When I reached our street, Luca was waiting for me outside of his house. I continued walking towards mine and he followed. Mom came out of the kitchen at the sound of the front door opening and closing to investigate. She paused when she saw that Luca was standing behind me.
“Lucas!” she beamed. “Where have you been, boy?”
“Oh, you know,” Luca began teasingly, loving the attention. “Saving the world, and other minor activities.”
Mom laughed and returned to the kitchen, where she had clearly been cleaning. My mother, just like Luca’s mother, spent most of her day either cooking, cleaning, shopping, or spying. Oh, the life of a housewife. In fact, Luca’s mom and my own did much of this together, as they, like our fathers and ourselves, were best friends. In many ways, my parents and my friend’s parents had the same life.
My parents were very traditional people, and therefore they were very disapproving of me. My artistic views and lifestyle clashed heavily with theirs. They wished that I was more like the son they never had, their beloved Lucas. Lucas was well-behaved, good in school, active in sports and clubs, and was almost always out with friends. In comparison, I was a lazy and pathetic waste of good genes to my parents.
“Don’t you have skirts to chase?” I asked my friend as I kicked off my shoes and stashed them beside the door.
“Just yours,” Lucas answered, making a playful grab at my ass while running passed me and up the stairs. I chased after him, passing the athlete near the top and beating him to my bedroom.
Lucas collapsed immediately into my computer chair, causing it to roll back on the hardwood floor and crash into the desk. I sat on my bed and pulled my knees up to my chest. In the comfortable silence between myself and my ‘brother’, my mind found its way back to Mr. Cote.
“So how’d after school with the art teacher go?” Luca asked. He was the only one who knew about my stupid crush and often teased me about it. I wondered if I should share the kiss with him like I did everything else.
“It was fine,” I lied, staring at my purple comforter. Since I didn’t take his bait, Luca fell into silence again, turning on my laptop and pulling up his Facebook. I knew that withholding such powerful information was dangerous to my mental health, so I made the decision to express myself via art if I couldn’t talk to Luca.
Luca didn’t even shoot me a second glance when I jumped suddenly off of the bed in search of supplies. I pulled my sketchbook out of my schoolbag and clutched it to my chest protectively. The leather-bound book was my diary. In addition to the sketchbook, I pulled my case of colored pencils out from under my bed. Now with fully stocked arms, I crawled back onto the bed and set everything up as my OCD brain needed it to be.
I didn’t take a second to think. Art and drawing weren’t about thinking; they were about feeling. I looked down at the open case of expensive art pencils and picked up the one my eyes were most drawn to—the red. Gripping the pencil between my teeth, I carefully flipped through the pages of the book until I found a blank page. Setting the tip of the pencil to the empty canvas before me, I closed my eyes, took a breath, and thought of the kiss.
My hand started moving before I even opened my eyes. The thoughts, feelings, and actions in my head inspired me and I was off. My hand flew across the paper, leaving its mark in various patterns and shades until I had eventually spilled out enough of my soul to be satisfied. I put the red pencil back in the plastic case and looked down at the picture I’d just drawn.
“Damn, Ray,” Luca mumbled. I jumped, for I hadn’t noticed him abandon the computer to come stand beside me. He was intensely examining my latest work of art. I followed his gaze and cocked my head to the side slightly, judging my diary entry. It was a red mess of flames and hearts, displaying the burning passion behind the kiss.
“Thanks,” I said, recognizing ‘Damn, Ray,’ as a compliment. Luca straightened up and stretched, reaching towards the ceiling. His phone started ringing in his pocket. With a groan/sigh combination, he pulled out the high-tech device and looked at the screen. I saw his inquiring pout turn into a smile before he answered the call.
“Hey, baby,” he cooed loudly. I rolled my eyes. The person on the other end of the phone call must have been Luca’s girl of the week, whoever she was. I thought it might have been Sarah. Or she could have been earlier in the month. It was hard to keep up with Luca’s manwhore record.
Luca looked down at me and I saw the question in his eyes without him needing to open his mouth. I nodded, giving him the permission he wanted to leave and go to his girl. Grinning, he held his fist out for me to pound and headed down the stairs, still on the phone. Sighing, I leaned over the edge of the bed, stashing both the pencil case and the sketchbook.
The sound of Luca’s car horn woke me up the next morning, startling me from the numb mode of sleep that I had fallen into after hours of being trapped between the darkness and my own mind. I looked wildly about, confused by my sudden alertness. The clock on my iHome told me that I had overslept by a lot. Soon I heard the bang of the front door and the clatter of heavy footsteps on the stairs.
“Hey, what the hell?” Luca exclaimed, bursting through my bedroom door without knocking. He gripped the doorknob with one hand and held onto the doorframe for support with the other hand.
“I think I forgot to set the alarm last night,” I mumbled sleepily, rubbing my eyes. Luca sighed and entered my room fully, approaching the bed and throwing the covers off of me.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” he told me, stepping back to give me room to get up. I groaned.
“Lucas,” I began. I wanted to simply call it quits and hide under the covers once more.
“Let’s go!” Luca yelled authoritatively, already on his way down the stairs. I reluctantly got out of bed and dragged my sleep-deprived self to the closet. I pulled out the first pair of jeans and sweatshirt that I found, despite the spring weather. I took a few minutes to run a brush through my dark, wavy hair but ultimately decided to take the easiest route and tie it back. Luca blew his horn again, telling me that I was out of time. I scooped up the bag that I had discarded to the floor the night before and followed Luca’s path down the stairs, slamming the front door behind me.
“Sorry,” I said breathlessly as I strapped myself into the front seat of Luca’s truck.
“It’s fine,” Luca answered. “Let’s just go before we’re late.”
We managed to reach our separate homerooms before the final late bell rang. I slid into my usual seat in the back of my first period history class and tried to be invisible, which was not a hard feat for me. Nobody paid me any attention, which didn’t honestly bother me too much. Especially on a day like today.
On a day like today, I was glad for the peace that accompanied my solitude. It allowed me to fully block out my surroundings and live inside my head. And while my own brain was turning into a hostile environment, it needed to be fully explored. So I channeled my inner Lewis and Clark and embarked on the dangerous journey through my teenage mind.
Thoughts of Mr. Cote and the kiss and every minor detail that came along with it carried me through the first five periods of the day. By sixth period lunch, I was starting to feel like I had the day before, when I was at my breaking point. The day before, I had used my sketchbook as an outlet and kept myself from imploding. But now, as I dug through my shoulder bag for the invaluable book, I couldn’t find my source of relief. The more I moved around the various notebooks and papers, the more panicked I became.
“What’s wrong?” Luca asked, setting his overloaded tray down on the long table. He took his seat across from me and cracked open a Snapple can.
“I can’t find my sketchbook,” I responded absently, still searching as if it would appear if I looked the correct number of times.
“Maybe you left it at home,” my friend suggested, moving on from the now empty Snapple can to the cafeteria French fries. “You did leave in a rush this morning, sleepy head.”
I closed my eyes and reviewed the last few hours. I found the memory of stashing the book under my bed when I had finished with it the night before, but could find nothing to suggest that I had retrieved it in my haste to leave the house earlier. Sighing mournfully, I crossed my arms on the table and dropped my head to them. Without any way to properly vent, I was facing art class in a severe mental state.
As reluctant as I was to go to seventh period when the bell rang forty minutes later, I had no choice. Luca walked me out of the cafeteria as he always did, but left when he spotted a group of friends going in the same direction as him. I paused for a fraction of a second outside the doorframe of hell, but after swallowing hard, I determined that I was going to be brave and face my teacher like a big girl.
However, with just one foot inside the classroom, I suddenly didn’t feel like being brave anymore. I had an overwhelming urge to turn and run, to lie down and cry, to throw up; to do anything other than continue into the room. But annoyed students behind me forced me forward until I was completely submerged in memories and desires. There was no escape.
It felt like I was being tested. Like I was a gladiator and this was my coliseum. This was where I would be stranded for forty-three minutes, where my strength and will would be pushed to the edge. Would I break? Would I give in to the beast locked in with me? Or would I persevere and make it to math class in one piece?
With my head down, focused on the poster that Mr. Cote had redrawn for me, I felt like I had a chance. I had a small chance, if I could live through the stomach ache and block out my thoughts. But whenever my eyes involuntarily flickered upward and I saw him, I realized that the beast wouldn’t let me go that easily. I was still in its claws, and I’d be fooling myself to think otherwise. There was no escape.
Not even the sounding of the end-of-class bell could release me. I was already packed up, waiting for the melodic noise to free me, but something—or rather, someone—kept me from leaving. I wanted to just spread my arms and scream or curl up and cry. Why couldn’t he just let me go? Why did we have to stay in this place where I had wanted and tasted what I could never have?
“Rayleigh,” Mr. Cote began slowly. I didn’t turn around.
“Mr. Cote, I have a class,” I said carefully. “And so do you.”
“I can write you a pass,” he reasoned. I let out a short laugh, devoid of any actual happiness.
“You’re right,” I agreed, finally turning around to face the beast, to be a gladiator and stand strong. “You can write me a pass. Because you are my teacher.”
“Yes, Rayleigh, I am your teacher. Which is why we have to talk about what happened,” Mr. Cote persisted. I shook my head.
“No,” I argued. “We don’t have to talk about it. I kissed you. I kissed you and you are my teacher. Students can’t kiss teachers, so it can’t happen again, and it won’t. See? Nothing more to talk about.”
“Rayleigh,” my teacher sighed.
“No,” I interrupted, shaking my head again at nothing in particular. “Don’t say my name. Don’t talk to me. Don’t make me want to kiss you again.”
At that point, I was able to justify running out without thinking myself a coward. There was nothing left to be said and if I had stayed in that room with him, nothing good could have happened. So I left quickly, making it to math as the bell rang.
While I was lying awake later that night, I made a few brave decisions. The first was easy: never ever go to school without the sketchbook again. The others were obvious, but probably easier said than done. I decided to not run out of class again and definitely not to cry again. That choice was made as I wiped the frustrated tears from my face, feeling like there was no escape.
3.01.2011
Drawn Together; In Which Rayleigh Snaps
Advisory warning: This project contains major sexual themes and quite a bit of foul language. Kids these days...
The halls were empty. The school was silent, sleeping. The art room had two occupants only: me…and him. We were undisturbed and somehow knew that we would continue to be left in peace. No one would interrupt. We were free to act as we pleased.
And we pleased to act in dirty, dirty ways. Accelerated pulses, raised blood pressures, flushed skin. Roaming hands, sweet kisses, teasing bites. Our actions, both internal and external, had all the makings of the perfect affair, the perfect sex.
My bare back pressed against the table top, which suddenly felt ice cold to my fevered body. My hands reached up to him, fingers twisting in his short dark hair, begging him to come closer and to bring his lips to mine once more. He obeyed and kissed me with a hunger that fed my own.
“Rayleigh, I need you,” he whispered. I nodded, not trusting my ability to speak. Gaining my permission, his hands roamed lower than my chest and prepared to pull off my remaining garments. When he shifted position, I felt him, hard against my thigh. The feeling sent an electric shock through me, vibrating my bones and turning my stomach.
I awoke so suddenly that I couldn’t even remember sitting up. I was sweating and shaking, as if my dream had actually occurred. When my sleepy brain finally caught up with reality and I was able to tell myself that it truly had been just a dream, I let my head fall back onto my pillow and stared at the paper lantern hanging from my ceiling, barely visible in the black of the night.
The man in my dream was Mr. William Cote, my art teacher. I’d had the dream many times, though they usually varied in some way. My stomach felt a little sick when I thought of how real the need that was present in each dream was. My attraction to Mr. Cote was annoying, wrong, and very strong.
The physical attraction to Mr. Cote probably would have been easier to deal with if he wasn’t as great a guy as he was. But as it was, his perfect features coupled with his charm and kindness and created a trap for my 17-year-old feelings. He was funny, if somewhat cheesy sometimes, and sweet, especially to me. We had grown close since my freshman year.
I had always been gifted with art, but it wasn’t until I met the high school art teacher two and a half years earlier that it had taken over my life. I liked it. Sure, I was labeled the introverted art freak, but it didn’t bother me. Art was an outlet; it expressed anything you wanted it to. Most of the artwork that wallpapered my bedroom displayed my desire for my teacher, though only a true artist would be able to tell that by studying them.
Because of this, art class was both my favorite and most hated period of my school day. No other class excited or interested me as much, but no other class tortured me as much, either. Not even math. But this being my third year dealing with such things, I had grown somewhat accustomed to acting normally in class. Days that followed my dreams were always the worst, though.
In class, I kept my head down and focused on my work. No matter how good I got at art, I still could never get a plain circle just right, so I had enough to do to keep me occupied for the time being. Still, my ears sought out the sounds of his footsteps and his voice, always keeping my brain updated on what Mr. Cote was doing. I was therefore very much aware when he approached my table, even if I did my best not to show it.
“Rayleigh, I need you,” my teacher said, stopping beside me. My breath caught in my throat and my heart stopped beating. I had heard those words before and I knew what came next. The images of my dream flashed back in my mind, dragging me back to my bed and distracted me. Mr. Cote’s hand rested on my shoulder, restarting my heartbeat at an alarming rate.
“Yes, Mr. Cote?” I asked shakily, looking up into his gray eyes. They, like the rest of his face, were smiling at me. He went back to absentmindedly mixing a cup of paint.
“One of the secretaries asked me to paint this thing for them, and I’m not sure what color to use. I was hoping for your artistic opinion,” he explained. I let out a breath and willed myself to calm down.
“Only if you help me with these circles,” I joked, looking down at the poster board in front of me. Mr. Cote laughed and set down the cup of paint, leaning over me slightly to observe my project. I sat perfectly still while he took the pencil from my hand and began lightly tracing shapes where I had failed.
“There ya go,” he said happily, standing up straight and putting the pencil back in my hand.
“Thanks,” I mumbled. Mr. Cote reached for the cup of paint that he had set down, but was distracted by a kid in the back of the room throwing a pencil at his buddy. His hand jerked and the cup and brush were knocked over, spilling onto my project.
“Oh no!” Mr. Cote exclaimed when he realized what he’d done. He quickly retrieved a roll of paper towels and began cleaning up the mess, but my project was already stained orange. “Rayleigh, I’m so sorry. Why don’t you stay after school today and I’ll help you re-do it?”
“Uhm, yeah. Alright,” I agreed reluctantly, staring blankly at my ruined project. The bell rang and Mr. Cote instructed me to go to my 8th period class, saying that he would finish cleaning up the mess.
I didn’t need a second invitation to escape the uncomfortable art room, so I collected my things and followed my fellow juniors out of the room. The flow of bodies in the hallway guided me to the right, in the direction of my Algebra II class. Even though we were more than halfway through the school year, Ms. Stokes still had us seated in alphabetical order, so I took my usual seat behind Lucas Barnes.
Luca was really my only friend, though you wouldn’t believe it if you looked at the two of us. I was the quiet art girl and Luca was the big blonde athlete. Our friendship, however, wasn’t exactly voluntary. Not only did we lived next door to each other all our lives, but our fathers were business partners and good friends. We really had no choice but to get along. Forced as it may have been, our friendship bond was strong. In many ways, Luca was like my big brother; he was extremely loyal and protective and I knew I could count on him for anything. We spent so much time together as children that we were now more like family than friends.
If being Lucas Barnes’ soul sister was supposed to boost my popularity, it failed. The lacrosse star was a bit of a party boy, and I was an awkward socialite. I’d gone out with Luca a few times, but always felt uncomfortable while he partied with his friends. Teenage parties were like being stuck in the middle of a mosh pit. After two or three of these events, I started letting him go out on his own. In many ways, this caused Luca and I to grow apart some, but I knew that he would still be there for me whenever I needed him.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost or something,” my friend commented, spinning around in his seat and resting his elbows on my desk.
“I don’t need a ride home today,” I told him, ignoring his statement.
“Alright. Why’s that?” he asked. Though I had my license, my parents had refused to buy me a car or let me use one of theirs unless they needed me to run errands for them. With no job to pay for a car on my own, I was forced to hitch with Luca, whose parents had bought him a brand new Jeep when he turned 17 a few months earlier.
“I have to re-do my art project,” I explained. “Mr. Cote spilled paint on it.”
“Oh did he?” he questioned, smiling evilly. I narrowed my eyes at him, letting him know that his inappropriate joke was not appreciated. Luca laughed at my expression.
“Yes,” I stated. “He did. Now turn around and learn some numbers or something.”
At the end of the class period, Luca stood up and winked at me as he threw his bag over his shoulder. Before I could yell at him again, one of his dumb jock friends threw a pen cap at the back of his head and he ran off after them. Rolling my eyes, I cradled my math notebook in my arm and walked back to the art room, figuring I’d stop at my locker before walking home.
Mr. Cote was already working on my project when I entered. He had the orange-stained poster on the table beside a fresh one and his eyes darted from one board to the next, trying to copy it exactly. I set my bag and books down at the other end of the table and stood beside him. My heart was beating so loudly that I was afraid he could hear it. But if he heard my drum of life, he did not show it.
“You don’t have to do this,” I told him. He looked up at me.
“I think I’ve pretty much got you caught up,” he said. He stood up and offered the pencil to me. I slid into the stool he had just vacated and took the pencil from his warm hand. He leaned over me and pointed somewhere on the board. “I hope you don’t mind, but I fixed this part up for you. Your spacing was off a little on your original. It’s been bothering me all week.”
Truthfully, I didn’t mind. Because I didn’t give a damn about the words he was saying at all. I only cared about the lips that were saying them. Smiling, pink lips that were placed on the beautiful face of a gorgeous man, and they were only a few inches from my own insignificant lips. If I just leaned forward slightly, we would be touching. I would finally feel what my brain had envisioned for years.
“Yeah, that looks much better,” I agreed, still not looking at the project. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Mr. Cote said. However, he did not back away. If anything, he moved closer, turning his face towards me and locking his eyes with my blue ones. “You know, you’re really fantastic.”
“Mr. Cote, stop,” I whispered. His words, taken out of context, or even in context, took my breath away. He looked confused.
“What did I--?” he began. I silenced him before he could say anything else, but my method was anything but conventional.
I leaned in, hardly knowing what I was doing, and our lips met. And the feeling of that simple contact was nearly indescribable. Better than anything else I had ever felt. Similar to the electric shock I’d felt in my dream, the spark of our connection ignited a flame inside of me that was the prelude to a raging fire. My body burned hot, my head began spinning, and my stomach filled with cliché butterflies. My heart felt weightless; it swelled like a balloon and rose in my chest, lifting me so high off of the ground that I forgot what the earth felt like. And all of this happened within just a matter of seconds.
Reality found its way into my brain and we both pulled away simultaneously. Oxygen returned to me in a rush and my chest heaved as I gasped to catch up. We stared at each other in shocked silence, neither of us knowing what to do. I knew that I wanted to kiss him again, but I also knew that the kiss was wrong. It was so wrong that I had to leave.
“Wait, Rayleigh,” Mr. Cote called, following me to the doorway. I listened to my flight instincts and continued straight out of the front door of the school, ignoring my desire to turn back. The kiss left me wanting more. The logical part of my brain told me that I shouldn’t have even had some, let alone more. Conflicted, I dug through my bag for my phone.
“Hey,” Luca’s voice answered. The familiar tone comforted me and made it easier to breathe.
“Hi,” I said. “Did you leave yet?”
“Yeah, I’m home. Do you want me to come pick you up?” he asked. I shook my head, and then remembered that he couldn’t hear that.
“No,” I voiced. “That’s okay. I’ll just walk.”
Somewhat relieved to have the brief walk home to myself, I set off down the school driveway. My brain seemed to be on overdrive. First it replayed the dream. Then the kiss. Then the Cloud 9 feelings of the kiss. Then the future. That part was frightening and made me even sicker than the others. The previous memories, though I knew that they were wrong, made me happy in a way. But thoughts of the future left me nervous and scared.
Questions filled my mind. Did he kiss me back? Did he like the kiss? Would it happen again? Should it happen again? What now? Would he say something? Would I be taken out of his class? Would that be a good thing? Should I tell Luca? What would he say? What the fuck was I going to do?
What the fuck was I going to do?
The halls were empty. The school was silent, sleeping. The art room had two occupants only: me…and him. We were undisturbed and somehow knew that we would continue to be left in peace. No one would interrupt. We were free to act as we pleased.
And we pleased to act in dirty, dirty ways. Accelerated pulses, raised blood pressures, flushed skin. Roaming hands, sweet kisses, teasing bites. Our actions, both internal and external, had all the makings of the perfect affair, the perfect sex.
My bare back pressed against the table top, which suddenly felt ice cold to my fevered body. My hands reached up to him, fingers twisting in his short dark hair, begging him to come closer and to bring his lips to mine once more. He obeyed and kissed me with a hunger that fed my own.
“Rayleigh, I need you,” he whispered. I nodded, not trusting my ability to speak. Gaining my permission, his hands roamed lower than my chest and prepared to pull off my remaining garments. When he shifted position, I felt him, hard against my thigh. The feeling sent an electric shock through me, vibrating my bones and turning my stomach.
I awoke so suddenly that I couldn’t even remember sitting up. I was sweating and shaking, as if my dream had actually occurred. When my sleepy brain finally caught up with reality and I was able to tell myself that it truly had been just a dream, I let my head fall back onto my pillow and stared at the paper lantern hanging from my ceiling, barely visible in the black of the night.
The man in my dream was Mr. William Cote, my art teacher. I’d had the dream many times, though they usually varied in some way. My stomach felt a little sick when I thought of how real the need that was present in each dream was. My attraction to Mr. Cote was annoying, wrong, and very strong.
The physical attraction to Mr. Cote probably would have been easier to deal with if he wasn’t as great a guy as he was. But as it was, his perfect features coupled with his charm and kindness and created a trap for my 17-year-old feelings. He was funny, if somewhat cheesy sometimes, and sweet, especially to me. We had grown close since my freshman year.
I had always been gifted with art, but it wasn’t until I met the high school art teacher two and a half years earlier that it had taken over my life. I liked it. Sure, I was labeled the introverted art freak, but it didn’t bother me. Art was an outlet; it expressed anything you wanted it to. Most of the artwork that wallpapered my bedroom displayed my desire for my teacher, though only a true artist would be able to tell that by studying them.
Because of this, art class was both my favorite and most hated period of my school day. No other class excited or interested me as much, but no other class tortured me as much, either. Not even math. But this being my third year dealing with such things, I had grown somewhat accustomed to acting normally in class. Days that followed my dreams were always the worst, though.
In class, I kept my head down and focused on my work. No matter how good I got at art, I still could never get a plain circle just right, so I had enough to do to keep me occupied for the time being. Still, my ears sought out the sounds of his footsteps and his voice, always keeping my brain updated on what Mr. Cote was doing. I was therefore very much aware when he approached my table, even if I did my best not to show it.
“Rayleigh, I need you,” my teacher said, stopping beside me. My breath caught in my throat and my heart stopped beating. I had heard those words before and I knew what came next. The images of my dream flashed back in my mind, dragging me back to my bed and distracted me. Mr. Cote’s hand rested on my shoulder, restarting my heartbeat at an alarming rate.
“Yes, Mr. Cote?” I asked shakily, looking up into his gray eyes. They, like the rest of his face, were smiling at me. He went back to absentmindedly mixing a cup of paint.
“One of the secretaries asked me to paint this thing for them, and I’m not sure what color to use. I was hoping for your artistic opinion,” he explained. I let out a breath and willed myself to calm down.
“Only if you help me with these circles,” I joked, looking down at the poster board in front of me. Mr. Cote laughed and set down the cup of paint, leaning over me slightly to observe my project. I sat perfectly still while he took the pencil from my hand and began lightly tracing shapes where I had failed.
“There ya go,” he said happily, standing up straight and putting the pencil back in my hand.
“Thanks,” I mumbled. Mr. Cote reached for the cup of paint that he had set down, but was distracted by a kid in the back of the room throwing a pencil at his buddy. His hand jerked and the cup and brush were knocked over, spilling onto my project.
“Oh no!” Mr. Cote exclaimed when he realized what he’d done. He quickly retrieved a roll of paper towels and began cleaning up the mess, but my project was already stained orange. “Rayleigh, I’m so sorry. Why don’t you stay after school today and I’ll help you re-do it?”
“Uhm, yeah. Alright,” I agreed reluctantly, staring blankly at my ruined project. The bell rang and Mr. Cote instructed me to go to my 8th period class, saying that he would finish cleaning up the mess.
I didn’t need a second invitation to escape the uncomfortable art room, so I collected my things and followed my fellow juniors out of the room. The flow of bodies in the hallway guided me to the right, in the direction of my Algebra II class. Even though we were more than halfway through the school year, Ms. Stokes still had us seated in alphabetical order, so I took my usual seat behind Lucas Barnes.
Luca was really my only friend, though you wouldn’t believe it if you looked at the two of us. I was the quiet art girl and Luca was the big blonde athlete. Our friendship, however, wasn’t exactly voluntary. Not only did we lived next door to each other all our lives, but our fathers were business partners and good friends. We really had no choice but to get along. Forced as it may have been, our friendship bond was strong. In many ways, Luca was like my big brother; he was extremely loyal and protective and I knew I could count on him for anything. We spent so much time together as children that we were now more like family than friends.
If being Lucas Barnes’ soul sister was supposed to boost my popularity, it failed. The lacrosse star was a bit of a party boy, and I was an awkward socialite. I’d gone out with Luca a few times, but always felt uncomfortable while he partied with his friends. Teenage parties were like being stuck in the middle of a mosh pit. After two or three of these events, I started letting him go out on his own. In many ways, this caused Luca and I to grow apart some, but I knew that he would still be there for me whenever I needed him.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost or something,” my friend commented, spinning around in his seat and resting his elbows on my desk.
“I don’t need a ride home today,” I told him, ignoring his statement.
“Alright. Why’s that?” he asked. Though I had my license, my parents had refused to buy me a car or let me use one of theirs unless they needed me to run errands for them. With no job to pay for a car on my own, I was forced to hitch with Luca, whose parents had bought him a brand new Jeep when he turned 17 a few months earlier.
“I have to re-do my art project,” I explained. “Mr. Cote spilled paint on it.”
“Oh did he?” he questioned, smiling evilly. I narrowed my eyes at him, letting him know that his inappropriate joke was not appreciated. Luca laughed at my expression.
“Yes,” I stated. “He did. Now turn around and learn some numbers or something.”
At the end of the class period, Luca stood up and winked at me as he threw his bag over his shoulder. Before I could yell at him again, one of his dumb jock friends threw a pen cap at the back of his head and he ran off after them. Rolling my eyes, I cradled my math notebook in my arm and walked back to the art room, figuring I’d stop at my locker before walking home.
Mr. Cote was already working on my project when I entered. He had the orange-stained poster on the table beside a fresh one and his eyes darted from one board to the next, trying to copy it exactly. I set my bag and books down at the other end of the table and stood beside him. My heart was beating so loudly that I was afraid he could hear it. But if he heard my drum of life, he did not show it.
“You don’t have to do this,” I told him. He looked up at me.
“I think I’ve pretty much got you caught up,” he said. He stood up and offered the pencil to me. I slid into the stool he had just vacated and took the pencil from his warm hand. He leaned over me and pointed somewhere on the board. “I hope you don’t mind, but I fixed this part up for you. Your spacing was off a little on your original. It’s been bothering me all week.”
Truthfully, I didn’t mind. Because I didn’t give a damn about the words he was saying at all. I only cared about the lips that were saying them. Smiling, pink lips that were placed on the beautiful face of a gorgeous man, and they were only a few inches from my own insignificant lips. If I just leaned forward slightly, we would be touching. I would finally feel what my brain had envisioned for years.
“Yeah, that looks much better,” I agreed, still not looking at the project. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Mr. Cote said. However, he did not back away. If anything, he moved closer, turning his face towards me and locking his eyes with my blue ones. “You know, you’re really fantastic.”
“Mr. Cote, stop,” I whispered. His words, taken out of context, or even in context, took my breath away. He looked confused.
“What did I--?” he began. I silenced him before he could say anything else, but my method was anything but conventional.
I leaned in, hardly knowing what I was doing, and our lips met. And the feeling of that simple contact was nearly indescribable. Better than anything else I had ever felt. Similar to the electric shock I’d felt in my dream, the spark of our connection ignited a flame inside of me that was the prelude to a raging fire. My body burned hot, my head began spinning, and my stomach filled with cliché butterflies. My heart felt weightless; it swelled like a balloon and rose in my chest, lifting me so high off of the ground that I forgot what the earth felt like. And all of this happened within just a matter of seconds.
Reality found its way into my brain and we both pulled away simultaneously. Oxygen returned to me in a rush and my chest heaved as I gasped to catch up. We stared at each other in shocked silence, neither of us knowing what to do. I knew that I wanted to kiss him again, but I also knew that the kiss was wrong. It was so wrong that I had to leave.
“Wait, Rayleigh,” Mr. Cote called, following me to the doorway. I listened to my flight instincts and continued straight out of the front door of the school, ignoring my desire to turn back. The kiss left me wanting more. The logical part of my brain told me that I shouldn’t have even had some, let alone more. Conflicted, I dug through my bag for my phone.
“Hey,” Luca’s voice answered. The familiar tone comforted me and made it easier to breathe.
“Hi,” I said. “Did you leave yet?”
“Yeah, I’m home. Do you want me to come pick you up?” he asked. I shook my head, and then remembered that he couldn’t hear that.
“No,” I voiced. “That’s okay. I’ll just walk.”
Somewhat relieved to have the brief walk home to myself, I set off down the school driveway. My brain seemed to be on overdrive. First it replayed the dream. Then the kiss. Then the Cloud 9 feelings of the kiss. Then the future. That part was frightening and made me even sicker than the others. The previous memories, though I knew that they were wrong, made me happy in a way. But thoughts of the future left me nervous and scared.
Questions filled my mind. Did he kiss me back? Did he like the kiss? Would it happen again? Should it happen again? What now? Would he say something? Would I be taken out of his class? Would that be a good thing? Should I tell Luca? What would he say? What the fuck was I going to do?
What the fuck was I going to do?
Introduction
Before I even begin to think about posting what I write on this page, I think it is necessary to give a brief description of the project I am currently working on. Though I have many open projects and even more ideas, my current pride and joy is informally known as and lovingly referred to as "Rayleigh". If it gets posted on here, I will use the official name, Drawn Together.
Rayleigh Bennett is a 17-year-old student currently getting ready to wrap up her junior year of high school. So far, this year has been nothing special; her one and only friend, Lucas Barnes, continued to be the star athlete of the school and general Golden Boy, and she continued to be an introverted artist. However, this seemingly average school year takes a turn--for better or worse?--when her overwhelming attraction to her art teacher and mentor, William Cote, consumes her and leads her to her breaking point. The story is one of passionate love and all of the drama and emotions that accompany it.
While student-teacher relationships may make common plots, the writing itself is anything but traditional. Rayleigh and Mr. Cote bond through their art on a level unmatched by any other; through their expression, they can truly see into each other's souls and live there comfortably. Their relationship has ups and downs and frightful moments like any other, but, as Rob Thomas says, "it's the heart that really matters in the end."
*"Drawn Together" is copyrighted to me
Rayleigh Bennett is a 17-year-old student currently getting ready to wrap up her junior year of high school. So far, this year has been nothing special; her one and only friend, Lucas Barnes, continued to be the star athlete of the school and general Golden Boy, and she continued to be an introverted artist. However, this seemingly average school year takes a turn--for better or worse?--when her overwhelming attraction to her art teacher and mentor, William Cote, consumes her and leads her to her breaking point. The story is one of passionate love and all of the drama and emotions that accompany it.
While student-teacher relationships may make common plots, the writing itself is anything but traditional. Rayleigh and Mr. Cote bond through their art on a level unmatched by any other; through their expression, they can truly see into each other's souls and live there comfortably. Their relationship has ups and downs and frightful moments like any other, but, as Rob Thomas says, "it's the heart that really matters in the end."
*"Drawn Together" is copyrighted to me
2.28.2011
Welcome :)
I'm not sure how this is going to work or if I'll end up using it, but this blog has been set up as an artist headquarters for myself. This is where I hope to post anything and everything related to my many writing projects, as well as some possible artwork and personal opinions. Let's see where this goes!
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