Lies You Never Told Me(18)

His expression is calm and measured, but I see something in his eyes. A quick flash. I’m not sure if it’s anger, or sadness.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Don’t be. It’s part of what made me who I am.” He leans forward, bracing his forearms against his knees. “I learned a lot from my dad, even if I hated him sometimes. You know, now I know how to start a fire without matches. I know I can survive without central heating or running water. I also know I don’t want to,” he says with a chuckle. “But I know I’m a survivor. I think someday you’ll look back and see the same thing about yourself.”

I look down at my hands in my lap. Will I ever be far enough from this life to be able to look back and see anything with clarity? It’s hard to picture. I realize suddenly that when I imagine my future, it looks exactly the same as my present. I won’t be in high school, of course; but I’ll still be here, on the outskirts of Portland, mopping up spilled Coke in the movie theater every night, going home to see a mother in various states of unconsciousness.

“I think Juliet’s lonely, though,” I say, wanting to get the spotlight off me and my life. “Like, the nurse can barely even remember how old she is. Her mom doesn’t really care if she likes Paris or not. So when Romeo shows up at the party, ready to talk to her directly, she finally feels like someone wants to know who she really is.”

“That’s a great observation.” Mr. Hunter’s voice is gentle. “Can I assume you might know something about that feeling?”

I just laugh.

No, it’s not the same. Juliet is treated like precious property. I take care of a mom too strung out to even notice me. But still—we’re both invisible. We’re both hungry to be seen.

He sets down the script. “Okay. Let’s try this. Let’s do the masquerade scene, between Romeo and Juliet, and I want you to think about that while we go through it. Think about her loneliness—and the idea that someone finally sees her. How’s she feeling? What does she want? No, don’t answer—just channel that. Ready?”

“Don’t you need the script?” I don’t know why, but for some reason I’m nervous. My heart is going too fast, and my cheeks are so warm they feel almost scraped raw.

He grins. “I played Romeo in a college production. I still have it all memorized.”

Of course he did.

“Ready?” He stands up, and I jump up behind him.

“Yeah. Okay.”

He closes his eyes for a few seconds. When he opens them again, his affect has changed. His eyes are soft, his mouth in the slightest pout. He takes my hand, just by the very tips of the fingers. The touch is so light it makes me shiver a little.

“If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this . . .” he starts. I feel my heart catch, snagged on something in my chest. My breath is short and shallow. “My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

The words spring to my mouth without effort. It surprises me.

“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this,” I whisper. “For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”

“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?” His voice is so tender it’s like a feather on the skin. It sends a shiver across my body.

“Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer,” I say, teasingly.

We’re speaking softly. The silence of the school all around us seems to pull us closer together.

“O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair,” he whispers.

“Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.” My hand drifts up, almost on its own, to lay a single finger on his mouth.

“Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.”

His lips brush mine.

I feel both syrupy slow and electric. My mind struggles to catch up, but my head is tilting back, my mouth parting breathlessly, and the kiss lingers, his breath warm against my skin, and I think distantly that he tastes sweet and sharp, like ginger, like something you have to have in small amounts . . .

. . . and then the sensation fades. The warmth of his body pulls away like a tide. I’m tugged irresistibly toward it, leaning forward for one split second before I come back to myself. When I open my eyes he’s on his feet, striding away from me.

“Shit,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” He pulls his hands roughly across his face, his cheeks pink.

My mind’s trapped on a loop-de-loop, dizzy and recursive. I kissed a teacher. Or . . . he kissed me. But it was a scene from a play. But he really kissed me. But was he my teacher then, or was he Romeo? From the other side of the room the wig heads look suddenly sly, like they’ve just spied something illicit.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again. “That was over the line.” He wrings his hands together, brow furrowed. “You’re a remarkable actress. I forget, sometimes, how young you are. I forget this is a high school production.”

A flutter of pleasure stirs in my chest. It feels like high praise.

“Then have my lips the sin that they have took,” I say softly.