Lucian Ch. 08

"Is this some guilt trip?" he asked.

The woman stopped stroking the girl's hair, looking up. All he could read was surprise.

"Guilt?" she said, her perfect eyebrows riding high. "Please, Lucien, if anyone should know we don't do guilt at Norton's it's you. Most of our students have been tortured by guilt in the outside world -- guilt for failing their parents, guilt for not measuring up, guilt for being born like they were; or for being born at all. Please, chérie, you hurt us with your accusations and you know it."

His head reeled.

He'd found the girl he loved -- the girl who said she loved him -- fucking a guy for money and enjoying it immensely. He kicked her out and she ran to this woman who'd told him she was his counselor, tutor whatever.

And now he was to blame?

The whore was a heroine, and he was a selfish bastard? The slut should be admired, and he should feel ashamed?

"I've had enough," he said, rising.

"Don't leave yet," Mamselle said, softly urging Charlie off her lap and rising to stop him. "At least listen to my apology."

Her brown eyes were as piercing as ever, and her hand was on his chest.

"Please."

What could he do? Where could he go, but to his lonely room, lying down and thinking in circles? Leaving Norton's had become impossible. Blackmailing his father was a double-edged sword; it guaranteed his tuition, but it also robbed him of any perspective outside.

He had no place to go.

He nodded, but didn't sit down.

"On behalf of Parker and Kurtz...," Mamselle started, but Lucian raised his hand.

"I don't care about them," he said. "Tell me what you think."

Her lashes fluttered. He'd never seen her embarrassed like this. It felt good. He smiled. She didn't.

"Alors," she said, and he allowed her the time.

"I find all this horrifying," she finally went on. "What we did to you wasn't right."

Lucian sighed with relief: a real apology at last. His relaxing face caused a smile on hers; a smile he reflected.

"You see, Lucien, we are a wonderful institution. For years we have been the last resort for girls born in the wrong bodies, boys bullied out of their right to develop their talents, beautiful creatures forced to conform to dreary realities."

Most of this was awfully close to Parker's PR babble, but somehow it sounded more genuine coming from Mamselle.

He nodded.

"And then your mother brought you," she went on. "Financially Norton's was at its lowest, maybe a few months away from bankruptcy."

He stared at her. Money? Was this yet another way to make him feel guilty for what happened?

"Money came in from our stars, of course," she went on.

What did she mean? Stars making money for Norton's?

"The models, you know? Actresses and singers, fashion designers, musicians, acrobats; beauticians too, hair stylists; all our successful alumni. They pay us back once their careers take off. And they help at our fundraisers, remember? But it was never enough; the Academy is a very expensive operation. So we could use every penny from enrolling regular students. But there were never many of them to begin with."

"Your mother wanted you here for all the wrong reasons," she went on, sitting down. "She wanted to spite your father, and also thwart his plans for you. But most of all she had to get you off her hands, so she could leave her marriage as a wealthy divorcee and stick your father with your tuition."

He nodded again -- he'd figured that out.

Charlie had by then stopped sobbing. From behind her hands came the blotched face of a six year old. She sniffed and said:

"You never wanted to be here, did you, Luce?"

He studied her face, wondering about her words. Hadn't his reluctance been what they all must have felt, at least at the beginning? Maybe not Charlie or the others like Taylor and Harper, who loved it here.

Had he been the only one wanting to flee?

"I hated it here, but you changed my mind, Charlie," he said. "You almost did."

It made her cry again.

"Don't punish the girl, Lucien," Mamselle said. "It was never her fault."

She was right. He reached out for Charlie, muttering an apology. She rose and threw her body against his, making him fall into his chair. She felt hot, and light as a feather.

"I'm so sorry for what they did to you against your will," she breathed into his ear. "I still don't understand, but I'm sorry, sorry, sorry."

The closeness of her soft body sucked all the anger out of him. He embraced her, first awkwardly and reluctantly. Then she started kissing him.

Mamselle smiled.

"She is the best thing that ever happened to you, Lucien Gaines," she said.

He knew she was right; she even might have said it with no agenda whatsoever. But it irritated him. It wasn't her business -- it somehow stained his feelings, corrupting them.

Lucian gently separated his mouth from Charlie's, causing a wet sound.

"Let's go," he said. "We need to talk -- alone."

***

"Can't we just say nothing and make love?" Charlie asked, moving up against him. "I'll make you forget. It's all so unimportant."

They were on the bed again.

Charlie was plucking at his top, trying to undress him, but he caught her hands and stopped them.

"No, Charlie," he said, making her look at him. "I can't. Things are bad between us, and even more so because you don't think they are."

Her eyes flew up, shocked.

"Don't say that. They're not bad...," she objected. Then she fell silent, realizing what she just said.

"See?" he asked.

Charlie didn't answer. Her eyes jumped around like panicked birds, a blush rising from her throat.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "I had no idea, but I hurt you." She swallowed and went on: "I love you; you must believe me."

Touched by her misery he embraced the girl, holding her against him.

"Love," he said and sighed. "Sweet Charlie believe me: we don't know what that is. Just too many pills and shots -- too many hours of lies and brainwash. Nothing's real -- nothing's meant to be real."

"You are wrong," she said, her voice muffled by his hug. "I really love you."

He unfolded his arms and studied her flushed face. A fragile little smile struggled though a ruin of blotches, tears and messed up mascara.

"Tell me what that means, Charlie -- love?" he asked.

Her lashes fluttered. She swallowed and licked her cherry lips nervously, but she didn't answer.

"I'll tell you, darling," he said after waiting a moment longer. "Your love means having someone to go to after classes and chores -- someone private to relax with; someone who doesn't push you, who doesn't shape you. Someone to hug and cuddle and fuck -- so you can forget what's going on for a while."

She kept staring at him, slowly shaking her head in denial.

"It's true, Charlie," he went on. "I'd love to believe it were different. For me it's different. I don't know much about love, but I know it's about trust. I could never betray you with someone else, clients or no clients, admirable or not. If I did it would hurt me more than it would hurt you, you understand?"

Her gaze was empty.

"No," he went on, touching her brow to remove a fallen curl. "No, I guess you won't ever understand that."

"I... I promise I won't do chores anymore," she said, her voice a whisper. "Tell me and I'll stop."

Lucian sighed.

"Charlie," he said. "I saw you with the man, and I heard you rave about what his big cock did to you. How could I keep you from things you so obviously love and need -- things I could never give you?"

New tears welled up from her eyes, and she flung her arms around him. He listened to her sobbing, feeling her body shake with them.

"You promise that now, Charlie," he mumbled into her silver curls. "And in a week you'll be miserable. Your body will ache and your mind will remember. You'll be strong until you get weak, and then the lies will come -- because, even if you don't understand why, you know you can't tell me. It will be lies about where you've been and with whom. And finally I'll find out. There will be more lies and sorry's, and in the end you'll start detesting me."

She tore herself loose.

"Never!" she cried. "I'll never detest you. I love you."

"Oh, believe me," he said. "You will."

"Hold me," she whispered. "I'm so afraid."

They sat like that for a while more, holding each other, crying softly until they fell asleep from exhaustion.

Next morning she was gone.

***

Lucian walked into Grace class.

He wore an old, baggy pair of jeans he'd found in a neglected closet. Over it hung a washed-out T-shirt and one of his standard men's shirts. He put his feet down with a clunk, wearing an old pair of running shoes.

Beside showering and grooming his skin, he'd also skipped make up. His hair was cut roughly with a pair of scissors; he'd shorn up the back of his head with a lady-shave.

He looked the perfect punker.

"Lucia," Ms. Fontaine said, letting her eyes go over him. "What happened?"

All faces turned his way, Charlie's too.

"Lu-ci-an," he said, accentuating the male ending of his name. "And nothing happened. I just decided to be me again."

He gave her what he thought was a defiant look. She just returned the Smile.

"Interesting," she said, walking up to him on her elegant pumps. "So this is you?"

He knew he'd wanted her angry, or irritated at least. He'd also wanted his classmates to admire what he did. They didn't have to be shocked, but they should at least be interested.

They weren't.

If anything at all, they seemed disgusted. Most faces soon turned away, heads pairing up to whisper. Only Charlie kept looking -- and Fontaine of course.

Then the teacher clapped her hands.

"Please look and learn, class," she said. "Would you care to spin around for us, Lucia-n?" she asked.

He refused to oblige, raging inwardly at her cool and patronizing response.

"Anyway," Ms. Fontaine went on. "I do hope, Lucian that this is not an effort to look like a boy. You cut your delicious hair, which is an awful shame, but all it does is making you look like a sweet, cheeky French gamin. You might call it a tommy-boy look, but honey, you are way too girly to pull that off, didn't you know?"

Someone giggled -- a few others followed.

"Ah, and the baggy jeans," Fontaine went on, resting one hand under her chin and the other under an elbow, leaning back to suggest she studied him with interest. "You really should have cut it in the right places, darling. And couldn't you find some proper Dr. Martens?"

The air seemed to thicken and rise ten degrees in temperature. He turned away and stomped out of the classroom.

Giggles sounded as he banged the door shut behind him.

***

"That was pretty stupid," Parker said. "Especially the hair."

He knew she was right. But wouldn't every alternative have been just as stupid? He'd wanted to show how different he was from the rest. Maybe he'd succeeded in a way, but not at all as he'd imagined.

Everything he'd intended to demonstrate drowned into a sea of laughter and incomprehension. Ancient feelings of isolation and ridicule returned as he'd stood there, watching his classmates watching him, and not seeing even one instance of understanding.

Or sympathy.

"What point did you want to make, Lucian?" she asked, mercifully using his proper name. "That you don't belong here? Is that still it?"

He again knew she was right: this whole discussion was getting old -- as well as going nowhere.

Had this feeble show of rudimental maleness really been the point he'd wanted to make? One glance in any mirror ought to have convinced him of its hopelessness.

So why had he still done it?

Maybe the remorseless macho brainwashing by his father, or his pathetic need to be part of a boys' world at high school had put a sense of maleness into his psyche -- but it had always been an illusion, hadn't it?

Even before Norton's.

Seeing himself in the mirror after he cut his hair and put on the awful clothing disgusted him as much as his classmates' faces showed him later. Even before walking into Ms. Fontaine's class he knew his statement was a lie -- this wasn't him at all; it had never been.

But who was he to be if not a boy?

Living alone after Charlie left hadn't been at all like the days he'd lived alone before. It was the simple difference between being alone and being lonely. His solitude gnawed at him; it left him fragile and insecure. His thoughts started to run in circles, and like every lonesome boy with no sense where to go he tended to look back and polish his past -- until it shone with the brightness of make belief.

Maybe that's the way it went.

Trying to become that illusionary boy was an easy step after that. But of course it couldn't work: the boy never existed. He was the only one to believe in that non-existent past.

But not anymore.

Sitting in front of Ms. Parker's desk Lucia Gaines looked down at her knees. They were perfectly crossed below the high hem of her sky-blue dress.

Her pink-tipped fingers elegantly flattened an invisible wrinkle.

Lifting her upper foot she watched the pointed sky-blue nose of her high-heeled pump. Huge silver rings touched her bare neck as she moved her head forward. Mackenzie had styled her ruined hair into an even more boyish cut. It only made her look like an even younger girl.

"He is a gentleman, you know," Parker said. "A very gentle man."

A nervous thrill touched Lucia's throat.

There was anxiety of course, the flutter of butterflies --but no panic. A sense of wrongness lingered deep inside, but it was glossed over by a new, still alien excitement.

She'd felt it for days now -- being aroused by nothing, her body on edge all day; all night. The feeling had no core; it was just like walking in a permanent cloud of heat, like a summer's breeze that relaxes your limbs and makes you aware of the silk touch of your clothes, the rubbing of skin on skin.

There was no rebellion left, no place for bitterness or hurt. Where had it gone? He'd been so very determined, hadn't he? Cutting his hair into a mess, scrubbing his face, leaving his body unwashed, dressing in stinking rags -- everything he could think of to turn himself back into a boy.

And still all they'd seen was a girl.

He'd upset no one, had he? His classmates giggled, his teachers didn't even blink. When he ran back to his lonely room, barricading his door with a chair and falling on the bed, he knew there was only one true lie: he himself.

Reality had turned into its exact reverse.

He no longer was a boy dressing and painting himself like a girl. He was the girl now, and the boyish gear had become her dress-up.

Lying on the bed, smelling the rancid odor of his unwashed clothes and tasting his dirty teeth he knew he couldn't live with himself like this. It was silly. This wasn't him anymore; oh, come on: it had never been.

"Lucian?"

Charlie's voice was just loud enough to get through the door's panel. It repeated his name, followed by a rap of knuckles.

"Lucian, please?"

"Go away!"

His voice was thick, and muffled by his pillow.

"Please, Luce, let me in."

"Why?" he yelled. "Come to gloat? Brought your giggling friends with you?"

"I am alone. Please open up."

There were no locks on students' rooms at Norton's. Hands pushed at the door, making the chair rattle, but it held.

"I love you, Lucian, please..."

The voice sounded forlorn. He was sure she cried. The urge to get up and close her in his arms was overwhelming. She loved him; he loved her. What had gone so very, very wrong that he refused to even see her?

He knew what went wrong.

He once again saw her contorted face like he had every night since that first glance. He heard her panting voice asking to please be fucked again. She needed to be fucked by a 'real man' with a big cock, she'd said, and it had broken his heart.

Why had it hurt him so?

The question surprised him. Wasn't it supposed to be obvious? Raving about men with huge cocks could only be meant to make him feel inadequate. She knew he could never compete and still she threw it into his face.

Then another floor was pulled from under his feet: she never intended it as a humiliation.

She couldn't, because she never compared. There was no need to: no one at Norton's wanted to be a 'real man.'

Why would a cat feel hurt for not being called a dog?

He had no big cock, had he? Not even close. Did he really ever even want one? So why be jealous? They say men have fragile egos. He wasn't a man, was he? So why feel hurt?

"Please, Lucian?"

The door rattled against the chair.

She'd come running after him -- and alone. Why? Shouldn't she be mocking him and giggle with the other Barbs? Making fun of that disgusting, deluded Lucian in his pathetic disguise? Lucia -- the girl who still thought she was a boy?

Since the break up she'd avoided him for days. Well, so had he.

Those had been dismal days and even more dismal nights. No one ever told him what love really is, but by now he knew it must be the cruelest thing on earth: your lover left you, but love stayed around to torture you.

The chair toppled; Charlie was in the room.

She looked flushed and agitated; her eyes shone out of halos of smudged mascara. Standing next to the fallen chair she didn't move or speak. Her hands strangled her shirt.

"Go away," Lucian said.

She didn't. Stepping forward she climbed on the bed.

"We belong together," she said, stating it like a matter of fact. "If you send me away again, I'll kill myself."

Only then did he see the knife in her hand. It was long and wide; he recognized it from the kitchen.

He sat up.

"Don't be silly," he said. "Give me the knife."

"Only if you take me back." Her little puffy mouth pouted; her eyes were almost purple.

"You don't want me," he said. "I don't have a big, hard cock, remember? I'm not a real man who can make you squeal."

Dark pink blushes popped up on her cheeks; eyebrows frowned at the root of her tiny nose.

Her right hand curled around the knife's grip, fingers squeezing and relaxing. Then she brought the sharp edge to her wrist, denting the pale skin.

Lucian dove forward, pulling back the knife. As they struggled the tip nicked his underarm, making a red pearl of blood rise up.

Charlie shrieked and let go of the weapon, grabbing Lucian's arm and closing her mouth over the wound. Her curls blocked his view, but he felt her hot lips sucking, and her tongue licking.

Then she looked up, her eyes wild.

"A bandage," she said, panting the words. "A band aid, gauze, disinfectant."

He grinned; then he laughed.

"It's all right," he said. "I won't bleed out."

He grabbed a tissue from the bed stand, pressing it on the tiny nick. The girl by then straddled him, her face almost touching his.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "Really?"

Then she kissed him; and he kissed back.

Her hands tore at his stinking rags, destroying the threadbare T-shirt and pulling down his oversized jeans.

"Yeggh," she cried out, pulling a face. "You stink like a man."

It didn't stop her to engulf his penis with her mouth and lick its sensitive tip with her tongue. He tried to find words of protest, but soon he closed his eyes, wrapping his hands around her head.

She sucked him for minutes, and prodded his magic spot with her long fingers. The feeling spread -- the familiar heat that flushed into his entire body, making it arch and pulse.

Then she was gone.

Still panting, he opened his eyes, trying to focus on the door that just closed behind her. He was alone, she'd left.