3. Ciaran

3

CIARAN

T he next day, after being sequestered for three hours to take my AP World History exam, Raj found me in the hallway. Hundreds of students spilled out of classrooms, talking, gossiping, complaining.

With little effect, teachers admonished everyone to lower their voices. I scanned over the tops of students' heads to see if Mr. Jones was in the hallway. He was at the very end of the corridor, speaking to another student. I hoped he wasn't mad at me for not being able to come over last night. I'd apologized again this morning over text but he hadn't replied back.

"How'd you think it went, Ciaran?" Raj asked about the test in a stressed-out voice as I opened my locker and threw my books inside.

I looked down at my best friend. Raj barely came to my shoulders, and his rich, curly brown hair was frizzy, no doubt from absently grabbing at the roots as he answered questions. A fresh sheen of sweat coated his face and his large, brown eyes behind his round glasses radiated a mixture of pride and dread.

"I feel good about ninety percent of it," I said. "A few questions stumped me. You?"

Raj, an MIT hopeful, took tests very seriously. Raj did well and knew it, but there was a negative side of him that doubted his own success. In middle school, I'd once made a joke about skipping an exam and he didn't speak to me for a week.

Our mothers had been showgirls together and we practically grew up together, playing backstage in the makeup room while they got ready for each performance. While Raj disemboweled electronics to discover how to build a robot, I would surround myself with books, dictionaries, and an old laptop. My first short story attempt was about a prima ballerina imprisoned by a giant robot in a haunted theater. Clearly, Raj's early influence was foundational, if illogical, not that my stories were any better these days. I was in something of a writer's block.

I hadn't yet told Raj, or anyone, about my mom's marriage. It was too fresh, too raw, and the world felt a little unstable at the moment. The deli didn't open until ten each morning, and Mom was still asleep when I left for school.

It would have been cruel to wake her just to ask if last night's conversation was a product of a fevered dream. My fervent hope was that she'd come to her senses and confess the whole thing was an elaborate joke.

Of course, I knew it wasn't a joke. Mom wouldn't do that to me. If anything, one of the things I remember most about last night—other than beings surprised out of my wits—was that she was excited that we'd be able to afford to send me to college now. All that remained was for me to send out early applications this summer.

That was something, right?

Now, however, as Raj and I walked to the lunchroom, it dawned on me that I would be leaving everything behind to move to Malibu. This morning, as I trudged to school, I checked the distance. Malibu was three hundred miles away. As I watched Raj's animated face as he described his experience with the exam as if I hadn't just taken the same test, sorrow burrowed deep in my chest.

I didn't want to leave my best friend. Raj was more like my brother than a friend. Anger spread and I felt hot all over.

"What's wrong?" Raj interjected once we'd entered the lunch line. He'd been intricately detailing his response to one of the questions but stopped mid-sentence as he debated between mashed potatoes or fries.

The cafeteria bustled with frenetic, pizza-scented energy. The girl's softball team chanted at their table—they'd just won first place in a statewide tournament. Teachers milled about, acting like chaperones as they separated making-out couples. Theater kids were reenacting a scene from their musical while a hundred side conversations filled the large cafeteria.

"Nothing." I paid for my lunch—vegetarian lasagna—and we sat in our normal corner table.

We were the weird kids.

Kinzy, with her bright green hair, was another literature freak, though she was more into early gothic tales and had, a few times, hinted she was dating the ghost of Lord Byron, an English Romantic era poet who died in 1824. We decided it was best not to question her about this. Her parents owned a new age shop and a nude bar off the Strip, both of which were popular with tourists.

Rowen, an accomplished percussionist and self-described band geek, was focused on his YouTube channel, which had over twenty-thousand subscribers, earning him close to three grand a month in ad revenue. He lived with his grandparents, both of whom had lost most of their hearing, so playing the drums at home was never a source of contention.

Rowen and I dated for half a minute in our freshman year, but realized we were better off as friends. He kept his black hair cropped short more for convenience than style. Out of all my friends, Rowen was the most elusive, but when he smiled, it transformed him from a scowler into a bright light you couldn't take your eyes off him. He was either in between boyfriends or dating a college football player. Rowen was coy about these things.

Last, but not least, was Brieana, the newest—and arguably the most normal—member of our posse. An Air Force brat, Brieana lived with her parents who were stationed at nearby Nellis Air Force base. She'd arrived earlier in the school year and stunned everyone. Her petite frame boasted a powerful singing voice. I swear, she was all lungs and limbs. She'd already booked singing gigs at a respectable Vegas nightclub, with her military dad, who was built like a tank, standing off to the side, daring anyone to take one step too close to his daughter.

And then there was me, the writer who was trying to write a novel whose main character was the badger version of Sherlock Holmes.

"Nothing's wrong, huh?" Raj said to our table at large. "Yeah, I don't believe that for a second, Ciaran. Does it have something to do with a certain teacher?"

"What?" I sputtered, glancing around.

Thank God I hadn't taken a bite of the lasagna. Four pair of eyes pinned me down. No one knew about my crush on Mr. Jones, not even Raj, whom I told everything.

"What's going on?" Kinzy asked, her eyebrows knitting together. She put down the Percy Bysshe Shelley Zastrozzi paperback she'd been reading, her amber eyes blinking with curiosity. "Are you in trouble again with Mr. Jones?"

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" I asked. Big mistake. I shouldn't have asked, because my friends were only too happy answer.

"Because he always calls you out," Rowen said. "It's like he's obsessed."

"That's a weird thing to say, Rowen." Sure, Mr. Jones often called me out of class. On the days he subbed in some of the classes, he'd press me hard on questions. "He's been my mentor since freshmen year," I explained. "He wants to see me succeed."

"From my perspective," Brieana started, "it seems to me that he tries hard to make you look bad, Ciaran. Like he has a vendetta."

"What? No, he doesn't," I insisted. None of that made sense.

"Did your mom reject him or something?" Brieana asked as she flicked her braids over her shoulder before digging into her pizza slice.

I shook my head. "No, I don't think so. Mom has never said anything."

"He frowns at you all the time," Raj declared with a mouth full of fries. "And as annoying as you are when you rail against certain books that land on the bestseller lists—you know I say that with love—I can't think of a single reason why someone would be mad at you all the time."

"I mean, for the kid of a former nudie showgirl, you are kind of vanilla," Kinzy announced as if that was helpful. She smiled brightly.

"Ouch." I motioned to remove the pretend knife from my heart. "Please, all of you, tell me how you really feel." I turned to Rowen. "Anything you'd like to add?"

"Dunno, man," Rowen said with a shrug. He wasn't talkative unless it was for one of his videos. "Mr. Jones downright scowled in your direction this morning."

"This feels like an intervention." I laughed as I chewed the rubbery pasta. I mean, I wanted to decipher the meaning behind all of Mr. Jones's expressions, but couldn't make it seem like I cared. Frantically, I knew I had to steer the conversation into another direction, and the only direction I could take it was the discussion I wasn't ready to have. "He probably looks at everyone that way. Besides, that's not what's bothering me."

I had everyone's rapt attention after that.

"Jesus, Ciaran," Kinzy badgered when I didn't immediately launch into a TEDx talk, "talk about a cliffhanger. Are you going to make us beg for an explanation?"

"It's just I didn't want the news to come out this way." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Jones enter the cafeteria, his posture self-assured and confident. Sure enough, Rowen's description of a scowl exactly described Mr. Jones's current expression. I figured it would be best to blurt everything and let the chips fall where they lay. "I'm still coming to grips with it myself. The thing is, my mom eloped last night and we're moving to Malibu."

Silence stabbed me.

My friends' faces morphed from confusion to surprise to downright anger. Raj's jaw fell open. Kinzy's face reddened, while Rowen gritted his teeth. Brieana, who hadn't known me as long, set her mouth in a tight line.

"Eloped?" Kinzy asked. "Like, legally eloped?"

"Yes."

"Whoa," Brieana murmured.

"When do you move?" Raj asked quietly. His eyes darted from side to side, and I could tell he was calculating everything in his mind. He was nothing if not methodical. "Summertime? You'll get to finish the school year, right?"

The hopeful tone in his question murdered me. Even Rowen held his breath and he was the least emotional person I knew.

"No." Last night's conversation was fresh in my mind. "We're moving at the end of next week so I can complete the rest of my AP tests."

Raj dropped his fork and threw up his hands. "What the fuck, man? What day next week?"

"My mom's new husband's jet will pick us up Saturday."

"As in next Saturday," Raj sputtered, looking first at his wristwatch and then heavenward for words. "Your eighteenth birthday?"

"Yes."

"But we were going to have a slumber party at my house for your birthday," Kinzy lamented. "Mom and Dad were going to give us a tarot reading."

"No, I know," I said. "I'm sorry."

For a long moment I studied my friends' shocked faces. They were at a loss for words, a feeling I knew too well.

My eyes traveled up, taking in the handsome face of Mr. Jones as he came to stand in front of our table. His arms were crossed over his chest and he stood there like a Roman statue. One eyebrow was cocked, his forest-green eyes peering into my soul. He both thrilled and terrified me.

"Mr. Galbraith," Mr. Jones said in his austere, authoritative tone, "come to my office during your free period tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," I replied, but he'd already spun on his feet and left. It was a bit infuriating that he didn't wait for my answer.

"Did you say your mom's new husband owned a jet ?" Kinzy asked.

At least they'd forgotten all about Mr. Jones.

I told my friends everything that I knew about Stefon Vaulteneau, which, admittedly wasn't much. Not that it mattered, not when Internet stalking existed.

Five phones moved in unison as we typed "Stefon Vaulteneau" into search engines.

As the results came up, it didn't take long to realize there were a billion reasons why my life was about to change drastically.