the curve for the rest of the class. It wasn't even close. You could stand up there and spend 15 minutes reading from a dirty joke book. And I know you wouldn't do that anyway. So no, I'm not putting you on the schedule. You earned a break."

I paged through the report, quickly scanning the notes he had written in the margins. Most of them were laudatory, emphasizing arguments he found to be well-reasoned and noteworthy logical connections.

"If you're feeling generous," he continued, "I would appreciate you asking a question or two during cross for your peers. I'm sure you'll find interesting lines of inquiry others miss. Including me. Everyone seems to start letting their minds wander about this time, and it would be nice to have someone paying attention."

I finished browsing the paper and looked back up at him. I could tell I wasn't going to get anywhere with the presentation thing.

"What if someone notices?" I asked.

"Nobody is paying that much attention, but if they were, I would tell them exactly what I told you. The assignment is structured so I have some leeway. If someone gives a stellar talk, but their paper didn't score as well, I can lean more heavily into the presentation, and vice versa, as it so happens in your case."

I silently considered it for half a minute or so. "Fine. But I'm not happy about it."

"I'll make it up to you."

How about you make it up to me right now?

I thought, but instead said: "What are you doing this weekend?"

The look on his face told me I wasn't going to like the answer. "I'm free Friday night."

"What does that face mean?" I asked, pointing at his head. "And why are you being cagey about Saturday?"

"Because we haven't talked about it yet," he said. "I sort of forgot until I looked at my calendar for the week. At the beginning of the year I signed up to chaperone prom."

"Oh." I felt my heart sink. It's not like I thought he would be taking a date or dancing with anyone, but in my head, I had assumed we would spend the evening together. Something bothered me about the idea that I was missing out on the big experience, but he would be there. Granted, the whole thing was stupid; if I went, we'd barely be able to talk, let alone dance. But my animal brain doesn't function on that kind of logic.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know that has to feel six different kinds of bad and weird."

"N-no, it's OK," I replied. "Friday is good." He still had the same expression. "What? Is there something else?"

"Stacy emailed me today. She had some last-minute business come up in town. Wanted to know if the guest room was available. Driving up Wednesday and leaving Saturday morning. I wanted to talk to you before I replied."

Suddenly, I felt way out of my depth. The prom thing had already thrown me off, so I was primed for a purely emotional response. I did some box breathing and tried to remind myself that nobody was doing anything wrong here. He had told me this happened once in a while, and she had no reason to think this time was any different.

"I can tell her it's not a good time," he said. "It's really short notice. "

I felt guilty that I might ask him to do that for me. That I would inconvenience a total stranger based on nothing at all, just because she used to be married to my boyfriend. If anything, the fact that they seemed to be cordial enough for the arrangement should've made me feel good.

"Shell? What are you thinking right now? I know it's a lot, but waiting to tell you didn't seem like a good way to handle it either."

"No, you're right," I said. "I'm struggling with it--with both things--but I appreciate you telling me. The prom thing is stupid, and I just need to get over it. We couldn't go as a couple, which is the only way I would want to go in the first place. I'll just watch a movie or read a book or something."

"It's not stupid, but you're right, there isn't anything we can do about it. The other thing is more complicated."

"The other thing is more complicated. I mean, you told me about this already. That she sometimes stays in the guest room. It was sort of theoretical until now. I should probably be glad she feels that comfortable even though you split, but logic is kind of out the window right now."

"I'll just tell her it won't work."

"I feel bad making her get a hotel," I said, sighing, "and I don't want you to think I don't trust you."

"It's not about whether or not you trust me, and it doesn't need to be logical. It's about whether it makes you uncomfortable."

"Does she know you're dating again?"

"No, we actually haven't talked in a while. I think the last time I talked to her was right after

Swan Lake.

"

I nodded and tried to think of another solution.

"My parents are leaving for West Haven on Thursday. What if you stayed with me? Then it would only be one night."

"I appreciate the idea, and the fact that you care enough to try to come up with a solution. But I don't think you're going to feel differently whether it's one night or three. Do you?"

"No, you're right."

"It's not a big deal for her to get a hotel. I don't have to explain why."

I sighed again. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. I just didn't want you to feel like I was making decisions without talking to you."

It felt weird. I knew it was a sign of mature, healthy respect in our relationship. But it also emphasized to me just how little experience I had. I hadn't been prepared for a conversation like this, and it left me feeling emotionally drained.

"I know it's not fair to ask, but I really need a hug right now."

He stood up and came around the desk. I stood to meet him, and he held me for a minute, which stretched into two.

"Thanks, I feel a little bit better. I'll let you get back to grading."

"I love you, Shell," he said. "Call me later?"

Thursday, May 30

I called Hanna walking home from class. It was my first time back dancing since the fire, and only my second class since

Swan Lake.

"Holy shit," I said. "That was a fucking train wreck."

"How bad?"

"Eleven? I may have forgotten how to plié. And my whole body hurts now. I seriously considered calling an Uber to go home."

"Why didn't you just get a ride with someone?"

"Because I was already fucking everything up in class. I didn't want to ask someone to go out of their way to drive me home too."

"Shelly, that's stupid. I'm sure someone would have taken you home, or why didn't you call your boyfriend?" The end of the sentence dripped with sarcastic innuendo, though it wasn't completely clear why.

"I didn't think of that," I said, stupidly. "But I'm like halfway home. I'll survive."

"Doesn't he live right there? Seriously, just go to his house. I'm sure he'll take you home. Who knows, he might even do it without a blowjob."

I gave her a deadpan look. Apparently she didn't hear it.

"How's that going by the way?" she asked.

"Um, fine."

"Uh oh, what did he do?"

"He didn't do anything, I'm just feeling weird. His ex is in town, and she usually stays in his guest room. But we talked about it, and he told her not this time."

"That seems reasonable."

"I guess," I said. "I just feel bad, because it's not like I thought anything was going to happen. And then prom."

"What about it? I thought you decided not to go."

"Yeah, but he apparently agreed to chaperone. I guess the teachers sign up for it in the fall or something. He said it's a fun job. But now I'm just going to be home by myself."

"Sorry babe," she replied. "You should do something after though. Tell him to keep his tuxedo on. I'm sure he's going to look like he belongs on a red carpet somewhere."

"Yeah, maybe." I looked across the street, saw Paul's car in his driveway. "Thanks for listening to me complain. I guess I'll let you go."

"You're at his house, aren't you?"

"No," I said. "I'm across the street."

I could hear her eye roll. "Just go ring the fucking doorbell, chicken."

"Bye Hanna."

"Love you."

I crossed the street and rang the fucking doorbell.

"Hey." He sounded pleasantly surprised, but furrowed his brow after a moment. "Come inside. What's wrong?"

"Can you drive me home?" I stepped inside and he closed the door behind me. I wanted to cry, but that felt like it was a bridge too far. I was already showing up unannounced and asking favors. Nobody likes a drama queen.

"Sure," he said. "But seriously, what's wrong?"

"Class just sucked. I was terrible. Everything hurts."

"Why don't you sleep here tonight?"

"It's a weeknight, and all my stuff is there."

"OK, well then have a seat and give me five minutes?" He didn't wait for me to respond before going upstairs. He came back in four minutes with a small black duffel bag in his hand. "Ready?"

"What's with the bag?"

"Just in case."

"I'm already derailing your night as it is."

"I wasn't busy, come on."

When we got to my house, he followed me in and slipped off his shoes.

"You don't have to stay."

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No."

"Are you hungry? What do you usually do after class?"

"I'm not hungry," I said. "I don't know, I'm just tired."

"Why don't you go take a cool shower and then I'll help you get ready for bed. I can do your aloe and then I'll hold you until the morning. Like you wanted."

"A cold shower sounds awful."

"Cool, not cold," he said. "It's supposed to be better for your skin. I heard it on a podcast. Some dermatologist."

"What the hell podcasts are you listening to? I thought guys were supposed to be into Joe Rogan and all that."

"I dunno," he said, shrugging. I let him nudge me toward the stairs. "I've never listened to Rogan. Too many people love him or hate him."

When we got upstairs, he set his bag down in my room and helped me get undressed. I hated to admit it, but the cool shower actually wasn't so bad. I wrapped myself in a towel and returned to the bedroom.

Paul had already changed into boxers and a white t-shirt. On the bed, he had laid out his Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt and a fresh towel. He had also managed to find clean panties, a pair of soft cotton shorts, and the aloe. It was enough to tip me over into tears. So much for not being a drama queen.

Paul silently took the towel I already had wrapped around myself, and gingerly finished drying me off, then tossed it out in the hallway. He wrapped the dry towel around my torso, under my arms.

My skin had finally started peeling, and I had pinpoint spots of blood on my shoulders from my leotard chafing. He kissed my cheek, and then looked more closely at my chest, shoulders, and back.

"Do you want any Neosporin or just the aloe?"

"Aloe is fine."

He started from my back, carefully spreading the gel from my shoulder blades out to my arms. Feeling his hands on me was a relief, even if I was in pain. He went slowly, applying very light pressure; just enough for the aloe to absorb.

"Where do you keep your drugs?" He asked, wiping his hands on a small towel. "I looked, but didn't see anything."

"Hall closet, top shelf."

He left and came back with the bottle of ibuprofen. He handed me one and a glass of water I didn't know was on the night stand.

"You were busy," I said after I swallowed the pill. "I didn't think I was in the shower that long."

"Long enough. Here, let's get you dressed."

He took the towel, and then slid the panties up my legs, and did the same with the shorts. It was odd, because we typically removed clothes when we were alone together, but here he was adding them. It wasn't sexy, per se, but it made me feel loved. He was taking care of me. It was exactly what I needed.

"I think the aloe needs another minute before you put a shirt on," he said. "Why don't you sit on the edge of the bed here?"

He pulled over my desk chair and sat in front of me, then put his hands gently to my face. "Close your eyes."

I felt his thumbs on the bridge of my nose, then across my eyebrows. I was confused at first, but it was pleasant, so I went with it. He repeated the motion, and after the third or fourth time, I felt my face starting to release tension. The relaxing sensation created a sort of chain reaction through the rest of my body too.

He moved down below my eyes, and gently rubbed along the line of my cheek bone, to the hinge of my jaw. I was deeply relaxed by the time he finished there and started making small circles on my temples.

"Shelly," his voice was clear, but seemed far off. "You're not terrible. You had a bad night. It happens to everyone. You're a great dancer, and you need a little time to get back in shape. Don't push yourself too hard, or it'll just take longer."

I nodded, exhaling deeply. I knew he was right, but that didn't make class today any less shitty. I opened my eyes to his face about 12 inches from mine. He kissed the tip of my nose, and then rolled up the concert shirt to help me put it on.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "I don't want to ruin it."

"You're not going to ruin it. Arms or head first?"

"Arms. Bending to put them in after it's over my head hurts."

He helped me into the shirt, and then went back over to his bag. He turned off the ceiling light, leaving only the small bedside lamp, and came back to bed with a book in his hand.

"Let's get comfortable," he said, opening the covers and arranging the pillows so he could sit up.

I curled up against him and looked at the book. It was

The Beginning Place.

"I hope this one is good, but I brought the C.S. Lewis too."

"This is good, but some other time remind me to show you my

Blue Horses.

"

"I didn't know you had a horse," he said, "let alone multiple blue ones."

"You're not funny. I just need you to know that."

"Well, two out of three ain't bad."

"Two out of three what?"

"Handsome, charming, funny."

I groaned. "Shut up and read before I smother you with a pillow."

"Yes, dear," he said, and started chapter two.

I laid my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes. He draped an arm around me to hold the book and turn pages. We got about halfway through the chapter before I started falling asleep. Since he was clearly planning to stay, I stopped him and we settled in. I slept deeply, without dreams. True to his promise, Paul held me the whole night.

-TEN-

Friday, May 31

Paul's phone started blaring early. 5 a.m. at the latest. There was barely any light outside. The sound had pulled me out of a deep, black void. I must have been in the middle of a REM cycle or something. I barely knew where I was.

I grumbled as he turned over to shut it off, then sat up beside me.

"Did you set an alarm?" he asked. "I have to go back to my place and get ready."

I mumbled something that could've been a yes, and felt his lips brush my cheek.

"I love you Shelly, I'll see you later."

The next thing I was aware of was my own alarm going off at the much more civilized time of 6:30. The clock hit the floor with a clatter. The time might have been more civilized, but I didn't have to be.

Given how the week had gone, I wasn't interested in doing anything that required effort. I pulled on a mostly-clean pair of jeans, and pulled the excess fabric of Paul's shirt into a hair elastic so it looked intentional. I found another for my actual hair, brewed some coffee, and headed to my last Friday of school ever.

The building seemed weirdly quiet, and I groaned inwardly when I realized half the senior class hadn't shown up today. I totally could've slept til noon.

Mr. Delacourt did a double-take when I walked in, then cracked a grin. "Casual Friday, eh Miss Cameron?"

"Something like that, Mr. D." I tried not to smile too much.

There was a smattering of people in class. The presentation schedule today seemed to skew toward the popular/jock crowd. It wasn't quite enough to be obvious, but it definitely wasn't coincidental. I shot Paul a look when I clocked that detail, but apparently my telepathy wasn't working right. I just got confusion in response.