It's a Love Story

Juliette's POV

“Beautiful, Juliette,” my AP Art teacher admired my just-finished oil painting. “It’s stunning.”

“Thanks, Ms. Crost,” I said proudly, stepping back to analyze the piece I had just spent a half hour after school finishing. The assignment had been to portray something from popular culture and paint it on canvas, and I had chosen to depict three of my favorite characters from The Breakfast Club—the Criminal, the Basket Case, the Princess—painted so frighteningly life-like that it even satisfied my high standards for myself.

“I’ll take it and put it in a safe place to let it dry,” Ms. Crost said, picking it up and taking it into her office right next door.

I tapped my foot and slung my Marc by Marc Jacobs schoolbag over my shoulder as I waited for her to return. When she reemerged, I said, “Um, Ms. Crost?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I was wondering if you could write me a college recommendation?” I asked her nervously. Ms. Crost had been my teacher for four years, since I was a freshman. If she wouldn’t write me a college recommendation, who would? And it was already the middle of October. I had to get a move on college applications.

But luckily, her face broke into a smile. “Of course, dear!” she exclaimed. “What colleges are you applying to?”

I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear as I rattled off the schools I wanted to apply to. “Um, Rhode Island School of Design, California College of the Arts, Pratt Institute…um, and Maryland probably.”

“Those are all great art schools. Excellent, Juliette,” she said happily. “I’m glad to see you’ll be pursuing an art career. I’d be happy to write you a recommendation.”

“Thanks, Ms. Crost.” I smiled at her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I waved as I left the studio before pulling out my iPhone and dialing my boyfriend’s number.

He answered on the fifth ring. “Hey, Juliette!” I could hear loud music and voices in the background.

“Connor?” I frowned. “Where are you?”

“With—Whoa, O’Keefe! I said a fucking left turn, moron!” There was a considerable amount of cursing before Connor returned to the phone. “Sorry, J. What were you saying?”

I sighed, exasperated. “Connor, you were supposed to drive me home!”

“I was?”

“Yes,” I said impatiently. “I said I was staying half an hour after school and you said you’d wait for me and take me home.”

“I did? Oh. Well, sorry, babe. I’m with Josh and everyone now in his car. Can’t come back to school. Hey, call a cab or something.” I was about to respond to this when I heard renewed yelling on his side of the phone, and he said hastily, “Gotta go, babe. Later.”

I rolled my eyes as he hung up. I stashed my phone away angrily. Sometimes, it was small things like this that Connor did that majorly pissed me off. Like, couldn’t he have fucking told me he was going to take off so I could at least bring my own car to school? And I had forgotten my wallet so I didn’t even have any cash to call a cab service.

“Fucking great,” I muttered to myself. I sighed and began making my way past the senior parking lot to walk home alone. It would take a good forty-five minutes to get back to my house, but what other choice did I have?

About five minutes into my dull walk, an old car pulled up beside me. The windows rolled down. I raised my white Ray-Ban wayfarers slightly to see who it was. Hopefully somebody who could offer me a ride, and not some creepy rapist.

“Hey, Juliette!” my photo teacher called out, leaning out of the window. “You alright?”

“Oh. Hi, Wolff,” I said, letting my sunglasses slip down again to perch on my perfectly straight nose. “I’m just walking home.”

“Oh yeah? You live close by?” He lowered the volume of his music to hear my answer.

“Well…no.”

He laughed. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride.”

I looked at him dubiously. When I had said I was hoping someone would give me a ride, I hadn’t exactly been expecting, you know, my teacher to offer me one. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers. Right? “Oh, um thanks,” I responded. “If you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not, get in.” I walked over to the passenger door and opened it; he scrambled to clear the seat. After throwing a bunch of folders, papers, a pen and a camera to the backseat, he said, “Okay, you’re good.”

I slid into the seat and gave him a gracious smile as I shut the door. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He started driving again. “So, where do you live?”

I gave him directions as I settled in my seat and put on my seatbelt. Then I looked over at him. The first thing I noticed was the way he drove—he was laid back in his seat, leg tapping to whatever tune was in his head, and his hands resting lazily on the base of the steering wheel, barely moving as he steered through traffic. It was very manly, in a way. But on the flip side, his fingers were the opposite; they were long and slender, gentle-looking. And for whatever reason, I liked it.

He abruptly reached his hand out to raise the volume on the radio, which had been previously playing commercials very faintly in the background.

“…And next up we have The Killers’ latest single, Spaceman,” a voice announced, before the first chords of the Vegas band’s latest electro-rock masterpiece kicked in.

“I love The Killers,” I commented.

“Really?” Wolff shot me the briefest of glances before his eyes returned to the road. He seemed surprised.

“Yeah.” I was taken aback, too. “Why would that be so shocking?”

He shrugged. “You don’t really come off as someone who’s into The Killers.”

“So what do I come off as?” I challenged.

He shot me another look, but this one lingered longer. His expression was unreadable. “Not sure,” he finally responded. “You surprise me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” I smiled as I tucked an ever-escaping strand of hair behind my ear.

You would think it would be weird to drive around with your teacher, but sitting there in Wolff’s car I felt completely comfortable as I debated with him which Killers album was the best and whether the horns were a nice touch on Day & Age or not. It felt natural to have a conversation with him. There was none of that awkwardness I felt with, say, my weird math teacher, for example, the one who gave us confused looks every time he turned around and realized that yes, there was a class sitting in front of him. It was just…nice.

After a couple of minutes I realized we were not, in fact, heading to my house. “Um, Wolff?” I pointed out. “We’re kinda heading to town.”

“A little detour,” he said distractedly as we pulled into the main town area. “I need my fu—I mean, I really need my coffee,” he censored himself hastily. I held back eye roll. As if students never curse, I thought to myself as he smoothly parked right in front of a small coffee/pastry shop called Alison Lawrence. He turned the car off and pocketed the keys. “Sit tight, doll. I’ll be out in a second.”

In a flash he was out and strolling into the shop. I shrugged slightly to myself before leaning back in the seat and gazing out at everyone walking around in town. Suddenly, I spotted Nicole Berg, the school’s resident Supreme Bitch, and her two minions walking out of a nail salon. And I promptly ducked. Shit. I felt foolish for a second—this was my boyfriend’s twin sister, not the fucking FBI, and anyway, I wasn’t doing anything wrong, right? Except sitting in my teacher’s car outside of school, I reminded myself. That kind of thing could look wrong depending on who saw me. And if Nicole saw me, she would pretty much make sure everyone she was even remotely familiar with knew about this.

Luckily, she didn’t seem to see me as she literally passed right by Wolff’s car. I breathed a sigh of relief and was about to get up when I noticed two things on the floor. One was an empty pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights—that didn’t take me by surprise, I was pretty sure already that Wolff was a smoker. But the second was an old, old picture of two little boys, smiling brightly at the camera with their arms tight around each other. I picked it up as I sat up in my seat slowly. One of the boys was blonde and had green eyes that seemed very familiar, and the other was a brunette with bright blue eyes. I flipped the picture to the back. In slanted handwriting that I had come to recognize as Wolff’s, it said, Corey + me. Boston.

Huh. I dropped the picture back down to the floor—and just in time. The next minute, I saw Wolff walking back to the car. Carrying two coffees.

“Here you go.” He passed me the other coffee as he balanced his on his knees and buckling his seatbelt.

“Oh.” I was surprised. “Wolff, you didn’t need to—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he commanded as he pulled out of his parking space. “Just drink up, doll.”

“Thanks.” I gave him a quick smile before bringing the cup to my lips and taking a sip. Mmm. “Hazelnut,” I said out loud.

He gave me a quick glance. “You like that, right?”

I gave him a puzzled look. “How did you know?”

He almost seemed to blush, for some reason. “Oh, um, you usually bring in a hazelnut coffee to class.”

I cocked my head at him. It was kinda—well, sweet that he noticed something as trivial as that. I watched him as he did that automatic hair flip that all guys unconsciously do, and his dirty blonde hair fell back for a minute to show his face properly. Lightly shading his strong jaw was barely-there stubble, and he bit his tongue very slightly as he concentrated on the now-unfamiliar roads. His emerald eyes darted back and forth among the foreign street names, and it was clear he had never ventured to this side of town before. “Over here.” I motioned to him when my house came up.

He whistled as he pulled in the long driveway. “Nice crib,” he commented.

“Uh, thanks,” I said awkwardly. What was I even supposed to say to something like that? “You can stop right here,” I directed. He came to a smooth stop. “Alright. Thanks, Wolff.” I opened the door to step out. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for the ride and the coffee.”

He waved this away. “Anytime. Bye, Juliette.”

I shut the door and began walking up my embarrassingly long pathway. When I made it up to the front door, I looked back—Wolff was still there, waiting to see me go in safely. I was surprised. Even my own boyfriend never did that anymore. I opened the door with my house key and looked back one more time. He gave me a two-fingered salute before roaring off in a cloud of smoke and squealing tires, and I smiled to myself.