Page 33 of Save Me
“Go on,” Mr Dalton pushes with a clear smirk of interest on his face, probably because this is the first time that he’s ever heard my voice beyond answering the register.
“And I think Casey’s just proven that the question is uninteresting.”
The whole class erupts into cries of ‘ooh’ and laughter, all the while I squirm in my seat, having just insulted my teacher’s choice of debate. However, he merely grins and looks genuinely intrigued by my statement; this is the exact opposite of what I was going for. Yet now that I’m here, I find myself going for it. I stare back at him with defiance, as though he’s the embodiment of both Oliver and my father combined. It is a completely unwarranted judgment. One I’ve made based on the fact he’s an adult male in a position of authority.
“Well, Miss Taylor, how would you change my question?” he challenges me.
“I guess, if I had to think about it, I would have to question as to whether it should be reciprocal. If a family was going to lose their home, should they use the child’s trust fund to save it? I would question if a child should be responsible for bailing out a parent at their own expense.”
“Interesting,” Mr Dalton says as he nods along, then turns to face the rest of the class. “Well, thoughts?”
“No!” a low voice growls from the back of the class. “It’s not the child’s responsibility, they’re the adult, the educator. They’ve had their chances, their choices, why should the child put themselves at risk for the sake of the parent?”
I turn to look at Xander just as he finishes his argument, when he stares at me in such a way, he looks angry, like he’s ready to go to battle with anyone who says otherwise. I can’t work out if he’s just trying to provoke me into challenging him, or if he has his own suspicions. Dangerous suspicions!
“That’s kind of a naïve argument,” I return with what little bravery I have, “an argument for a perfect world.”
For a moment or two, the class of students fades away while we glare at one another, with neither one of us backing down from our stance on the matter. His eyes don’t give me any room to recover from his dark stare, for it’s one that makes me feel weak, like I want to run far away from here.
After what feels like hours, the class falls back into debating the new question, one I initiated because I had to open my big mouth. In the end, it is me who turns away from our battle of wills, looking straight ahead but knowing his eyes are still boring into the back of me, making me sweat under his silent interrogation.
Just as the class comes to a near on perfect split of opinion, and the heat has reached a state of burning inside of my chest, the bell rings, signaling the end of the day. Without a glance back or any further words spoken, I leap up and run straight for the door where I exit and head for the nearest bathroom. I dry retch in the furthest cubicle until I can no longer move through sheer exhaustion. I don’t cry; I refuse to cry. Even when I slide to the floor and eventually open a text message from Oliver:
Looking forward to Sunday. We have much to talk about. XXX
Sighing sadly, I reach inside of my bag for a tube of toothpaste and my toothbrush from home and get up to go and brush my teeth. Mal always has a spare set on him and it’s something I’ve always copied, without rhyme nor reason, it just makes me feel better. It works, to a certain extent, because I no longer feel like holding onto the porcelain bowl, and eventually feel safe enough to exit the bathroom.
Most of the students are long gone, scurried away for their exciting weekends where they can live freely and without the constraints of school and its rules and regulations. I have but one day to do that, then I have to go somewhere that is sure to be much worse than school. A place which is to become my new home in less than a year. My pumps squeak along the tiled flooring, the sound echoing between the walls which seems to make me huddle into myself even more so than usual. There’s no hiding amongst the usual throngs of people and it makes me nervous. I would rather feel lost in a crowd than be exposed in the open.
The parking lot is practically empty; all the cars have gone, save one. Xander stands, looking defiant against his car. He crooks a finger at me, signaling for me to go to him and to not even try to refuse his silent instruction. Still, I falter, trying to decide what to do for the best. Against my better judgment, I begin to walk in his direction, realizing that even though I should, I can’t refuse him. My traitorous teenage hormones don’t care about what is right and what is wrong, they just know what they want, and they know it’s him.
When I am but a few footsteps away from him, he reaches for my wrist and tugs me in close. So close, I can feel his hard body leaning against mine. I gasp with nerves when he wraps his arms around the back of my waist to hold me firmly in place.
“Tell me,” he says huskily, “tell me what’s going on with you!”
I shake my head too quickly for comfort, trying to stop myself from doing what he’s asked because I so desperately want to. Not just because I want him to rescue me; I know that’s a useless endeavor, but also because I can’t stand the look of hurt and anger in his eyes when I refuse him.
“I can’t, Xander,” I tell him on a long sigh, “if I could, I would, but if he found out, everything would move up sooner. I would be…look, I can’t risk it. Don’t make me risk it, please?”
I begin to tremble over the thought of what will happen if I break one of Oliver’s conditions, how my small piece of freedom would be stolen away from me.
“Ok, shh,” he whispers as he wraps me up into a full embrace and places a small kiss to the top of my head. It eases me. “I’ve got you.”
After what feels like a deliciously long time wrapped up inside of his arms, when my fingers have stopped trembling, I eventually brave it to look back up and into his emerald-colored eyes.
“Xander, I would love to tell you everything, but there are conditions and if I break them…I just can’t break them!”
I watch him carefully with his jaw clenching in frustration; my inability to be forthcoming is greatly irritating him. However, after a moment or two, he relaxes, and I feel his whole body slump. I let out a sigh of relief, knowing he is going to finally give up trying to coax it out of me, if only for now.
“Let me take you home,” he says quietly, grabbing my hand and leading me around to the passenger side door. I don’t even think about arguing as it might just tip him over the edge, and weirdly, I find myself not wanting to upset him. He soon jumps in the other side and grips hold of the steering wheel, his muscles tightening and flexing under his smooth, tanned arms as he operates the car. Most of the girls in my year would be gushing in my position right now, but I can’t help feeling nervous about acting on impulse or not being strong-willed enough to stop him if he tries to get closer.
As soon as we drive outside of the school gates, he switches on the stereo. Music that I’ve never heard before begins to blast out of the speakers, announcing to the entire town that Xander Fenton is here.
“What?” He smirks. “You look nervous and a little confused.”
“Should I know this music?” I giggle as I point at the stereo. “I have no idea what this is, and I bet, given my age, I should.”
“What kind of music do you listen to?” he asks with a light-hearted smile, one that reminds me that we’re both teenagers who are enjoying a normal, casual ride home together.