Chapter 14: Eyes on Fire
I won't soothe your pain,
I won't ease your strain,
You'll be waiting in vain,
I got nothing for you to gain…
"I mean an owl—like a legitimate. Owl."
Jamie squints at her reflection in the locker's mirror. Like she does every morning, she applies the eyeliner with a subtle flick of her wrist.
"Did it have a letter from Hogwarts?"
I blink. "Um, no. It didn't. But—"
"Did it keep you company when the Dursley's were being asses?"
"This isn't a joke, Jamie." I release a mouthful of air and rub my eyes lethargically. Fuzzy dots develop in the blackness. "In all seriousness, I met an owl Saturday night. In my bedroom."
"Was it white as snow?"
"No."
"Did you name it Hedwig?"
"No."
She expertly twirls the makeup pencil between her fingers.
"Did it sacrifice its life to save you from the Death Eaters—?"
"Oh my God, No."
I let my head fall against the neighbour's locker. Jamie doesn't believe me. My best friend—one of those people who's indebted to listen and nod their head in mindless agreement—doesn't believe me. Since I declared Saturday night's mystery, she hasn't showed me the slightest smidge of seriousness. It's beginning to throw me off, not that my three hours of sleep wasn't already doing the job.
She's so accustomed to my glares of annoyance that she's hardly discouraged when I fire her my finest, most demeaning glare. Her reply is a look of innocence and why-can't-we-love-Harry-Potter-together look. I hate that look.
It's at that moment when a basketball slams into the space between us, the huge boom noise ricocheting off the lockers and sending me squealing like a mouse. Jamie doesn't shudder a muscle as she throws a dissatisfied glance at Ceylon.
"Sarah had a grotesque date with an owl last night."
Ceylon scoops the basketball up and, with skillful ease, spins it on his pinky.
"I saw her text, but then I figured Toby hijacked her phone." He turns to me. "He did hijack your phone, right?"
"No, no he did not. Could you guys just shut up and listen?"
"Okay, fine." Ceylon steadies the ball. "Talk."
I shift awkwardly while Jamie and Ceylon target their scrutiny onto the withdrawn member of our trio. Their faces hold patience and expectancy, like I should feel obliged to impress them with my mildly embarrassing secret. I contemplate, for only a second, knocking the ball from his hands and frolicking down the hall.
"Well, since you asked so politely, I will. On Saturday night, I found an owl in my bedroom. It was perched on my windowsill and it didn't do anything—just watched me. But I could've sworn it looked sad, you know? Like the poor thing—"
"Oh fuck, I can't do this," Ceylon's serious face breaks and he chuckles. Then he's shaking his head and giving the ball a sharp bounce. "Since when was Sar on acid? I thought that area of expertise belonged to Mr. Jones."
"Well," Jamie taps her finger against her chin, "obviously, he's sharing it with her."
"That would make sense."
"Let's report him."
Irritated, I stomp my foot. "Stop it, I'm not on acid!"
We watch Ceylon pinch his face together and roll his eyes upward. Then he flops his wrists in aimless directions, mimicking my words.
"Stop it, I'm not on acid!"
"The owl is real, dammit!"
"The owl is real, dammit!"
The embarrassment strikes me in a malicious blow. Now that any confidence has leaked into extinction, I'm seriously debating sulking all day. My shoulders cave inwards as I complain to my friends.
"I can't believe you guys are acting like this. I'm telling the truth yet you're making me feel extremely uncomfortable."
Ceylon shoots the basketball at me and, although I catch it, the impact meets my chest like a steady punch. It nearly knocks the air from my lungs and I'm left marginally stumbling for balance.
"What did you expect, Williams? You had a romantic date with an owl and it was in your bedroom. That's the farthest you've let anyone go!"
Before I have the chance to process this, Jamie's reeling around and digging her tiny knee into Ceylon's crotch. He buckles inwards instantly and enunciates a combination of laughter and searing, unfathomable pain.
"You know, in ancient Greek mythology," Jamie peacefully speaks over his cries, "owls are associated with magic, security and wisdom."
From his hunched position, Ceylon wheezes another remark.
"Huh? Say that again, dork?"
She spins around once more and, this time, halts her knee just below his midsection. Ceylon cringes fearfully at the sight of it. I let out a laugh, sincerely enjoying his pain.
"It's called reading," she retorts, "try it out some time."
I drop the basketball and it bounces back to Ceylon's feet, as though spiritually summoned by its master. While he continues to hunch over and puff air, I encourage Jamie to tell me more.
"Well," she begins, "in ancient Greek mythology, the Goddess of Wisdom favoured the owl. So the crow was banished and, in its place, she honoured the owl as the great protector. This meant that they could accompany Greek armies into war—kind of a big deal. And, on top of that …" Jamie inclines forward and attaches her sparkling eyes to mine. "They had a knack for watching over their earnest, most treasured loved ones."
Ceylon performs an abhorrent snort that could've lasted five whole seconds. I, on the other hand, take her words into deep consideration.
"Are you suggesting that Saturday night's owl could've been protecting me, like I'm its loved one?"
She shrugs her shoulders, like she has her own freaky bird friend and it's nothing fabulous.
"In the grand scheme of things, yeah. Pretty much." She raises a brow. "And owls aren't its, Sarah. I'm betting it was a male."
"What makes you think that?"
"You mentioned earlier the colour of its back—light feathers, right? Some white showing?"
I nod my head slowly. Jamie's rich education on owls is getting a little weird.
"Um, yeah. No dark colours, only light."
"Then it was a male." Jamie reaches forward and pats my shoulder. "Congratulations, you now have a magical owl companion."
Still caved inwards (Jamie must've slammed him hard), Ceylon glimpses up at us, wincing in trifling agony. With one hand, he manages to scoop the basketball up and toss it at me.
"There's no such thing as magic, Sar. I say that's a load of bullshi—"
Before I can hug the ball against my chest, a hand darts before me and swipes it away.
"Did somebody say 'magic'?"
Jareth smirks at my friends with the basketball balanced in his palm. He looks pleased with his coordination.
Just as Ceylon scrambles into an upright position and mutters a flat "no," Jamie chirps "yeah!"
"What an exquisite approach to begin the day," he muses. "As a matter of fact, magic is an attribute I specialize in."
"Wow, really?" Ceylon fakes an overly-exaggerated falsetto, just like what Jamie does with the Vicky squad. "Because we were thinking you specialized in something along the lines of aci—"
Jamie raises her knee again and he instantaneously shuts up.
"Can I have the ball back?" Ceylon grumbles.
"It's all yours."
Jareth launches the ball at Ceylon with startling force. Although the athlete catches it, the surprise is painted visibly on his face; Jareth isn't nearly as cooperative with Ceylon as he is with Jamie.
"Do tell me of this discussion's origin," Jareth purrs, "magic is a delight, if I don't say so myself."
"Um," I pull at Jamie's jacket, "we were actually just leaving—"
Just to my dismay, Jamie nudges my fingers off and says, "Sarah met an owl last night. We think it's her new companion."
Well then.
I cross my arms and plaster a stubborn expression on; I have no interest in participating in this conversation. I'd rather not hear Jareth's opinion, thank you very much.
Our teacher looks perplexed by this piece of confession but, weirdly enough, he doesn't alter his attention onto me, like any other day. Instead, he pours it onto Jamie with a gratified smile.
"That statement sounds a tad preposterous, wouldn't you agree?"
"I think it's cool, actually. Sarah needs a little help in the 'friend' department, if you catch my drift."
"I don't believe it," he laughs. "An owl's visit is as rare as the visit of a Gobli—"
"Goblins aren't real," I quietly declare. "Owls are, though. I know what I saw."
For the first time since he showed up, Jareth turns to me and I'm faced with a foreboding frown. His blue eyes congeal into ice as they loiter, delivering a message as clear as day: goblins are very much real, you silly idiot.
"Yes," he sourly replies, "but, on the contrary, you're induced in the notion that you know many things, aren't you?"
His sourness has thwarted my voice; I have nothing to say. What the hell was that?
His scary demeanor promptly vanishes and transitions back into that pleasant smile, gifted solely to Jamie. It's practically enveloped in ribbon and crowned with a bow; just like that, my face has been slammed into a metaphorical brick.
"Jamie, I wanted to phrase you for your immaculate perception yesterday. Anisocoria is the answer to my eyes, mostly certainly, but I never foresaw a student's ability to unravel such a secret. You are quite a skillful girl—astonishing, to be definite."
Jamie eyebrows raise at this, taken off guard and a little confused.
"Well, uh, thanks."
It only takes her a brief moment to recuperate, though, before she's clearing her throat and gesturing to an imaginary audience.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to thank the academy. And also Jonah Hill, who has always been there for me."
Jareth blinks twice and cocks his head, unsure of what game she's playing. I watch him make an effort to excuse himself.
"I'm afraid I must be leaving, now—"
"I would also like to thank Google for making those owl websites possible—"
"I will see you in class, Jamie."
With a polite nod in her direction, he whirls around and glides down the hallway, one foot sashaying after the other with purpose and tenacity. I pray he'll slip on a banana peel.
Jamie hasn't noticed his exit because she's still executing her bows, wiping fake tears and gushing melodramatically. Ceylon and I don't bother joining in because, for the time being, the two of us are occupied staring after our teacher.
"He just pretended like we don't exist," Ceylon observes. "And, I don't know if you noticed, but he shot daggers into your soul."
"He tried knocking you out with a basketball."
"Daggers, Williams. Daggers."
I teeter onto my heels, struggling to keep my view of Jareth. In the distance, he's merging into the packs of students, slipping through skin and backpacks. Only a fragment of my attention is with Ceylon because the majority of it is fastened to Jareth.
"Mmmm," I passively reply.
A moment passes and, as baffling as it is, I think Jareth may have sensed my eyes, like his goblin intellect can predict if I'm watching; just before he turns a corner, Jareth glimpses over his shoulder and favours me with the bitterest, most spiteful glare I've ever seen.
'Daggers' sounds awfully accurate.
I wait until after class to confront Jareth.
The bell chimes at exactly nine-thirty. Kids burst from their seats like coiled springs and the morning's stillness is obliterated. They flood out the door in disordered torrents, thrashing against each other's shoulders and shouting over the buzz. Amidst the commotion, I'm the only one who remains.
"I have a few questions about an assignment," I had told Jamie and Ceylon. My eyes wouldn't meet theirs as I organized my papers. They were already categorized, technically, but I needed something to aimlessly toy with—to make me look distracted. "It's nothing. I won't take very long."
I sit in my seat, stare at the chalkboard and twiddle with my fingers. Although my friends had shrugged their shoulders and turned unnoticeably to the door, the flicker in Jamie's eyes was impossible to miss. It was small but ablaze, thirsty for the secret that smouldered behind my hiding. She exited with Ceylon, but her mind is churning.
When the last stray students trickle out the door and the classroom is empty, I stand up and position myself in front of Jareth's desk. The location is direct and confrontational.
"What's your problem?" I demand.
For the past half hour, Jareth's been feverishly scribbling on a sheet of paper. His back's arched while he scratches his pen across the page, riveted in concentration. There's that familiar crinkle wedged between his eyebrows.
During class today, he had instructed us to simply "read some literature."
"But what about reviewing for our novel study," Jamie piped, "Wuthering Heights? Isn't there a unit test coming up?"
Jareth provided her a look that said, "Do I look like I care?" Then he slid into his chair, grabbed a sheet of paper, the nearest pen, and began to scribble. And that was that.
I hadn't thought much of his dismissive behaviour at the time but, now that I stand before him and request his attention, I'm growing a little concerned; never have I needed to request for his attention—to confront him and ask what's going on. Something is off about Jareth today, this is obvious.
As they have been since the first day of school, it's easy to predict how his eyes will tear from the paper and melt into mine. He'll gear his curiosity onto me, equipping it with the fieriest, most intense warmth. But he doesn't. Instead, Jareth ignores my demand, like my presence is worthless to him. He continues to scribble on the paper, common decency far from his interests. This stings a little.
Jareth's voice is a flat streak of boredom.
"Whatever could you mean?"
"Don't play dumb. I saw the way you looked at me this morning and, heck, I should've skipped class because you wouldn't have noticed."
"Cared," he corrects, "I wouldn't have cared. Perceiving is mandatory, but caring is a matter of preferred decision."
Um.
A minute is wasted while I propose a long, measured stare. The silence is unremarkable, though, because his scribbling doesn't waver. He won't even look at me, and the result of his disinterest is a feeling of rash stupidity; I'm the girl standing in front of her teacher's desk, awaiting for the return of his affection. I'm the girl who's worried when his flirtations are absent, and who ponders why they're missing. I'm that girl.
Finally, I crack.
"Okay, fine, be like that," I force a snort, "whatever, I don't care."
Like it's the easiest thing in the world, Jareth's boredom remains. As a result, I want to snatch his pen and hurl it across the room. But I chicken-out of this mission and, on the seventeenth second of silence, crack a little more; I'm now exposing a raged, cavernous hole.
"Tell me what I've done wrong. Please."
I broke a barrier because I'm awarded with a reaction; he sighs irritably.
"Well, if it must disquiet you, your commands have made it blatantly clear to treat you as a plain, inconsequential student." His fingers constrict around the pen. "I'm following your orders."
Jareth's pen must've ran out because, without peeling his eyes from the sheet, he tosses it in the trash and blindly reaches for another.
"Stop it, then," I snap. "It doesn't feel right."
His hand freezes against the paper, as though he's prudently absorbing my response.
"Does Sarah Williams not relish blissfully when I pretend she means nothing to me?"
His words shower over me in an arctic gush, unexpectedly crude. I blink rapidly and hurl my muteness into the battlefield, the feeblest weapon available.
"My goodness," he murmurs, "this is remarkable."
"Quit putting words into my mouth, will you? I just don't like it when you treat me disrespectfully. I think we both know that I deserve more than that."
Just to my dismay, his eyes rip from the paper and drill into mine. My arms prickle; they burst with sweltering aggravation.
"Oh, do you? You deserve more, you say? Pardon my objection, Ms. Williams, but you haven't preserved a scrap of respect for me since I arrived."
My stomach tightens; he's never treated me like this before. Never has Jareth addressed me with such a malicious tone—with such glacially livid eyes. I hate to admit it, but I think I'm losing the battle.
My protest is gentler than I hoped.
"You're the one who chose to be here. It's not my fault."
The flames rupture within his eyes.
"But you're the one mutating it into a nightmare. That, whether you like it or not, is your fault."
The pen snaps between Jareth's fingers. Black ink dribbles from his palm and onto the desk, staining scattered papers. This includes the sheet he'd been scribbling on.
Glowering at the mess, Jareth spews a chain of curses. He then closes his eyes and rub his temples, distracted by agitation. I embrace the opportunity to snag the mysterious paper and examine it for myself.
My breath is stolen because, rather than a mess of illegible lines, it's a sketch of a girl. She's sitting at a desk and gazing forward, a dash of vigilance peeking from her eyes. She has one hand resting on her notebook and the other tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. The pen's strokes are strident and coarse, yet the image is wholly captured; careful attention has been paid to the fullness of her eyebrows and her lips' flattering shape. The girl means something to the artist—this is easy to perceive. She's important and, well, loved.
But after comprehending the angle it was drawn from and that she's wearing my favourite sneakers, my heart drops; she's me.
Before I can further engross it, the sketch glides from my hands and migrates across his desk. Jareth's extended fingers beckon the paper's return, like there's an invisible string attached to it. It slips into his hand with impeccable control, and I'm reminded of his unfair advantage: magic.
Considering his tightened lips, uncomfortable posture and flushed cheeks, the sketch wasn't for my eyes. Jareth avoids assembling eye contact and examines his artwork, his complexion crumpled with uncertainty and humiliation. It shocks me, however, once Jareth scrunches it into a ball and chucks it in the trash.
"Why did you—"
"It was foolish."
I roll my eyes. "Actually, no. It wasn't. You're just embarrassed. I thought it was beauti—"
"I am not arguing about this," he blatantly proclaims. "The picture is foolish. I don't know what had gotten over me but I should not have drawn it." The colour in his cheeks deepen. "That's the end of it."
"But—"
"Please, Sarah."
Though he's attempting to guard his emotions, I can hear the shame dishevelled in his words. Jareth's urging me to drop it so, for some reason, I do.
With a gracious swerve of his wrist, the ink dissolves from the desk, leaving the papers clean and untouched. Watching him, I announce last night's visitor—not that I haven't been announcing weird visitors enough today.
"I saw Hoggle last night."
A spark flashes in his eyes, like a dash of concern. But it vanishes as promptly as it appeared.
"What?"
"I found him in my house. He was there and then, well…" I trail off. "He wasn't. You personally sent him, didn't you?"
"No. I did not send him." Jareth adjusts his glasses and performs a half-hearted attempt to organize the desk. "Why would I do that?"
"God, Jareth I don't know. To spy on me?" I throw my arms in the air. "To gain a detailed report of my underwear drawer?"
He pierces me with a glare.
"You are being absurd; that would defy your orders—to treat you with significance. Besides," he fidgets with the unmarked quizzes. "It's in my interests to avoid the pulverization of your tenacious complexity."
I had something to say but, suddenly, I don't. Whatever it was has been pilfered from my throat, a move of injustice burglary. While I stare at his shielded face, we suffer the expanse of a lengthy moment.
"It was a joke," I quietly say.
"I am not laughing."
"Well, if you didn't send him then who did? You're the Goblin King, for heaven's sake, nobody else has that authority other than you."
"Give it up, Sarah. I have no association with Hoggle's appearance."
"But it doesn't make any sense—"
Annoyed, he grabs a handful of papers. "And why should I give a damn?"
"You're you! That's why!"
Somebody's quiz wrinkles within his fist. "Well, since you have familiarized yourself with the script so well, why don't you figure it out yourself?"
Bingo.
"Wow, Jareth. Wow."
From behind his desk, Jareth surveys my pleased smile with a glower of suspicion. Excitement seizes me from head to toe.
"Why are you looking at me like that? I know nothing."
Riveted in delight, I flatten my palms on his desk's front space and lean towards him. His eyes widen at the gesture, probably shocked by our mounting proximity.
"This is about last night, isn't it? You're pissed off at me for steering off the script and putting you on the spot!"
Jareth's features darken. A dense haze surfaces before his glacial eyes.
"I am not as much pissed as I am hurt."
Through my smile, I mock his words from our conversation's start, accent and all.
"Whatever could you mean?"
With a deepening grimace, the paper rips in his hand. "You were being difficult," he sneers, "as you usually are."
"I'm being difficult? You're the one pouting behind the fake teaching degree, Mr. Jones!"
His entire body has strains. "You are so ignorant, Sarah. My behaviour is far beyond your understanding."
I lie on the spot.
"Don't know, don't care."
And that's when I strike a nerve.
Jareth's hands smash against his desk with a stern thud. A layer of papers lift from the desk in a synchronized flow, but it wasn't from the impact of his hands; it was the impact of his magic. Before the papers settle, Jareth returns my confrontation by inclining forward and minimizing the space between us. His eyes are on fire. They explode with a gulf of vicious flames—thrashing and ferocious.
"I am the villain," he hisses, "without end, I am the repellent emblem of our past that you refuse to forgive. In everything that I symbolize, you scoff and sneer, wrapped up in your egotistic defenses and selfish fortress. Despite the lengths I've suffered to paint new history, it all means nothing because I am the unforgiveable, condemned villain of my goddamn labyrinth."
My heart skips a beat, faltering within my chest like a perforated target.
"I have burdened you. I have provoked your suffering and caused you pain, I know this. But I have paid for it Sarah, don't you see? I have paid for it in your heartless mockery and cruel allegations—in the manner in which you look at me." His tone is jeering, overwrought with accumulated fury. "Our past has trapped me within an endless debt—an eternal curse that I, because you are heartless and cruel, cannot escape."
To seemingly gasp for air, Jareth tears himself away from me. Though, in doing so, he staggers into the chair. In a burst of fury, I watch his foot viciously kick it astray, which prompts two more pens to snap on top the desk. I nearly jolt out of my skin as the ink splashes onto the papers; the energy between us intensely stressed.
I expect Jareth to swear and clean it up once more, but he doesn't. More specifically, I don't think he can; he appears weakened, like the use of magic drew the strength from his body. There's something in the way he presses himself against the desk for reinforcement—in the way he gasps heavily for breath that suggests his fatigue. His cheek are glowing with heat and his hands tremble. As though there's no breath left, he speaks in an exhausted gasp.
"But I think of that night in the parking lot and how you poured your pain to me—the inexcusable pain that I dealt, and realize that I am, without question, the villain." He echoes this statement but with a spineless, more sorrowful whisper. "I am the villain."
There must be a bullet lodged in my chest because I can't breathe. It's sinking deeper and deeper, the wound deteriorating with each breath.
"Jareth," I stammer, "I…I am so—"
"You are dismissed."
The bullet has infinitely drowned.
"But—but I can't just leave—"
"You are dismissed."
Before I can protest once more, I'm submerged in an unseen surge of air. An invisible force lurches me backwards and I find myself stumbling towards the door, wrestling to regain my stability.
I am anything but reluctant to dash out of the classroom—to free myself of his muddling rage. Though I never touched the door, it slams shut from behind me, the clash echoing down the hallway and off the walls of my skull. The impact is jarring and slightly nauseating—an official barricade stabilized between the two of us.
Although I knew he couldn't hear, I smooth my palm against the door and whisper what Jareth deserves—what he has deserved for a very long time.
"I'm sorry."
And, with that, I am dismissed.