The first time that Jada was in love, she happened to have been in love with a man almost twice her age. She was just sixteen. He was thirty. She realized it for the first time when he was reading to Zora and Kayley. Everything about Geoffrey was dramatic. “'Who?' he repeated angrily. 'Why, he, the man who hides behind that hideous mask of death!...The evil genius of the churchyard at Perros!...Red Death!...In a word, madam, your friend... your Angel of Music!...But I shall snatch off his mask, as I shall snatch off my own; and, this time, we shall look each other in the face, he and I, with no veil and no lies between us; and I shall know whom you love and who loves you!'” the older man was stalking across the library floor, hands waving.
The three girls were by this point sitting on the window sill, listening to him speak. Le Fantôme de l'Opéra. Kayley, only 11 years old, was sniffling. Zora was letting her feet kick, pondering. Geoffrey was single and married to his work, he was also desperately poor and in love with his books. He'd been her tutor since she was twelve, and she'd adored him even then. If her family found out the way she felt, or if she ever acted on her childlike infatuation her mother would have a cow. Her father would fire him and probably ruin him. It had been everything that made him special to her. His lips when they curved into a smile, his hands gesturing as he spoke of the books, his smile when she gave him an answer he approved of. The way he would wake her gently in the mornings if she fell asleep in the library, pushing her off to her bedroom.
He never treated her like a child, she was a young woman. She was his lady.
It had been Geoffrey that taught her to adore books, to worship the pages. Books, he'd explained, were entire worlds contained in a small volume of words. If you loved books, they would love you back. They would never let you down, and they were the most faithful lovers a person could have. Men and women will betray you, Jada. he'd murmured in her ear at thirteen. You'll fight with a living creature, like the way your parents fight. But if you don't let a person close enough to take your heart away, and you remember that all you need is a book, then you'll never bleed.
You'll never hurt.
It had been a lie. Geoffrey had been one of the coma victims when things first started going wrong. His parents had removed him from life support, and he had slipped into the dark night.
“We are the hollow men. We are the stuffed men.” she'd read at his funeral. “Shape without form, shade without color, paralyzed force, gesture without motion...” T. S. Eliot. This was his favorite poem. “Between the idea and the reality, Between the motion and the act... Between the conception and the creation, Between the emotion and the response... Between the desire and the spasm, between the potency and the existence, Between the essence and the descent… ” she swallowed. “This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.”
He'd been placed under the ground without a whimper from anyone but herself. All dry eyes but hers. No one else had loved him. No one else had known him. His own parents had elected to not even attend his funeral, leaving him to go into the darkness alone. But not Jada. She'd slipped a bit of hyacinth and a bit of lilac in the coffin with him as she pressed her lips to his cold forehead. Constancy, and First Love.
It had been a beautiful day when he was laid in the coffin.
To this day, sometimes she hated beautiful days.
The three girls were by this point sitting on the window sill, listening to him speak. Le Fantôme de l'Opéra. Kayley, only 11 years old, was sniffling. Zora was letting her feet kick, pondering. Geoffrey was single and married to his work, he was also desperately poor and in love with his books. He'd been her tutor since she was twelve, and she'd adored him even then. If her family found out the way she felt, or if she ever acted on her childlike infatuation her mother would have a cow. Her father would fire him and probably ruin him. It had been everything that made him special to her. His lips when they curved into a smile, his hands gesturing as he spoke of the books, his smile when she gave him an answer he approved of. The way he would wake her gently in the mornings if she fell asleep in the library, pushing her off to her bedroom.
He never treated her like a child, she was a young woman. She was his lady.
It had been Geoffrey that taught her to adore books, to worship the pages. Books, he'd explained, were entire worlds contained in a small volume of words. If you loved books, they would love you back. They would never let you down, and they were the most faithful lovers a person could have. Men and women will betray you, Jada. he'd murmured in her ear at thirteen. You'll fight with a living creature, like the way your parents fight. But if you don't let a person close enough to take your heart away, and you remember that all you need is a book, then you'll never bleed.
You'll never hurt.
It had been a lie. Geoffrey had been one of the coma victims when things first started going wrong. His parents had removed him from life support, and he had slipped into the dark night.
“We are the hollow men. We are the stuffed men.” she'd read at his funeral. “Shape without form, shade without color, paralyzed force, gesture without motion...” T. S. Eliot. This was his favorite poem. “Between the idea and the reality, Between the motion and the act... Between the conception and the creation, Between the emotion and the response... Between the desire and the spasm, between the potency and the existence, Between the essence and the descent… ” she swallowed. “This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.”
He'd been placed under the ground without a whimper from anyone but herself. All dry eyes but hers. No one else had loved him. No one else had known him. His own parents had elected to not even attend his funeral, leaving him to go into the darkness alone. But not Jada. She'd slipped a bit of hyacinth and a bit of lilac in the coffin with him as she pressed her lips to his cold forehead. Constancy, and First Love.
It had been a beautiful day when he was laid in the coffin.
To this day, sometimes she hated beautiful days.
