Between the two of us...(tentative title)

Between the two of us...(tentative title)

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Houses:

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Houses:

Summary

Two very unlikely people fall for each other and ultimately turns to love in the most taboo setting: high school. Ruby is an introverted, 18 year old student in Mr. John Kerouac's English class
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Summary

Two very unlikely people fall for each other and ultimately turns to love in the most taboo setting: high school. Ruby is an introverted, 18 year old student in Mr. John Kerouac's English class

Chapter1 (v.1) - Chapter 1

Author Chapter Note



Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: January 26, 2017

Reads: 54

Comments: 1

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: January 26, 2017

A A A

A A A

Chapter One

 

 

Staring intently into my eyes, his long, capable fingers brushed away the strands of brown hair that fell across my eyes, veiling my vision. A tingling sensation shot throughout my limbs and pleasantly warmed every inch of my body. The sensation made me smile. He smiled back sweetly, sensing my physical reaction to his careful caress. “Ruby…Ruby,” his deep voice murmured. I could get lost in his azure eyes.

“Ruby” I heard again and snapped back into focus, allowing the sordid reality to sink in. There I was, sitting in English class, my teacher with his bright blue eyes and unruly dark hair, obviously bothered by my blatant distraction.

“Yes, sorry,” I muttered, embarrassed by the sea of eyes on me. I heard the jeers and titters from my fellow classmates and felt heat rushing to my face, an obvious mark of my embarrassment. The owner of those azure eyes offered a mirthful smile, his bemused expression allowed me to steadily relax as my face cooled down.

“It’s alright, Ruby. I won’t bother asking you just what caught your attention more than the wondrous musings of these brilliant poets here, but it will be safe to assume that you are here with us now, right?” he playfully chastised.

I blanched and nervously replied, “Y-Yes sir.” There went the laughter again. I groaned at the realization that I had addressed him as sir, which was undeniably unusual, thus further adding to my humiliation. I was berating myself for being too sensitive. Leaning casually against the podium at the front of the room, my teacher, Mr. John Kerouac, nodded at me nonchalantly and resumed his lecture on Modernist Poets, periodically shifting his eyes toward me as he spoke.

I zoned out after that; my heart resting below my kneecaps. As thoroughly embarrassed as I was, I could not fathom the fact that ironically, I had just spent half of the class time fantasizing about the very man before me, my English teacher, ten years my senior who possessed an impish boyish grin and an affecting gaze that tantalized me. “He must have known,” I thought, in my overly neurotic way. How could he possibly be able to read my mind, let alone my face? Sliding down further in my desk, I listened to fragments of his lecture; the mottled voice of the man who set my heart and senses on fire with just a single glance. My forbidden thoughts existed only in my hopeful imagination, sadly where they would always remain…or so I thought. My mind reeled.

 

The bell suddenly rang and my full attention was set on gathering my books in a casual way so as not to draw any more unnecessary attention to myself. Of course, on the inside, I was a bundle of nerves just waiting to rupture as my innermost emotions blatantly ignored my intention to appear unscathed. Unfortunately, my body language spoke volumes. I never had a good poker face.

With the exception of one or two lingering bodies writing down the night’s homework assignments on loose scraps of paper, most of my classmates were out of the room by the time I gathered my belongings.

“Ruby,” I jumped at the sound of my name once again and foolishly dropped my heaviest textbook on the floor. It seemed to drop in slow-motion before I looked up. Mr. Kerouac was standing before me, his face uncertain and concerned. He knelt down and picked up my book, cautiously holding it out for me to take as he rose, his eyes awaiting my reply. I sighed as he stood there; I knew I was coming off as jumpy and nervous and I despised it. He waited for me to speak.

“Look, I am so sorry for being so scattered today. I know I don’t have to apologize, but I don’t know what is wrong with me, I am just having an off day,” I earnestly explained. By this time, he and I were alone in the classroom. He smiled, yet concern was still clearly etched on his handsome face. He stood hands in pockets, his posture relaxed, eyes locked on me…

 

Usually not an insecure girl, I felt self-conscious as he stared at me. I felt as if I were being dissected and scrutinized under his microscopic gaze. His demeanor now was such a stretch from the happy go lucky attitude he displayed in class. He now appeared contemplative and more focused on me in a way I had never felt from him before.

I was tall, about five foot nine to be exact and I had wavy deep brown hair and a soft, curvy body that I could not seem to accept, thus burdened with the curse of every other teenage girl on the planet. My eyes matched the color of my hair and possessed a bottomless, almost desolate look to them, according to my best friend Gemma. Mr. Kerouac, on the other hand, was very tall and broad shouldered with unruly dark brown hair and luminous blue eyes. He was devastatingly handsome, friendly, and radiated such a trusting and comfortable vibe, which was the complete antithesis of how I felt at that very moment. He could be compared to a nineteenth century literary hero, like Heathcliff, or Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre. His kind of appeal was timeless, his attractiveness refined. He appeared larger than life, his presence looming, lingering long after he had gone.

“Are you sure everything is going alright with you? You seem a little peaked. It is rather unusual for you not to pay attention in class, if you ask me.’ I fidgeted with a lock of my hair, twisting it around my finger, ‘come to think of it, you have been very distracted in my class lately. I don’t want this occurrence to affect your grade somehow or become a regular thing. You know where I’m at,” he said to me, his stern and professional tone firm but not overwhelming the personal curiosity that my moodiness created. Inside, I was shaky and apprehensive. As I thought more about it, for the entire first semester of his class, I had always been quiet and reserved, yet intense in my endeavors. I was not one to flourish in social settings or in a group. Surprisingly, Mr. Kerouac went out of his way to include me in class discussions as a means of thrusting me into “High School English Society”, as it was dubbed by him. His sudden interest in my feelings threw me off guard for a moment, but I quickly bounced back and responded.

“I’m okay. Like I said, just an off day, you know with midterms coming up I guess it’s taking a toll on me. I hope I wasn’t being disrespectful, I didn’t mean to not pay attention-.” He cut me short by raising his hand, so I did not have a chance to finish my sentence. My attention was brought to how beautifully shaped his hands were…artist’s hands. I was sort of relieved at his disruption. I didn’t like making excuses for myself.

“Say no more, I understand. It wasn’t too long ago that I was in your position, you know. Midterms are brutal and really stressful to study for,” he steadily offered, his eyes burning into mine as if they didn’t believe me.

I stood there not knowing how to answer, silently cursing myself for being so unresponsive and awkward in what seemed to be our first personal conversation. Over the course of the year, we seemed to have had many interesting interactions. During class I would often catch him staring at me and looking away as soon as I would lift my head, or if I did catch him sometimes he would smile a little and continue looking at me as he lectured, never breaking his gaze. When that would happen, my face would instantly grow hot and I’d feel so confused, as if we were playing some strange game I’d never played before.  My eyes shifted. How could I stand there and blankly avoid the stare of the man that I secretly dreamt about? When I looked back at him, his eyes seemed to soften. Was I imagining that? He seemed so at ease and not as authoritative. Why was I mentally dissecting every little thing that was happening? This was simply a teacher worried about my spacey behavior, and nothing more. I was making more of it than there was, as usual. Suddenly, he snapped back into focus, his eyes darkening and gruffly stated, “Anyway, I am here to offer you assistance on assignments or if you have any questions about anything. It’s my job to help, after all. It seems we’ve lost track of time, you’ll be late for your next class. You are-”, realizing that he was rambling, he abruptly stopped short and gestured to the clock on the wall, looking grim and uneasy.

“I get to go home now; free period,” I explained to him that sunny Thursday afternoon. He nodded curtly and returned to his desk. I stood there for a few more moments sizing him up, watching him shuffle and arrange disorganized sheets of paper before I grabbed my belongings and hurried out of the room, muttering a quiet goodbye as I left to which he did not reply. I exited the room breathless and confused. What was all that about? Knowing that the scene would replay in my mind for the rest of the day, as miniscule as it was for I overanalyzed everything, I walked to my locker and then left the building.

As I walked out to my car, I felt a cool breeze and breathed in the sweet, fresh air. It was a complete contrast from the stuffiness inside the school building. I got into my car, started the ignition, and began to drive away. Turning on some music, I made my way home. I was unsure of the issues that plagued me, but something was weighing down on my spirits. Perhaps it was nothing but the still ache of loneliness and not knowing how to deal with it and wanting something I’d more than likely never have.


 

Meanwhile, back in the English room, Mr. Kerouac stood looking out of his second floor window. His gaze was riveted on the student parking lot, where his eyes ardently followed the leggy brunette hurriedly walking to her car as she glanced back periodically towards his window. Making sure he was out of sight, he watched her car maneuver its way down the street, the black paint glittering in the sunlight. Hands clenched and jaw set tight, he sighed, reached to close the blinds and then sat down heavily at his desk. After staring intently into space, he put his head down on his hands and stared into the darkness his arms created. Eyes shut tight, amidst thousands of peculiar thoughts that invaded his mind at that moment; he could not rid himself of the image of her face and the richness of her brown eyes imprinted behind his. He knew it was wrong and he marveled at his newfound torment.

He jerked his head up as students began filing into his classroom, thankfully interrupting his thoughts and forcing him to snap back into reality. Standing up and forcibly wiping away a face of despondence, he smiled and greeted his class. The bell rang.

“Hello people. We haven’t much time to day for our material, so no fooling around.” He turned to answer a question…

 


© Copyright 2017 B. Nicole Wolf. All rights reserved.

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