This is the second version of the 28th chapter I'm posting - some details regarding my previous post were bugging me. Altered/added a few things.
Nothing too drastic, but it is a tad different.
Chapter 28: Talk to Me
We both know there's something happening here,
Well, there's no sense in dancing round the subject…
A wound gets worse when it's treated with neglect,
Don't turn around, there's nothing here to fear…
"You know, this conversation would've been much less awkward if you'd have kept me in the loop." Jamie picks at her muffin. "I could be enjoying my muffin without the…" her finger wiggles at my face. "…doomsday expression. You're making my muffin taste bad."
From across the table, I sigh nervously and pretend like my palms aren't collecting pools of sweat. I contemplate whether or not I should morph my face into a blank slate but, every few moments or so, Jamie scans me with a knowledgeable look; she already knows I'm uncomfortable. There's no use in trying to hide it.
She pops a piece of muffin in her mouth. "It tastes like what I imagine a clusterfuck would taste like. Like when you keep something a secret and everyone learns about it in a real shitty way. You know?" She considers it a moment longer. "And fear. It tastes like fear."
I stare at her.
"Can you just eat the damn thing?"
"I can't." She drops the muffin onto the saucer and leans back in her seat. "Your tension is so unappetizing."
"Hasn't been the greatest day." I say dryly. She's enjoying herself and I hate it.
"Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry, hon. Why's that? Could it be because you're a dishonest fiend, or you ruined my muffin?" Her eyes settle on mine from across the table. In half of a second, they go from being adorable things to terrifying steel scalpels. "Take your pick. You're responsible for both."
Haven is a buzz of rattling dishes and rumbling coffee machines. Every couple of minutes, a dark coat will slip through the old oak door, casting the bookshelves and obscured walls in fleeting light before dipping into the darkness once more. The velvet curtains, drooping resignedly over stained-glass windows, shift with the wind from outside. Candles flicker where the shadows are too opaque for comfort. This place is my escape, a consoling realm nestled between an old bookshop and an antique doll store. Yet, somehow, I feel anything but solace. I'm scared.
My best friend watches me from across the table. My eyes loiter between her necklace—a Versace choker adorned with a delicate silk bow—and the muffin. Anything but her eyes. I can't look at her eyes.
Not after today.
She helped me convince by parents I wasn't in the process of dying today. The nurse (who was still obviously confused by how everyone was in the room but herself), gave my parents a prescription for some vitamins and minerals. I'll have to take them once a day for the next while, until my natural immunity is balanced again. And I guess she noticed the bruises under my eyes, because he recommended some melatonin, too. Makes sense. I haven't enjoyed a full night's sleep since that time I asked for a bunch of goblins to take my brother away.
"How many hours of sleep do you get on average, Sarah?" The nurse asked in a very professional voice. Her name tag said her name was Kathy.
"Um," I thought about lying, then chose to give it a rest. "A couple. At the most."
My dad spontaneously began to choke. Karen patted his back and joined the nurse—Kathy—in a series of unusual eye blinks. I watched the nurse escort my parents to the side of the room, away from me, and burble something about teenage hormonal shifts and stress therapy.
Ceylon left without saying a word to me—or anyone, for that matter. His head hung low. Everything about him looked stiff. I let him go without protesting.
Jamie never left my side. She sat at the foot of the bed, her little hand holding my ankle. She kept repeating whatever the nurse was telling them, which seemed to have a calming effect. But I could still see it—the look of unease slowly overrunning her features. She kept glancing at me, like the same unnerving thought kept occurring to her and she didn't know what to do with it.
In front of my parents, she asked if I would like to enjoy some herbal tea in Haven. But it was clear to me she wasn't really asking. She was demanding. I submitted straightaway.
A piece of Jamie's muffin hits my face. I return to the cafe.
"Sarah," Jamie finally says. She stares at me from across the table. Her tone is serious. "You're scaring me."
"I—I know what you're thinking, and I wish you weren't—"
"And you wish I weren't thinking it? Then what am I supposed to think? That our English teacher didn't just grab a fistful of Ceylon's shirt and threaten him?" Jaime leans forward, rumpling her chemise against the table's edge. Her voice drops. "That he hasn't become… involved with you?"
The anxiety in my gut stirs. I tighten my firsts from under the table, willing the temperature of my cheeks to keep it cool. But, almost instinctively, the heat rises and I feel them burn.
I let out a breath. There's nothing I can do but comply. "Yeah, it looks bad."
"It looks really, really bad. And now you're blushing." She frowns. "Why are you blushing?"
"Um, I—I don't know—"
"You nearly lost your mind in Ceylon's garage the other day. You fainted in a field. Now you're spending private time with teachers behind locked doors." She crosses her arms over her chest. "And you lied about not hearing Ceylon and I's conversation on the other side of the door, didn't you? You and Mr. Jones listened to the whole thing." There's a beat. "Every. Last. Word."
My voice is small in comparison to hers, which has developed into something of a stern rant.
"You never get angry with me."
"And you never keep secrets from me."
"I know, but—"
Her little hand shoots across the table and locks around my own. She holds me with a startling strength. Even in the weak candlelight of the café, her eyes burn with an intensity so fierce I cannot pull my eyes away.
"A few days ago, in Ceylon's garage, I said you could tell me anything. I told you I am here for you, no matter what."
I just nod, recognizing how useless my input is at this point.
"I don't know what's going on with you anymore. You're blocking me out. It's like there's a whole world of secrets you're keeping from me. And there's a man. A grown man." Her fingers tighten around mine. "On the other side of that door today, I said things I shouldn't have. I said things that supported your involvement with…with Mr. Jones. I have been acting like it's all fun and games and that, if you like his attention, then there's nothing wrong with going along with it. But, back in that nursing room …I was hit with how real this is. And it's scary; there are so many things wrong with it—with him noticing you and looking at you and—and—whatever else is going on. Sarah, I'm saying this because I think you need to hear it. And I don't want you to get hurt. This is very, very wrong."
"Jamie," I try to interrupt, "please—"
"No, you please. He's nearly twice your age. He's supposed to be a safe, authoritative figure whom we can trust on a professional level. What is he doing fighting Ceylon like that? What is he doing alone with you like that?" She gives my hand a stern jolt, like she can restore my common sense if she shakes with enough force. "What are you thinking? You're such a smart girl. I don't trust him, and neither should you."
There's an empty table in the corner. An assortment of candles sit on top of it, wax melting down their stems in swirly spills. The corner is lonely, the candlelight wavering and somber. It discloses nothing of what I remember from weeks ago, when Jareth sat across the table from me. The Goblin King had just returned from my past. I had been angry. He had been charming. I recall a hazy sphere of mist floating between us, shifting into colours of yellow, blue and red. I want to play a game, he had said, grinning playfully.
I stare at the table in the corner.
"I can't tell you what I'm thinking," I softly tell her.
"Why can't you tell me?"
"I just can't."
She's suddenly pinching my chin with her fingers and anchoring my face her direction, forcing our gazes to meet. She studies me firmly, her features delicate but grim.
"Is he taking advantage of you?"
"No," I sputter, shocked from the strength of her fingers.
"Is he hurting you?"
"No."
"Should I send the office an anonymous message?" Her eyes widen. "We could get him fired—"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because…Because." I disconnect her fingers from my chin and place them gently on top the table. "I'd rather you not do that."
Exasperated, Jamie slams her back against the seat and crosses her arms. The saucer quivers from the impact. She glares at me in the candlelight, pouting for a couple seconds before speaking.
"So you admit to something happening between you and Mr. Jones. But you won't tell me what, exactly. Or do anything about it."
"It might sound a little off-putting—"
"Sarah, it's insane!"
"—But I'm not in any sort of danger! And I'm not with him, either…Not like how you think. I'm…" I take a heavy breath. If I choose my words with care, I can tell Jamie what she needs to hear. Without causing any trouble, I can tell her the bare minimum—just enough to ease the burning questions. "I'm…associated with him. It's a very complicated association – something that comes down to circumstance, not choice. I've known him for a very long time…" My fingers tremble from underneath the table. I will myself to speak the words aloud. "…since before he came to our school to teach. I didn't tell you and Ceylon because I wasn't in a place where I was comfortable to. I'm still not. I don't know if I'll ever be. But he poses no threats to me, Jamie. It's really important you understand that."
Despite my trembling fingers, there is a difference in my tone I have not heard for a very long time: confidence. I recognize a feeling of assurance in myself. Certainty. The words I speak are the words I'm meant to speak, and the position I hold is one I can support. This is the truth. This is the way it is, and it's all I can give her. And that's okay.
"You have every right to be angry – I've kept things from you and Ceylon I wish I wouldn't have to keep. But I have to. And so I will. You don't have to understand, or grant me any more patience than you already have. But this…association has become very relevant in my life," I'm startled by an unexpected surge of tears in my eyes. "And, Jamie, I'm dealing with it the best way I can."
She stares at me. I take in her silence, the way her hand rests motionlessly on top the table. Regardless of the conviction in my words, I cannot dismiss the shame that comes with having lied to a best friend. I focus on keeping my breathing level. Tears have piled in my eyes, but I do not wipe them away; I want her to see them. She may not understand the situation, but she can understand how difficult it is to keep such information from her.
My voice is dense.
"I'm really sorry."
I wait for her to leave. She could easily grab her coat and walk away. I wouldn't hold her at fault for it; Jamie is not someone who would be perfectly content allowing a situation like this to slide by – not without knowing every single detail, and then taking action if she doesn't like what she hears.
"I don't trust him," she finally says.
"I know."
"I strongly disapprove of this."
"Understandable."
Tears have swelled in her eyes, too. They glitter with concern.
"I'm worried about you."
"Fair enough."
Her tense features crack into a smile that is a complicated mix of things – sadness, worry, but also respect and compassion. With both hands, she reaches across the table and wraps my hands in hers. She lifts them to her chest.
"I love you so much."
For the first time today—since I sprinted around the track ring and woke in the white nurse's room—I smile. It feels weird, like I'm cracking skin that's been plastered and dried into bleakness, but it's also something of a relief. Jamie is here. And the grip of her fingers, next to the determination built into her small shoulders, tell me she isn't about to go anywhere.
I watch Jamie clear her throat and straighten her posture. She flicks a finger through her glossy curls before sliding the saucer closer to her. She then declares, in a very simple, dignified way,
"Good talk, good talk. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to eat my muffin now."
And that's that.
