Chapter 26: Dirty Little Secret

They're telling secrets that should never be revealed,

There's nothing to be gained from this,

But disaster…

Jareth and I propel from each other like two contradictory magnets.

He flees to the corner and pivots his body away from me. I watch him lift his arms to his head in an uncomfortable sort of gesture, like the teacher had almost been caught doing something that's against the rules. Something forbidden. Something very bad.

For the second time this afternoon, his leg had bumped the bedside table. With my spine flattened against the wall, I watched the glass vase sway in a measured circle, teetering dangerously, before losing its balance and crashing to the floor. Once again, glass fragments disperse.

The knocking sound continues.

Knock, knock, knock…

"I REPEAT: THIS IS ROOM SERVICE, MA'AM. I'M GOING TO NEED YOU TO OPEN THIS DOOR."

From under the thin covers, my heart rattles in panic. Adrenaline pulses through my wrists, provoking my nerves to stir, and my stomach to flip. Would it be peculiar to be discovered in such a small room, alone with a teacher—the same teacher who swung me up in his arms upon collapsing? Once Jareth and I are witnessed in this room together, Jamie ought to think something of it. She is never clueless, but a mastermind whose gears churn regularly, connecting the pieces of a puzzle that she will, it's a guarantee, solve. She is ought to acknowledge the privacy of this room's space, and how Jareth and I are alone. She is ought to consider how it isn't normal for an educator to be so…involved in their student's recovery.

She is being given more reason to suspect that there is a secret, between Mr. Jones and I, to obscure.

A second voice hisses from the other side of the door.

"Shut up, Jamie, she's probably sleeping!"

Oh, no. Ceylon.

"Well not anymore, she isn't."

"We should let her rest—"

"I didn't skip Social Justice and lie to a hallway monitor for nothing, Ceylon."

I shake my head; Jamie would do anything to put her Matrix knowledge to the test in a real-life situation—kind of like sneaking out of class to check on a fainted friend. I can see it now: she probably tip-toed passed rows upon rows of lockers, her hands clasped together into an imaginary gun, all stealthy and badass. She probably pretended to dodge imaginary laser beams and patrolling spotlights, too. Ceylon must've trailed behind her unwillingly, drooping his shoulders and rolling his eyes to the ceiling; he never did like the Matrix movies.

"Yeah, whatever, but I'm not getting busted for this. My record needs to stay spotless if I'm going to make captain of the basketball team."

Jamie responds mockingly, her voice transformed into something mean and bantering.

"Oh, boohoo! Poor jock boy's too scared to bend the rules, even for his own best friend."

"You want me to smash open a door, Jamie."

"You know, Mr. Jones scooped Sarah into his arms in front of, like, fifty students without fretting about his reputation, and he did so rather romantically, if I can recall the gossip correctly."

I snort, but allow the conversation to continue.

"Yeah, it was so weird—"

"Considering that achievement," Jamie interrupts him, "I think you can smash this door open."

I hear a revolted scowl.

"I can't believe that creep! Who does he think he is, snatching her up like that? Like he has the right to claim Sarah—like he's got a title on her!?" I steal a glance at Jareth from across the room. He stands with his hands resting at his sides and his eyes trained to the floor, listening. Jareth's face is intent as he absorbs the words of the student who, most likely, hates him. The feelings, I assume, are mutual. "You should've seen it, Jamie, it was such a joke. He's such a joke."

"Sounds hot."

I let out another snort, this one more embarrassed than the last, and nervously glance at Jareth again. He doesn't react, thankfully, but keeps his eyes on the floor. He's concentrating on their every word, which worries me. What is he listening for?

Don't go there, Jamie. The timing and place couldn't be worse than this.

"It wasn't hot, Jamie. He is a teacher—an adult man—and she's just a high school student. He needs to back-off, or he'll get into trouble."

"Oh, don't act like you don't obsessively check-out Mrs. Smith—the full body scan—every chance you got."

"Definitely not the same thing."

"Well what are you going to do about it? Report nonexistent scandals to the school principal? Or, if that doesn't work, throw a basketball in his face?"

"You know there's something sketchy happening."

I close my eyes, willing their muffled voices to fade.

"Yes, I do, and guess what else I know."

What? I desperately ponder. What else do you know?

"What?" Ceylon asks for me, sounding increasingly frustrated.

There's a pause.

"Sarah doesn't seem to mind."

I gasp, horrified by my best friend. I whirl my attention to Jareth to find a delicate smile has crept into his expression, diminishing the seriousness from before.

Jamie says this softly, as though she had been weighing the pros and cons of pronouncing such a statement for quite some time, and chose this moment to cautiously lay it on the table. Uneasy, my body becomes rigid from under the covers; I am not fond of the potential direction this conversation could be embarking.

"That's so stupid," Ceylon objects, "of course Sarah minds! Maybe she just doesn't get it yet. Maybe she's ignoring the signs, I don't know. But she would mind if she knew—"

"Just think about it, Ceylon. When Mr. Jones's name is brought up in conversation, she never rushes to insult him, like you always do. She actually becomes sort of quiet, like she's got this whole different opinion going on but won't say it aloud. And I was on the phone with her one night, teasing her about him, and her only retaliation was his age. That's it, Ceylon, nothing else. His age."

"That's a perfectly solid retaliation," Ceylon quips.

"Yeah, sure, you'd think so, but if you'd heard how unconvinced she sounded herself, then you'd understand how lame it was. His age didn't sound like it was an issue; it was just an excuse."

Appalled by the words transpired on the other side of the door, my hands lift to my mouth. I'm so enraptured in a mishmash of shock and humiliation that I don't know what to do. I look at Jareth without truly wanting to, but understanding that I have to, and see that he is already fixated on me. He, as well, appears stricken with astonishment, but there's something else there. It's in the way his subtle smile from before has expanded into a wide, dazzling thing. It is impossible to deny how positively delighted Jareth has become.

The blue eyes search mine wondrously, begging the question: is this true?

I yank my eyes away, refusing to answer.

Instead, I've decided that this conversation cannot continue for any longer. It needs to end. Now.

"Hey," I begin to call, "I'm awake—"

But my voice is cut-off. Stopped, as though an outstretched hand has forced its way into my mouth and hijacked the words from my possession. I'm confused until I turn to Jareth and note how his arm has raised towards me. A pale, slender finger is aimed at my face, and a purple glint of light, like a spark spat from a gulf of flames, escapes from underneath his nail. It dies upon its descent, but its power is colossal.

I feel my cheeks burn incredulously. In order to squeeze every last drop out of this discussion, Jareth has used magic to halt my speech—to halt my ability to shut the two of them up.

That bastard! I should have said something sooner!

I glower at him mutely. He simply shifts his focus to the door, eavesdropping some more.

"And, in class, she stares at him. You probably haven't noticed this, but I sure have. She literally stares, like she could forever." Jamie giggles. "Kind of like me when I watch Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing, you catch my drift?"

Holy mother of God, this is so bogus! Make it stop—it needs to stop!

Unable to speak and feeling intolerably useless because of it, my open palms slam against the bed's covers; I am flooded with anger—an anger so livid and real that I want to scream—shout Jamie's name in a fit of protest, tell her to zip-it and lock any more of her crazy ideas into the vault that is her mind. She is in no place to share such—such fraud and embarrassing information. Since when has she gathered all of these misconceptions and concluded an assumption such as this? Is she mad?

Mad or not, she has made Jareth very happy. I can't remember the last time I witnessed him this happy. Standing there, across the room from me, with his arms crossed triumphantly and a gigantic smile glowing on his face, I realize that Jareth has dreamt of hearing words like these for an extremely long time.

It's too bad none of it is true.

There is nothing happening between Jareth and I. Our history is messed-up, true, but that does not speak for any feelings I may have for him. That would be outrageous.

But then my mind crawls to a few short moments ago, when the two of us propelled opposite directions. A knocking sounded at the door, and we hastily retreated. Like there was something to retreat from. Like there was something to hide.

I erase these thoughts as quickly as they had come.

I begin to haul myself upwards into a sitting position. My body aches in disapproval, like the muscles haven't been in use for multiple decades. Still, I am fully prepared to stumble across the floor and open the door myself. Gee, maybe I'll slap Jareth on my way there.

But before I make it out of the bed, there is an invisible force, like a gust of wind so powerful that I'm left with no other choice then to obey it. Having been subjected to it before, in the classroom that time Jareth pushed me out the door, I recognize this particular magic of his. It pins me back onto the bed's mattress, flattening me down. Stunned, I watch the covers rise and fold on top of my chest, suggesting a false truth—that I had never fought to rise and open the door in the first place.

Despite I cannot tolerate another word from my best friends, he plans on hearing every last one.

Mortified, I gawk at Jareth. He stands with both his arms raised now, directed at me. His fingers are outspread and shaking. His legs, arranged into a cat-like stance, look as though they may betray him any second now and give in. It dawns on me that Jareth must have become drastically weak as a result of all the magic he has demonstrated in this room. I realize that the pain must have caught up with him, and he has no choice now but to confront the circumstances.

And yet, his facial features speak of something entirely different—something I wouldn't expect from someone in such a high level of agony; Jareth is ecstatic. His cheeks may be flushed and a sweat may have gathered on his forehead and upper lip, but his gaze is soft and blissful. His eyes tell me how he truly feels, deep down in his chest. In his heart.

And then he laughs. It is authentic and true, as laughter should be. I am mystified by such a sound, at how beautiful I find it to be. It resonates off the walls of the room, shattering my infuriation for half an instant.

When Ceylon doesn't respond to Jamie's theory (why hasn't he responded? He doesn't believe this bullshit, does he?), she continues.

"Look, we both know that Sarah is a smart girl. If she needed help, then she'd let us know and get the help. But she hasn't given us any reason to believe that she needs it, which means nothing is wrong. Whatever's… happening between her and Mr. Jones…it's okay. We need to trust that, Ceylon. We are her best friends."

"No," Ceylon voice, although quiet, rises again. "If what you say is true, and I'm not saying that it is, then it's because she doesn't understand who Mr. Jones is. Maybe I can talk some sense into her."

"Don't be dumb, Ceylon. Sarah understands the situation just fine."

"But how do you know that? What if she doesn't? Mr. Jones is bad news. It would be wrong for this—whatever this is—to continue."

"How do you know that? What if whatever's happening is not so wrong?"

Ceylon is practically shouting.

"What are you trying to say then, Jamie?"

I close my eyes.

Please, stop.

"Maybe, he poses no threat to her. And maybe," Jamie's voice elevates in volume, like she's proposing an idea to Ceylon and forcing him to accept it. To believe it. "Sarah likes it."

Oh my God.

My anger swells ten times the size it had been before, filling every inch of me until there is no more room left. I glare menacingly at Jareth, hoping to subject these feelings to him unmistakably. He is still smiling widely but, when his eyes meet mine, the happiness dulls. His arms drop to his sides, and I feel a strange sense of pressure vanish from my body; his magic has released me. I am now free to move and, probably, speak.

Jareth looks at me from across the room, and the delight that had so wildly taken over his features melts into something of empathetic understanding. Regret.

Before I can say even a single word, he crosses the room within three swift strides and whips the door open. He does so in a hurriedly manner, like he has realized he should've done this long before now.

"But he is perverte—"

There are two astounded gasps, followed by the quietest, most deadly silence I have ever heard. From just above Jareth's shoulder, I catch Jamie and Ceylon's eyes travel from Jareth to me, then to Jareth and me again.

The two shell-shocked students assess the sight of who stands before them—someone who, horrifically, heard the entire thing.

Every last word.