My heart drops like an elevator into a coal mine. I stare at her, my earlier feelings of pride dissolving. This isn’t happening, some part of me insists.
Marisa’s smile softens, coming close to an approximation of sincerity. “And you deserved it,” she says. “You’re such a good teacher, Ethan. Your students know it and wanted to give that award to you.”
“You,” I begin, and my voice catches, my throat dry. “You … told students to vote for me?”
She chuckles. “It’s not like I stuffed the ballot boxes or anything. I just made a few suggestions.” She tilts her head down flirtatiously. “Maybe we should celebrate.”
“You manipulated Mark,” I say. “Why would you do that?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. Manipulated? I only told him how important teaching is to you, how much you care about the school.” She walks toward me. “I know how much it means to you. It’s a good thing, Ethan. And your mother would be so proud.”
Something in my head gives way at that, some restraint, and I’m flooded with shame. Something else, too—it takes me a moment to realize I’m angry. I stand up. “Marisa,” I say, and something in my voice brings her to a halt.
She looks puzzled for a moment, and then her mouth opens in an ah of recognition. “You’re having an attack of conscience,” she says, making it sound like I’ve got a stuffy nose. “I get it.” She takes a step closer. “But you can’t tell me you didn’t want that award.”
“Not like this,” I say, and the iron in my voice makes her hesitate. I’m clearly pissed. “You shouldn’t have done that, Marisa.”
She smiles, slowly, and reaches a hand to my face. I step back. “Don’t,” I say.
She takes another step—she’s close enough for me to touch. “Ethan,” she says in a low voice, almost a whisper, “you don’t want me to touch you? Don’t you think about me, about us, together?”
I want her. I admit it. Standing there with her eyes on me, lips parted, waiting for me to reach out and take her, put my mouth on her, slide her skirt down …
“No,” I say. I lean back against my desk and grip the edge of it.
She stands there, dumbfounded. “What?” she asks, her voice slightly higher, her question raw and direct, and I realize this is the first honest, unaffected reaction she’s had since she walked into my room.
I spread my hands, futilely trying to encompass the whole situation with a gesture. “Why would you do this?” I say. “Why would you bring up my mother? You don’t know anything about my mother.”
“I know everything about your mom,” she says. “About what happened to you and your parents. I read the news reports.” Her face forms a look of sympathy and concern, her eyes downcast and eyebrows quirked, mouth curved into a slight frown, but I see it for what it is—a construction, a mask. “After we met, I went and found out what happened to you. To your family.”
I lean back, horrified. “You researched me?”
“It was a home invasion,” she says, something like pity in her face. “Two men were chasing a woman who ran to your house. Your father let her in, and they came in after her.”
I shake my head, trying to deny her words, but the vault of my memory is open and the images pour out in a flood.
The silver shoe on our front walk.
My mother kissing the top of my head, telling me I was a good big brother.
The growl of the car pulling up in our driveway.
The coppery taste like pennies in my mouth from the adrenaline.
The doorbell ringing and the knocking, frantic, like a child beating at the front door.
Marisa continues, inexorable as night. “Your father let the woman into your house, and the men chasing her found her and came in after her. Those men shot you, and your parents, and your sister.” She reaches out and places her hand on my arm. “They hurt you.”
I shake my head, wanting her to stop but unable to speak for the moment.
“They hurt you and your family,” Marisa continues. “But I knew from the moment we met that I could help you. I did this for you, Ethan. I wish you would trust me. You can tell me anything, Ethan. I would do anything for you. I can help you.”
That anger is back again, boiling under the lid I’m keeping on it. It helps me find my voice. “I don’t want your help. I don’t need it.”
Her expression doesn’t change as much as freeze in place, although her hand drops from my arm. “Yes, you do,” she says. “You do. You have no idea what I would do for you. What I’ve done.”
I step back. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” I say, and just saying the words makes me feel as if I have been holding my breath, as if now I can finally breathe again.
Marisa smiles like a painting that hangs a little crooked. “Okay,” she says. “Obviously you’re upset. Let’s just take a break. You can go get some coffee, whatever, and then we can talk about—”
“I don’t want to do any of this anymore,” I say.
She stares at me, long enough that I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying anything else just to fill the silence. Finally, her voice low, Marisa says, “Are you breaking up with me?”
“I’m sorry; I don’t want to hurt you, but—”
“Hurt me?” The scorn in her voice is like knots in a whip lashing into me. Her cheeks are flushed now, her eyes flashing with some barely repressed emotion. “You think you’re breaking my heart or something?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I hope not. But”—and I raise a hand out to her in supplication—“what the hell are you doing, Marisa? Manipulating our students? Getting into my personal life?”
“Your personal life?”
