Page 9 of You've Got a Place Here, Too
Your boots are heavy.
Armed and dangerous, that’s what you are.
Strapped, aiming for my heart.
Do we engage? Do we fight this enemy within who tricks us into thinking we should when we can’t?
Love is a battlefield, yeah?
Lower your guard. Strip down.
Are you naked beneath that armor? Is that a Purple Heart? Show me your scars.
I would lick your wounds, soldier. I would lick your wounds.
Do you have a white flag? You can borrow mine, and we’ll wave it together.
Victory is sweet, but I hear surrender can be sweeter.
I could get addicted to giving it up…to you. I’d give in.
Cautious of the flame, but for you I’d go down in a blaze of glory.
I’d go down in a blaze of glory.
Afraid to fly, but for you I would brave the skies.
For you I would brave the skies.
Would you?
My final words melt into the silence, and a buzz rises from the students around me. There’s no way they could know it was aboutDr. Lowe, but secrets blossom under light. And it’s clear from my words, this secret is laced with the forbidden.
I hazard a glance at Dr. Lowe. I’m so accustomed to him avoiding me—averting his eyes as soon as our gazes catch and spark, focusing on a point beyond my shoulder when he addresses me—that the sudden directness of his stare jolts me, sends my heart into a sprint.
“That was…” He clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. “Very good, Ms. Wallace.”
“Thank you,” I manage to whisper, refusing to look away until he does. His attention is like a drug I’ve sampled but never had enough to become addicted. I know it would be addictive, though. That if he’d give me a chance, I’d lose myself in those strong arms and dark eyes and that scent that is so particularly his and that makes me think of rain.
“Anyone else?” he asks, dismissal in his tone and indifference back on the beautiful harsh geometry of his face—all measured angles and blunt edges. “Mr. Kelton, let’s hear from you.”
The coolness of his tone, the abrupt withdrawal of his attention—it’s cold water dashed in my face. My fists clench in my lap as the student he called on reads his poem. I couldn’t for the life of me tell you one word he wrote. Nor the next student nor the next. I hold myself so stiffly in my seat that my muscles ache. I don’t look up from my desk for the remainder of the class.
The rejection burning behind my breastbone is unreasonable. I knew he wouldn’t acknowledge my poem—a declaration, really, of my feelings that have been growing since the day he showed up in class. When Dr. Ackerman, the professor who was supposed to teach us this semester, had a scare and went on bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy, the university scrambledto find a substitute. A Finley alum who had recently completed his doctorate in literature from Berkeley, Zekiah Lowe was the best they could do on such short notice.
And heisthe best they could do. Brilliant. Thoughtful. Funny when he chooses to be. Nurturing or stern as the situation warrants. Everyone loves him. I’m sure half the students in this class are crushing on him. I’ve had crushes before. This isn’t that. And he doesn’t look at other students the way he looks at me…when he allows himself. When his guard drops.
So it was worth a shot. I tried it, and he acted as if my risk and my words meant nothing. Putting this in perspective, I’ll be fine. More than fine actually. I’m a twenty-one-year-old honors student attending one of the country’s finest HBCUs. I was even homecoming queen. I have a job lined up as a production assistant on a morning show in New York. There is a bright future ahead of me, but with only a few weeks of college left, I didn’t want to leave Finley without an answer to the question that’s been burning a hole in my heart for weeks.
Does he feel it too?
Am I a delusional coed with a crush, or could this dangerous thread that pulls and snaps between us every time our eyes meet ever be something real?
“Thank you,” he says, clapping his hands once like he does at the end of each class. “See you all Monday. I’ve posted a loose study guide for your final. I hope it helps.”
For the first few seconds, I don’t move, even as everyone around me stands, grabs their belongings, shuffles toward the door. I shake myself out of this disappointed haze. What did I expect? That he would fall to his knees by my desk and confess in front of everyone that he feels the same? I’m not afraid anyoneelse figured out the poem was about him. I’m sure none of them knew.
And I’m positive—despite the way he ignored me—that he does.
