Star-Crossed (7 page)

What have I done?

Misha spins around and dashes out of the room. Panic, frustration, anger, hate, passion – they wash over you like a tsunami, soaking you to the bone.

This is too much…

You grab your bag from the table and run for the door, but Chris reaches out for you.

“Jen, wait—”

But you pull free and sprint out of the school as fast as you can, not stopping until you are in the park far from your school. You slump on to a bench and cry your heart out. You're having feelings for your worst enemy.

Why is life so damn complicated?

“Do we seriously have to?” Will whispers.

It is five years to the day since they first met, and Ethan is staying round at Will's house. Over the years, Ethan's military dedication has impressed Will's father as a good influence for his son – but they'd still be dead if they got caught out of their beds in the middle of the night.

Will strikes a match, watches it glow brightly for a second, then lights the candle in the middle of the table.

“This was
your
idea in the first place,” Ethan says, sitting opposite Will, and holding the needle over the flame to let it sterilize. “But if you're too chicken…”

“Shut up. Let's just get this over with.” Will grins.

They both watch the flame dance around the needle for a second, then Ethan pushes the candle gently away. He looks across at his best friend, asking a silent question.

Will, though rather pale, gives his right hand to Ethan and nods.

“Do it.”

Ethan holds Will's right hand in his left. He pushes the needle into the skin of Will's thumb.

“
Ah!
” he cries out. Ethan looks at the door and raises his eyebrows in alarm, at which Will covers his mouth and bites his lip. “Ow…” he whispers more quietly, watching the blood ooze slowly out of the pinprick.

“Now you do mine,” murmurs Ethan, handing his friend the needle and extending his right hand and thumb.

Will takes the needle in his left hand and repeats the process on Ethan's thumb. He doesn't even flinch.

“Now,” Ethan says, rolling up his sleeve. “Clasp my hand.”

Will reaches across and grasps his friend's palm, and the boys place their thumbs together so that the blood mixes.

Will looks up, and Ethan is smiling. He smiles back.

“Brothers,” Ethan states, still gripping Will's hand in a tight lock.

“Brothers,” Will echoes, feeling happier than he has ever been in his whole life. With a friend like Ethan, no one can touch him.

Y
our face is nearing Chris's. You smile at the thought of his lips meeting yours for the first time, exploring the sensations that the new touch will bring. You shiver with excitement. His hands are stroking your face. Your heart is beating so fast you think it might get exhausted and quit beating, but it doesn't, and you suddenly push your lips against Chris's and close your eyes, drinking in his luxurious kiss. You're in bliss…

You shoot up in your bed with a jolt, covered in a cold sweat and feeling slightly sick. You run your hands through your sleep-crumpled hair, and lie back down slowly.

You groan.

Your head is filled with endless thoughts and emotions, and you feel too dizzy and sick to deal with them now.
Do I like him? I did in that dream. I liked him a lot. But I hate him! How can I kiss him one moment, but hope he gets run over by a bus the next?
You sigh. Things are too complicated right now. And you are not in the mood for facing a day at school. Or rehearsal. With Chris. But at the thought of Chris's name you feel the power of that kiss and your self-loathing and guilt double in the space of a split second.

Nope
, you think.
No school for me today.

You turn over in your bed and stare at your clock. The letters glow in the dim morning light: 7.13 a.m. Reuben will be here in five minutes. You snuggle back into your duvet and wrap yourself up in it, hoping to hide from the world. No such luck.

Your mum taps softly on your door.
Mum … Dad … feud … oh God…
The guilt comes back again and you begin to get a headache. You need some time off.
Time to be ill
, you think. So you relax instantly and pretend to be asleep. She opens the door and walks over to your bed.

“Jen
…
?” she whispers, stroking your hair tenderly. “Jen, honey. It's time to get up. Reuben will be here in five.”

She's so good to you. Even though she rushes around every morning to get ready for work, she still comes and gives you a calm, loving wake-up call if you haven't hauled yourself out of bed by seven thirty. Your stomach contracts with guilt and you feel sick. The dream and the reality of the kiss are still fresh in your mind and you feel like you have told a whopping lie to both of your parents for not mentioning anything. When you came home last night you were in a bit of a state, and they both tried to come and talk to you, but you wouldn't speak to either of them. You couldn't. What would you have said? “
I'm fine! I'm only crying because I have just kissed my biggest enemy, who by the way happens to be the son of the man who you hate most, and I'm confused as to whether I like him or not! No big deal!
”

You decided to stay quiet. However, the silence has only made your guilt double, and since realizing how great your mum is has now trebled it, you know that you will never get out of bed again.

You stir slightly and turn, sleepy-eyed, to face your mother.

“I don't feel too good, Mum,” you murmur with a (faked) catch in your throat that sounds like the start of the flu. Your mum stares into your eyes worriedly, because you're not ill very often. She places a hand on your forehead, which is hot and a little sweaty from your dream, and her frown deepens.

“OK, honey. I'll ring the school. Try to go back to sleep, yeah? I'll tell Reuben for you.”

You hate lying to your mum, but internally you sigh with relief. You can't deal with school. You need to stay in bed. Warm, comforting bed.

“Thank you,” you whisper hoarsely, as she leaves the room.

As soon as the door shuts you feel guilty, confused tears well up, but you squeeze your eyes tight to make them go away. You force yourself to think a little more rationally about the situation and go over the facts.

I hate him. I hate Chris Banner,
you think.
But I
also
think that he is a good kisser. A great kisser. But my family, his family, they hate each other,
we
hate each other
…
don't we? And I think I felt something in that kiss. Did I? Did he? God, this is a mess!

You decide not to think about it any more. All you want is a big bar of chocolate and to watch
Friends
DVDs all day. Is that too much to ask?

The doorbell interrupts your plans and you hear your mum answer it, telling Rubes that you are ill. He says something that you can't quite hear and then you hear soft footsteps on the stairs. For the second time in ten minutes, your door opens quietly. You pretend to be asleep. Reuben sighs and sits on the end of your bed.

“Jen, babe, give me some credit. I know you better than you know yourself. I know when you're doing your fake-sleep thing.”

Dammit.

He carries on. “Look, your eye is twitching slightly. There. See? I know you're awake. Talk to me, Jen. Tell me what's going on or I'll peel off your covers and you will freeze to death.”

You don't see the point in hiding any more from your best buddy, and you don't have any socks on, so without your cover it's going to be cold. You untangle yourself from the thick duvet and prop yourself up with your pillows. You decide to stick with the “I'm sick!” story. There's no way you're gonna tell anyone what happened yesterday.

“I'm sick,” you croak, with a snuffle at the end for effect. “I can't go to school today.”

You can't look him in the eye. You hate lying to Rubes, because it feels like you're lying to yourself too.

He takes your hand. “That's crap and you know it,” he murmurs sadly. You look into his eyes, which are filled with pity, then look away.

He knows.

A lump appears in your throat.

“Why didn't you
tell
me?”

Your voice drops its fake sniffle and fills with deep disappointment. “Because it meant nothing. Because I betrayed my father. Because my mum is so great to me and I've betrayed her too … when she came in here I wanted to cry. Because I kissed the guy I loathe with every fibre I possess. Because I feel disgusted with myself…”

“It's OK, love. Don't worry. I'm here – your sympathetic ear. It's OK that you like him. It's OK that you kissed him. It's not—”

“
Like
him?
LIKE
him?!” you hiss. “I despise that sodding bastard, kiss or no kiss!” The volume of your voice is rising. “I never have, never did and never will
LIKE
Chris Banner as long as I live.”

Reuben looks at you, confused but sympathetic. He tries again.

“Seriously, Jen, don't worry about it. I could tell you that no one knows, but that would be a lie. Misha Reeves is a bitch with a bigger gob than Ruby Wax, so it's probable that that whole school knows by now, 'cause when you left, Misha told Helene and her friends, who then told everyone else. Then Chris came in. You should have seen his face. As soon as he realized what everyone was talking about, he ran for it too…”

You groan and cover your face with a pillow. Now guilt for Chris is added to your long list. All you can think about is you kissing him, initiating the kiss.
This is awful!
Rubes pulls the pillow firmly away from your face.

“Come on, Jen. Just ignore them. I mean, it's not going to be hard. You've been doing it really well for the past few weeks.” You nod but can't smile quite yet.
How could I be so stupid?
“Your feelings for Chris are normal, I swear.”

He squeezes your hand gently, but you flinch away like he has the plague.

“You don't know how I feel. Why don't you believe me? I hate Chris. The kiss was just acting.”

He studies you silently. You don't like it when he does this. It's like he's looking into your soul.

“Why are you lying to yourself, Jen?” he whispers.

“I'm not lying! Why are
you
being such a loser? Why can't you
believe
me? You don't trust me. You're
so
not my best friend.”

All the anger you have been feeling is rushing out of your mouth before you can stop it.

“No. You're not my best friend at all! You think you can just waltz in here, diagnose me with some lame theory that is so whacked out it could be on
Jerry Springer
and tell me that everything is gonna be OK? That I'm ‘lying to myself'? That I like my worst
enemy
?”

You give a short hollow laugh.

“Oh no, Reuben.
You're
the one who is lying. You're the one who could do with a sympathetic
bloody
ear. You're a scrawny fifteen-year-old gay whose only hobby is to ogle the cute waiter guy in The Caf every weekday morning and try to flirt with him when he doesn't want any of it! You don't have any other close friends apart from me, you dress like you have just come in off the streets, you can't fight
any
of your own battles unless Chris is there to save your ass and you're trying to give
me
advice?”

Your voice has stopped sounding like your own. You want to shut up, but you can't. You know you are talking a load of crap but you can't help it. The next few words roll out of your mouth with great venom.

“Shove your sodding advice or use it to set your own tragic life straight.”

Reuben is perched on the edge of your bed, stunned. His face is twisted in pain. Your icy glare shatters as soon as you see the consequences of what you've just done. You reach for his hand, but Reuben stands up. Suddenly, his face arranges itself into blankness, devoid of emotion, and he stares down at you.

“Thanks for telling me everything I always wanted to hear,” he whispers sarcastically, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

You try to speak but your throat is clogged up with too much emotion, so you end up opening and closing your mouth like a goldfish.

His lip trembles as he talks. “I won't hang around any longer, in case me being the freakish loser-gay and all might cramp your style.”

He turns and strides out of the room, leaving you with hot tears running down your face, unable to breathe properly. The front door shuts downstairs. Your vision blurs and you choke, sobbing and shaking. Your heart feels like it's being split in two.

What's happening to me?
you think.
What have I done?