Anderson
How do you deal with a liar? You can give her the silent treatment, or you can take away the thing she values most. For her, that is the choir. With her father supporting me, I feel no pressure to let that little troublemaker back on the team.
Practice today, without her, is smooth and uninterrupted. The students are starting to get comfortable with me. I did not expect that to happen so quickly. But everything has been moving at a dizzying speed since I agreed to come to this town. After my mother told Marcus I would handle the choir, all he wanted to know was if I had any musical experience. I have a fucking mountain of that. And it nearly destroyed me. Did it not? This is my first real musical commitment since Mending Hearts fell apart.
Directing the choir was not in my plan. My plan was to keep a low profile, figure my life out, and decide what to do next. But my mother hopes this will get me singing and playing again. So far, it is working. Leading a choir means demonstrating what you can do, so the singers will believe in themselves. I have not touched my guitar. Not since I wrecked the band. Maybe one day, with this choir, I will.
I run a hand through my messy hair as I watch a video of last year's performance. She has a fantastic voice, but her behavior overshadows it. Christie and Regina are capable singers, but her range is superior. If we want to win this year, I have two choices: let her back in, or push those other two until they meet the standard I need. I let out a long breath and leave my office. Thanks to Marcus, I do not have to share the small space with anyone.
Outside, the cool evening air moves through my hair and brushes against the stubble on my jaw. I need a shave. The parking lot is empty. I always wait until everyone else has left. It gives me a moment to prepare before I have to go home and face that lying little schemer.
As usual, the idea of her provokes a reaction in me, mostly pure annoyance. Back in the US, kissing a seventeen-year-old could have put me in front of a jury. But she acted like it was nothing. Driving home, I find myself wondering how many older men she has tricked this way; how many she has kissed, or more.
A dry, humorless laugh escapes me. On my very first night in a new place, I was fooled by someone that young. I press down on the accelerator, and the car moves forward faster. My mother is letting me use her car until I can save enough to get back to New York. If I have to live on a teacher's salary alone, that might never happen. Teaching is fine, but the pay is fucking terrible.
The house appears. There is no car out front, which means one thing. Marcus is out, likely with my mother. The man acts like this is his first marriage, and it is almost endearing. I suppose I should be happy to see someone fall so completely for my mum after life gave her such a raw deal, but it still grates on me. How can people their age find love again, when I cannot even maintain a connection with my best friends, or keep a girlfriend?
I park in front of the house and go inside. It is not silent. Elara is lounging on the sofa, watching something on television. The second she sees me, she jumps to her feet, and that familiar, sinking feeling of irritation settles deep in my stomach. She annoys the absolute shit out of me.
"Welcome." There it is again. That accent that got me the first time. Elara wets her lips, a nervous habit, but it does wicked things to my body. This is the core of the problem. Even though she is seventeen and I will be twenty-two, I still want to kiss her. In a few quick steps, she closes the distance between us. "I think I am ready to apologise, Anderson."
Unfortunately, I am not ready to hear it. I continue walking to my room without a single look or word in her direction. I drop my bag onto the chair in the corner and pace the length of the room. What is wrong with me?
I am aggravated, and I am not entirely sure why anymore.
This irritation brings with it a persistent craving to roll a joint. It is insane that I quit drugs only to develop the terrible habit of not-smoking. But I will not lie, the ritual brings a strange peace I have not felt since I stopped writing new music.
A quick search finds the weed hidden under a box. I push open the doors to my room's small balcony. There are two chairs; I sit in one and prop my feet up on the other. I light the joint but I do not smoke it. That is what I do.
I breathe in. I take in the scent and wait for a high that will not come. Being high used to make me forget what it was like to be the famous Anderson from years ago. I hold the joint away, watching the smoke rise and disappear. I have never truly understood smoking, but I have always understood the need to escape.
My door opens. "Anderson?" I lower my hand. The smell of weed is stronger than her perfume. I take another deep breath of it, trying to drown out her fruity scent. "Wow, are you smoking?" My eyes open. "You are not allowed to do that here."
I do not look at her when I answer, "Then try and stop me."
"I am going to tell my dad."
"Go ahead."
Elara lets out a dismissive sound. Her pink hair is pulled back, revealing her face, and I take a moment to look at her. The shape of her breasts under her white tank top, the curve of her hips in the blue jeans that fit her so well. She is beautiful in a grown-up way. Like a woman, not a difficult teenager. I am so fucking lost if I am seeing her like this. Her eyes narrow a little as she considers my words, and she walks further into my room. So close.
"Dad!" she yells, just like she did when I chose her friend and those other girls over her. That might have been a rash decision, but the furious look on her face was worth it. She needs to learn not to lie to people. "Dad! Anderson is smoking up here!"
I throw the joint to the floor and step on it. "I was not smoking," I state, walking back into the room. "And your dad is not here. What do you want?"
Elara swallows, the sound loud in the quiet room. Now she is nervous. I take one slow, deliberate step toward her. She does not move, but I see the slight tremor in her arms before she covers her fear with an act of nonchalance.
"What do you want, Elara?" I ask, putting emphasis on every word to make myself clear.
What is the point? That she is not welcome here.
Without any warning, Elara begins to sing one of the songs from our rehearsal. Pavarotti and other great opera singers would be impressed.
Her voice is flawless, rich and sweet. It pours into my ears and soothes something in me, quieting the noise and doubt in my head. Her voice actually calms me. In a way the weed never could.
I fucking hate that.
"Shut up."
"I am sorry," she says, her breath coming quickly. Her voice is a little rough from the singing, and her eyes are a little wet. The emotion she put into the song is still written on her face. "Can I please come back to the choir?"
"No." Not until her chemistry grades improve.
"It was just a kiss." The fire is back in her eyes; the innocent, little-girl act from her apology is gone. "Come on. It was just a kiss, Anderson."
Not to me. It was a curse, a sickness, because I have spent nights running it over and over in my mind. And now that I have heard her sing, I want to kiss her again. It is wrong.
Our eyes meet and hold, a silent challenge. Blue against blue. Something in my expression must frighten her. She moves backward as I step forward. Her back meets the wall, and she makes a small, pained sound. Her wide blue eyes dart around my room, looking for a way out. I block her path by placing a hand on the wall beside her head.
My mistake.
The blue of her eyes is more vivid up close, clear and heartbreaking. I can see into her soul, a specific sadness that you only notice on a second look.
Why does a seventeen-year-old look so sad?
Underneath that profound sadness is a spark of interest. Interest in me, I think. I am interested in her, too. In ways a man should not be interested in a girl, and my fingers almost lift to trace the light freckles across her nose and cheeks.
She is stunning.
Shame floods through me at the thought. I push away from the wall, and we are just standing there, watching each other.
"You lied to me about something very important," I tell her. "I could have been in serious trouble because of it."
"But you were not," she cuts in. That arrogance, which smothers her better qualities, shows itself again. "We did not even have sex."
We might have, if Elara had stayed a little longer that night. I search her face for any sign of regret. Maybe her teenage mind cannot grasp the potential consequences. She is not sorry. Given the opportunity, she would probably do it again. That certainty makes my decision to keep her off the team feel right. It is only fair.
"The age of consent is sixteen," she continues into my silence. "It would not have been a problem."
Maybe not for her. But for me, it is a very big problem. The pad of my thumb moves up her smooth chin, tracing the shape of her lips. Her breath catches. Her gaze fixes on my lower lip, and my tongue moves slowly over it. She looks back at my face. Without breaking our stare, she bites her upper lip, exactly the way I did when we kissed. A low, tormented sound follows the gesture.
Desire clouds her eyes. She is thinking about our kiss. I am thinking about it, too. I lean in until my lips are almost touching her ear. "Get out."