“On the contrary, I think you have the power to do great damage.”
I looked at him quizzically and then blushed deeply when his meaning dawned.
“Very funny,” I said curtly.
His arm lying across the table brushed against mine. Something inside me stirred.
There was nothing I could do about it. My attachment to Xavier Woods was instant and all-consuming. Suddenly my old life seemed far away. I certainly didn’t yearn for Heaven as I knew Gabriel and Ivy did. For them, life on earth was a daily reminder of the limitations of flesh. For me, it was a reminder of the wonders of being human.
I became adept at masking my feelings for Xavier in front of my brother and sister. I knew they were aware of it, but if they disapproved, they must have made a pact to keep it to themselves. For that, I was grateful. I sensed a rift between us now that hadn’t been there before.
Our relationship seemed more fragile, and there were uncomfortable silences at the dinner table.
Every night I fell asleep to the sound of their whispered conversations and felt certain that my disobedience was the subject of discussion. I elected to do nothing about the increasing distance between us even though I knew I might come to regret the decision later.
For now, I had other things to think about. I suddenly looked forward to getting up in the morning and leapt out of bed without needing Ivy to wake me up. I lingered in front of the mirror, trying different things with my hair, seeing myself as Xavier might see me. In my head I replayed snippets of conversation, trying to determine the impression I’d made. Sometimes I’d be pleased by a witty remark I’d delivered; other times I berated myself for saying or doing something clumsy. I made a pastime of thinking up sharp one-liners and memorized them for future use.
I was envious of Molly and her group now. What they took for granted, I could never have: a future on this planet. They would grow up to have families of their own, careers to explore, and a lifetime of memories to share with the partners they’d choose. I was just a tourist living on borrowed time. For this reason alone I knew I should curb my feelings for Xavier rather than allow them to develop. But if I’d learned anything about teenage romance, it was that intensity wasn’t dictated by duration. Three months was the norm, six months marked a turning point, and if a relationship lasted a year, the pair was more or less engaged. I didn’t know how long I had on earth, but whether it was a month or a year, I wasn’t going to waste a single day of it. After all, every minute spent with Xavier would form the basis of memories I would need to sustain me for eternity.
I had no trouble collecting such memories because soon there wasn’t a day that passed without me having some form of interaction with him. We looked for each other routinely at school whenever we had free time. Sometimes our contact was nothing more than a brief conversation at the lockers or sitting together at lunch. When I wasn’t in class, I found myself on full alert, looking over my shoulder, trying to spy him coming out of the locker rooms, waiting for the moment when he came onto the stage during assemblies or squinting to make him out among the players on the rugby field. Molly sarcastically suggested I might need to get glasses.
On afternoons when he didn’t have training, Xavier would walk me home, insisting on carrying my bag. We made sure to extend the walk by taking a detour through town and stopping at Sweethearts, which quickly became “our place.”
Sometimes we talked about our day; other times we sat in comfortable silence. I was content to just look at him, something I never tired of doing. I could become mesmerized by his floppy hair, his eyes the color of the ocean, the habit he had of raising one eyebrow. His face was as entrancing as a piece of art. With my keen senses, I learned to identify him by his distinctive scent. I always knew when he was close by, before I could actually see him, by the clean, woody fragrance in the air.
Sometimes during those sun-kissed afternoons, I would look around furtively, expecting heavenly retribution. I imagined being watched by secret eyes gathering evidence of my misconduct. But nothing happened.
It was largely because of Xavier that I went from being an outsider to an integral part of life at Bryce Hamilton. Through my association with him, I made the discovery that popularity could be transferred. If people could be guilty by association, they could achieve recognition in exactly the same way. Almost overnight I became accepted simply because I numbered among
Xavier Wood’s friends. Even Molly, who had initially discouraged my interest in him, seemed appeased. When we were together, Xavier and I turned heads, but now it was more as a result of admiration than surprise. I noticed the difference even when I was alone. People gave me friendly waves as I passed them in the corridor, made small talk in the classroom while waiting for a teacher to arrive, or asked me how I’d done on the latest test.
My contact with Xavier at school was limited by the fact that we mostly took different classes. Otherwise I might have run the risk of following him around like a puppy. Apart from the French class we shared, his forte was math and science while I was drawn to the arts.
“Literature’s my favorite subject,” I announced to him one day in the cafeteria as if it were a vital discovery. I was carrying my booklet of literary terms, and I let it fall open at a random page. “Bet you don’t know what enjambment is.”
“I don’t but it sounds painful,” said Xavier.
“It’s when one line of poetry runs into the next.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to follow if you just put in full stops?” That was one of things I liked about Xavier; his view of the world was so black and white. I laughed.
“Possibly, but it might not be as interesting.”
“Honestly, what is it you like so much about literature?” he asked with genuine interest. “I hate how there’s no right or wrong answer. Everything’s open to interpretation.”
“Well, I like the way each person can have a completely different understanding of the same word or sentence,” I said. “You can spend hours discussing the meaning behind a poem and have reached no conclusion by the end of it.”
“And that doesn’t frustrate you? Don’t you want to know the answer?”
“Sometimes it’s better to stop trying to make sense of things. Life isn’t clear-cut, there are always gray areas.”
“My life is pretty clear-cut,” Xavier said. “Isn’t yours?”
“No,” I said with a sigh, thinking of the ongoing conflict with my siblings. “My world is messy and confusing. It gets tiring sometimes.”
“I think I might have to change your world,” Xavier replied.
We looked at each other in silence for a few moments, and I felt as if his brilliant ocean eyes could see right into my head and pull out my thoughts and innermost feelings.
“You know, you can always pick the lit students,” he continued, grinning.
“Is that so? How?”
“They’re the ones who walk around wearing berets and that I-know-something-you-don’t expression.”
“That’s not fair!” I objected. “I don’t.”
“No, you’re too genuine for that. Don’t ever change, and don’t under any circumstances start wearing a beret.”
“I’ll do my best,” I laughed.
The bell sounded, signaling the start of the next class.
“What have you got now?” Xavier asked.
I cheerfully waved my glossary of literary terms under his nose by way of answer.
I was always happy to be going to literature with Miss Castle. It was a diverse class despite there being only twelve of us. There were two sullen-looking goth girls, who wore black eyeliner and whose cheeks were powdered so chalk white they looked like they’d never seen the sun. There was a group of diligent girls with neat hair ribbons and well-equipped pencil cases, who were obsessed with grades, and they were usually too busy taking notes to contribute to class discussion. There were only two boys: Ben Carter, who was cocky but astute, and loved an argument; and Tyler Jensen, a brawny rugby player, who invariably arrived late and sat through the lesson wearing a stunned expression and chewing gum. He never contributed anything and his presence in the class was a mystery to everyone.
Due to the small size of the group, we’d been relegated to a cramped classroom in the old part of the school that adjoined the administration offices. As the room wasn’t used for any other purpose, we were allowed to shift the furniture and put up posters. My favorite was one of
Shakespeare depicted as a pirate wearing an earring. The room’s only advantage was that it came with a view of the front lawns and palm-lined street. Unlike other subjects, literature class could never be described as lackluster. Instead, the very air seemed to be charged with ideas all vying to be heard.
I sat next to Ben and watched him look up his favorite bands on his laptop, an activity he kept up even once the class had started. Miss Castle arrived carrying a mug of coffee and an armful of handouts. She was a tall, slender woman in her early forties with masses of dark curly hair and dreamy eyes. She always wore heavy-framed glasses on a fine red cord around her neck and pastel blouses. Judging by the way she carried herself and the way she spoke, she would have been more comfortable in a Jane Austen novel, in which women rode in carriages and witty repartee flew across a drawing room like sparks. She was passionate about language, and it didn’t matter what text we were studying, she identified vividly with the heroine every time. Her teaching was so animated, people sometimes stopped to look into the classroom, where they’d see Miss Castle thumping the teacher’s desk, firing off questions or gesticulating wildly to illustrate a point. I wouldn’t have been surprised to walk in one day and find her standing on top of her desk or swinging from the light fixtures.
We’d started the term studying Romeo and Juliet in conjunction with Shakespeare’s love sonnets. Now we were assigned the task of writing our own love poems, which would be recited to the class. The studious girls, who’d never had to rely on their own imaginations before, flew into a panic. This was something they couldn’t look up on the Internet.
“We don’t know what to write about!” they wailed. “It’s too hard.”
“Just think about it for a while,” said Miss Castle in her floaty voice.
“Nothing interesting happens to us.”
“It doesn’t have to be personal,” she coaxed. “It can be a total figment of your imagination.”
The girls remained uninspired.