“Kiara.”
I stopped in the middle of the bustling hall, holding my breath as I turned around to meet the deep voice articulating behind me. The halls were teeming with a flamboyant, deafening buzz, the vibrantly colourful sentences and fragments of passing conversation bleeding into a muddy shade of brown.
I held my breath as time seemed to slow, the rhythm of my heart the pulsating beat of the overcrowded halls.
I smiled as a flash of brilliant fire-engine red locks allowed my lungs to breathe again; the stuffy air of the withering school halls an unexpected relaxation against my subconsciously constricted anticipation for a certain dark haired knight.
“Oh! Hey Jake.”
Jacob Kingsley wove his pale, lanky legs through the overheated congregation of students. His conventionally pale profile was replaced by a wildly contented expression, his freckled skin pink and flushed with elevated excitement.
He stopped not half a meter short from my own body, as we shuffled to the side to allow for the passing throng of sweaty, yet happily exhausted students.
“Hey,” His voice came out in an excited whispering rush, echoing the sound of lush foliage in the warm outside summer breeze. A humid gust of early summer air drafted through the open window, the delicious scent of freedom abundant in its breathy moisture.
“Hi…? What’s up?”
Though Jacob and I were on acquaintance-type terms, our interactions were limited within the mundane realms of prosaic calculus and physics classrooms; and the occasional hi and bye rebounding off the cement walls of the third and fourth floor corridors. We had been fair friends in elementary school, yet the overpopulated high school had limited our social meetings considerably.
“I was wondering if you had a minute to just talk?”
Jacob’s tone remained his usual light and friendly lilt, yet his words seemed to be prejudiced with the burden of a slowly simmering secret… hot water boiling over the edge of a covered pot.
The halls of the restless high school pulsated with life as hundreds of students swarmed the capacious corridors lining the large interior in a grid-locked pattern. The non-existing school air conditioner was running on a high of 32 degrees Celsius. Yet Jacob’s face glowed not with the warmth of the highly anticipated summer.
I glanced down at the battered visage of my father’s old watch resting on my left wrist, its mocha hued leather band warn and tattered.
“Uh…yeah, sure. There’s ten minutes give or take until class anyways.”
Jacob smiled his usual Cheshire grin, his collinear teeth highlighted and white in the afternoon sunshine, a lovely contrast to the acerbic rush surrounding our quietude-immersed assemblage.
“English next?”
“Yep. And you have…?”
“Graphic Arts.”
“Alright…so what exactly did you want to talk to me about?”
As much as I loved Jacob, I could feel the time drifting like sand through my open fingers as the crowds began to thin, and Ms. Moore’s pungently strict voice began to echo throughout my memories.
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m in love with your best friend.”
My face froze for a moment and then spread into a wide smile, the news a phosphorous amplification on my gradually abating mood as Jacob began to explain.
************************
I shoved a few people out of my way, jabbing the edges of binders accidentally (and not so unintentionally) into the backs of nameless faces, and familiarly infamous sneers; my own arms covered with dry white scratches in return.
One minute and a quarter until I would be late for third period AP English. The usually crammed halls seemed busier and teemed with the unusually familiar buzz of mid-June academic lackluster.
I pushed a few more students aside, my face flushed with anger and panic. AP English was the most difficult class to be late for, Ms. Moore a strict and law-abiding mentor.
“Umph,” My books fell with a loud thud on the cracked tile floors of the old high school.
“I’m sorry, really. I had no idea… I was in a hurry to-” I flushed as my voice droned on as I scrambled to sweep the scattered books into a messy pile.
“No problem. It’s ok, honestly.”
My breath caught in my throat. Words froze on the tip of my tongue like unshed blood as a cool, deep voice sliced open my thoughts colder than the blade of Everest frost.
“Charles,” The name came out in an uneven rush of stupidity; yet the word, the name rolled satisfyingly off the tip of my tongue in a breathy rush.
Seconds became hours as I glanced up at the face I had seemed to have etched into the walls of my mind. My eyes traveled up, heavy and stoned with a tremendous burden; heart pounding in my ears, my eyes met with those of Charles Brokenshire in an erratic permutation to our usual swift, awkward glances.
“Here,” Charles eyes broke the confines of our perpetually intense stare; looking away, his eyes –unusually more green than grey- swam with a brooding effervescence. He shuffled his broad, rough fingers around the extra papers scattered across the now empty hall.
“Uh… thank you.”
Charles’ smile came out more like a grimace as he stood up, handing me the last of my disorderly papers and books.
“Do you have AP English right now?”
“Err…. Yes… why?” I felt like a hung-over alcoholic, like a tired worker slapped out of a deep sleep as Charles spoke, his voice seemingly too loud in the empty halls.
“Because we have the same class.”
“Yes…?”
“May I walk you there?”
**********************
“Miss Dawson… given your unusual…tardiness, would you care to give us a view on our current topic?”
Kiara Dawson sat in her typical second-from-the-front seat, flustered and dazed. Her ragged, shallow breathing matched that of the pale boy with the messy dark hair across the room. Although it was early summer, Kiara’s skin remained in its permanently winter pallor state, vivid rose-hued splotches blossoming across the snowy surface. Her typically concinnous dark hair lay in artful disarray around her angular face, her breathing ragged and shallow with the warmth of chagrin. And though her reason for such a state remained of innocent embarrassment, an ocean of gossip erupted over the class as they glanced between the two perpetrators.
Catching her breath, the dark haired student looked up at the teacher; carefully arranging her features into a hopefully poised, semi-intelligent countenance.
“Sorry?”
Ms. Moore, an exhaustedly weary school teacher pushing fifty-seven, gazed upon her student perplexedly.
“I want you to comment on our topic.”
Kiara Dawson remained silent, searching her teacher’s face for a hint.
“I’m sorry, but what topic?”
Ms. Moore sighed, knotting her eyebrows temporarily into a stern weave.
“I would like you, Kiara, to comment on the topic of the relationship between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy as it relates to the chapter we are currently on in Pride & Prejudice.”
Kiara sighed, spreading her small, pale fingers out open on the surface of the dusty laminate desk like tiny eagles wings.
“With all due respect Ms., relationships are a bit of a broad topic.”
Ms. Moore nodded, the hint of a smile playing its way onto the youthful curve of her wrinkling mouth.
“So what would you like me to comment on?”
“Anything that you would like to, Kiara.”
Kiara nodded and leaned back in her chair, the creak of the blue plastic a voluminous roar of thunder in the silent classroom.
“I think the big thing between Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth is that their relationship, unlike many of the characters in the novel, is complex….impossibly so.”
Ms. Moore nodded. “Go on.”
“Well, Mr. Darcy seems to be an arrogant character… whose thoughts are braided into furious knots of chauvinistic pride…. At least that’s what Elizabeth’s perspective allows the reader to think. They’re relationship is unpredictable, improbable. But as I’m sure we all know this is feasibly why it is one of the most popular romances in English literature.”
A bemused expression carved its way into the crevices of Ms. Moore’s leathery skin.
“Kiara, I am impressed. Your opinion has adapted so….greatly in the past couple weeks.”
Kiara glanced up at the boy across the room, his eyes locked with hers and then glanced away quickly as though ashamed of being caught gawking.
“I guess…,” she began, glancing around the room; the unexpectedly heightened attention of her classmates was overwhelming, yet not heinous enough to stifle her answer.
“The relationship between Elizabeth and Darcy is kind of on the rocks at this point. My opinion is due to the fact that the two neither love nor hate one another; their indifference toward the other is somewhat astonishing. Elizabeth is almost indifferent to Darcy in a way at this point; I guess it’s due to her infatuation with Mr. Wickham. And considering the lack of variety in perspective, there really is no way of knowing how Mr. Darcy currently feels in return.”
Ms. Moore smiled, and nodded at Kiara, as the drone of the third period bell split the heavy blanket of silence smothering the classroom.
“Alright class, don’t forget to read to chapter fifty-three for next class as we will be discussing the events and the essays that you will be writing on the upcoming exam!” Ms. Moore’s voice became as soft as a whisper next to the scraping chairs and thunderous conversation erupting amongst the students. The peculiar event of Charles Brokenshire and Kiara Dawson’s unexplained appearance became a forgotten memory as the class evacuated the small, humid classroom in a cloud of laughter.
“Miss Dawson, may I speak to you privately for a moment?”
Kiara Dawson froze where she stood halfway across the classroom as Charles disappeared out the narrow door with a hurried glance back in her direction.
Kiara began to slowly walk back towards Ms. Moore’s ancient red-oak desk.
“Yes…? Ms., if this is about today’s tardiness, I am incredibly sorry, it’s just that I dropped-”
A smile split Ms. Moore’s withered face as she gave the young student an amused chuckle.
“No Kiara, it’s not. What I wanted to talk to you about is Charles.”
“Sorry…?” Kiara’s face was knotted into a deeply puzzled expression.
“It’s just that you two seem to be…well… unavoidably destined.”
“For what?”
“Each other.”
Kiara’s laughter split the quiet classroom, the conversation in the hall trickling into a low buzz.
“I’m sorry, but no. I don’t even like Charles, and he, well, he hates me.”
Ms. Moore gazed at Kiara over the rims of her glasses, the line of a smile slowly disappearing from her leathery skin.
“Kiara, I’m not sure if you realize it, but I don’t think that’s the case. I have a feeling that your answer today in class did not entirely pertain to the relationship held within the confines of three hundred and sixty-seven page romance.”
Kiara sighed, her insides burning a slight annoyance at the old teacher. The pupil and mentor had always been on polite, respectable terms, yet the latter’s current behavior astonished the first.
“I can assure you, Ms. Moore that there is no spark in the relationship between Charles and I besides on an academic level.”
Ms. Moore gave an uncertain twitch of her thin lips.
“I’m glad to hear that Kiara. Next class, I am assigning pairs to work on a study assignment based on our current examination of pride & prejudice. Since your interactions with Charles are level, I will assign you two to one task.”
“But-”
“But nothing, Miss Dawson.”
Kiara took a deep breath, ignoring the fiery snarl and furious glare building within her slight body.
“I was born in 1934, Miss Dawson…I’m 74 years old. From that, well, extended period of time, I’ve learned that the chance with a Mr. Darcy romance is impossibly rare. When I see one, it’s not hard to ignore.”
Kiara nodded, shuffling her feet and glancing at the clock. It would be her second late class in one school day.
“I know your class is now, but I’ll get you a note,” Ms. Moore stated, reading her students thoughts and actions.
“I just thought I’d let you that this is my last year teaching…I’ll be retiring in a matter of less than a month.
Kiara opened her mouth to speak, but the old school teacher held up a wrinkled hand in silence.
“I know that age may not be on my side in appearance, but I have an ocean of memories to torment me through the rest of my life. You see Miss Dawson, when I was your age I was in the same place; in fact, you remind me a lot of myself at seventeen.”
Kiara stared at Ms. Moore confused as to her statement.
“Would you mind if I told you my story? Maybe that way, you’d understand what I mean.”
Kiara nodded hesitantly, the clock screaming her current tardiness for the fourth period calculus.
“Well, I lived on a farm in West Saskatchewan. My parents were middle class, maybe even poor, but it didn’t really matter back then. Things then weren’t as they are now.
We lived on a street where the closest neighbors were over a mile away. Lottridge was the name of the family who had moved to occupy the next farm to the west. They had a son; his name was Clarke Emmett Lottridge and he was tall, fair haired and one year my senior. Clarke -at least to me- had been a cocky, arrogant…well, bastard. But the thing is we were like you and Charles back then… young, naïve and unknowingly, unconditionally, unwillingly in love.”
Kiara nodded, slightly offended by Ms. Moore’s unintentional insult and strangely irregular tone. Yet the story was impressive and passively amusing, whittling the time of fourth period down to a slender, delicate sculpture.
“The Lottridges were one hell of a wealthy family… they owned the saw mill down in Saskatoon. They were pretty much the wealthiest family in the whole of that side of the prairie, and for that, I guess we all resented them. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized that my determined opinion of the entire family, Clarke especially, had been so irrevocably wrong.
Upon our first meeting when I was around fifteen or sixteen years old, Clarke had insulted me; insipidly, my vanity allowed the stab to cut painfully deep. On our second meet, he ignored me entirely. Needless to say, after then was when my fractured opinion set the bone of my biased thoughts towards Clarke.
It was after then that my equivalent retort had been declared. Clarke and I attended the same school five or six miles down the road, and we’d walk the same route each morning, on either side of the gravel path in utter silence. Any interaction we had would be awkwardly minimal.
It was the winter of 1951 and I was walking home in the snow. It was cold as hell and my toes were nearly frozen solid with the ice.
Clarke had walked beside me that day, our relationship had grown dangerously indifferent in the past months, and we were tolerable company.
It was on my front pathway that he had declared his undying love…along with what I thought were brazen insults regarding my family and fortune. Back then it had been somewhat natural to get married young in the country… and he had asked for my hand in wedded bliss.
Naturally, I refused him with a profuse string of confession for my deepest hatred of himself personally. I thought he had been arrogant and pride consumed; his background hardly a stage for common propriety…but in the years to come I would be so incredibly off the mark.
When the Lottridge family moved from the town a month later, closing the saw mill along with them, I was happily smug. White linen sheets adorned the forgotten furniture in the old house, the windows boarded; our close neighbors now three miles down the road.
But I never realized that Clarke’s absence would take such a hefty toll on my life. With each morning, my walk to school became a burden without the silent company; my day an endless drone without the tireless arguments he had provided.
In the spring of 1953 when news had come of his supposed marriage to a certain red haired heiress to a large fortune, I was crushed.
I accepted a different proposal to a man I respected, but did not love.
If was after a four year absence when Clarke returned, unmarried and ready with a second proposal. He carried with him a dozen wildflowers and a gold ring with a diamond the size of a baseball. I loved Clarke and desperately wanted to accept his hand in marriage, but by then I already had a two year old son and a second child on the way. He had been a gentleman, kind and considerate with his congratulatory praises, but his pale eyes had been like shattered glass.
I never saw Clarke Lottridge after that day. I’ve lived out my life with a respectable husband up until his death three years ago, my children now grown and left home. But to this day, despite all my blessings, I have lived out an atonement of regrets to last a second lifetime.”
The dark haired girl stared at her old teacher, burdened and shocked with this new and unexpected news.
“You see Kiara; I’ve paid for my mistakes over and over again. And for you, I do not wish the same destiny. I only tell you this because I know only too well, how history has a painful habit of repeating itself.”
Kiara sighed, glancing at her teacher and then quickly gazing away from her weary countenance.
“I can promise you, Ms.,” Kiara began, her words fumbled like a football in the hand of an untalented sportsman, “that I am not in love with Charles Brokenshire, nor him with me. I am however appreciative that you have shared your story with me, but considering the circumstances of the two very different relationships, I can with utmost confidence assure you that never in my life will I fall in love with Charles.”
Ms. Moore smiled serenely at her young pupil, yet the worry in her calm dark eyes matched not the serendipitous tilt of her thin lips.
“I am sorry to hear that, Kiara. But I think that in time, you will come to know exactly what I mean.”
