The Education of Sebastian

  “Everything okay?” I asked, tentatively.

  “I guess,” Sebastian said wearily, rubbing his eyes. “He… he gets how much you mean to me but…”

  But?

  “He still thinks it’s kind of crazy. He’s cool though. He won’t tell anyone.”

  I hoped he was right.

  Sebastian raised his hand to my cheek. “Don’t worry: Ches is my best friend – he’s my brother ,” he said simply.

  I leaned against him, feeling the warmth of his body through his thin T-shirt. I stared out at the stars in the night sky, wondering if one of them might be our lucky star.

  I traced Sebastian’s silhouette in the darkness, his straight nose, his full, sensuous lips, his strong chin, the graceful profile of his head.

  He leaned back in the seat and turned to smile at me.

  The most incredible feeling of love welled up inside me. I was so lucky. He was kind and thoughtful and caring. He was fun to be with; beautiful inside and out. I didn’t know a lover could be a friend, too. And he loved me.

  Me.

  But was I really strong enough to follow my heart and to hell with the consequences? Could I expect a 17 year old boy… man… to be strong enough for this? No, that wasn’t right. I was the one who had to be strong: for both of us.

  And at that moment, I knew the question and the answer. Was I strong enough? Yes, I was.

  Chapter 14

  “I need to hold you,” said Sebastian, softly.

  I scrambled onto his knee and we clung to each other in the dark of the country club’s parking lot.

  All our hopes and fears had been explored in those tense few minutes with Ches. Sebastian was strong in so many ways, but he was also so young. And now he needed me and I wanted to give him comfort, to reassure him, to protect him from the world. He needed me – and I needed him.

  I held him tightly, pulling him closer. Gradually his body began to relax, the tension leaking away.

  “So,” I said, breaking the heavy silence, “you found an apartment in Little Italy?”

  I felt him smile against my neck.

  “Yeah, I thought you’d like that.”

  “I do. Tell me about it.”

  He let out a long breath and settled me more comfortably in his arms.

  “It’s got one bedroom and one bathroom and is on the fourth floor of an apartment building on 82nd Street. We’ve even got an elevator.”

  I smiled. I didn’t care how many elevators it had; I just wanted it all to be real.

  “From the top of the building you can see Staten Island and the Statue of Liberty. We can walk along the Belt Parkway Promenade, or ride bikes – people go kite-flying there, too…” he paused. “And the rent is only $1,250 a month, but that’s unfurnished, and we get 875 square feet.”

  “So much room.”

  I couldn’t bear to tell him that despite the tiny size of the apartment, the rent was still more than twice the amount I currently had in my checking account.

  “Yeah, well...” he continued. “But it says it’s near the train and we can walk to Coney Island in about 30 minutes. Oh, and it’s only four blocks from a park.”

  “It sounds perfect.”

  He sighed. “I almost phoned the rental agency but…”

  “Too soon.”

  “I know,” he sighed again. “Jesus, Caro. How the hell are we going to get through three more months like this?”

  “Because we have to,” I said in a steady voice. “And we will.”

  A look of admiration flickered across his face.

  “God, I love you!” he said.

  He kissed me lightly on the lips but his touch was like an incendiary device going off inside me. I kissed him back deeply, pouring all the angst and fear and passion I could into that one moment, showing him how much I loved and needed him, too.

  His body responded immediately and I felt his arms tensing around me.

  “Let’s go somewhere,” he said, his voice low and rough.

  “I don’t want to go to my place,” I said, a shiver running down my spine. “I don’t know what time David will be back. We can’t risk that.”

  “Where is the bastard?” Sebastian spat the words out.

  “At a mess dinner.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that: Dad went, too. They’re usually pretty late though,” said Sebastian thoughtfully.

  I shook my head. “No, I’d rather go to the beach. Anywhere but home.”

  The word sounded like a lie on my lips. It wasn’t my home: not anymore.

  “We could drive out to the beach? But it’s pretty cold tonight – no cloud cover. I guess we could stay in the car.”

  He sighed. I knew what he was thinking. After the luxury of a bed, neither of us really wanted to revert to an awkward backseat fumble.

  “We could find a cheap motel,” he said doubtfully.

  “We can’t afford it,” I reminded him. “Let’s just drive out to the beach and…”

  “We could go to my place,” said Sebastian suddenly.

  “Excuse me?” Had I heard him right?

  “Yeah! Dad’s out at that officers’ mess dinner with the asshole. He always stays over: he usually passes out in a bachelor room,” he said, the disgust clear in his voice.

  “What about your mom?”

  He pointed to the clubhouse with his chin. “Drinking.”

  “How’s she getting home?”

  “Like I give a damn? Taxi, probably. But she won’t come in my room. She never does: she stopped coming in my room when I was ten.” He paused, his lips curling with contempt. “Anyway, she usually can’t even make it up to their room – she just sleeps on the couch in the den.”

  “I don’t know, Sebastian…”

  I felt freaked at the thought of being in Donald and Estelle’s house, but now Sebastian had suggested it, I was burning with curiosity to see his room.

  “How will I get in without being seen?”

  “There’s an empty lot next door and we’ll go in through the backyard. No one will see us.”

  He sounded excited.

  “Okay,” I said, shaking my head in wonder at what the hell I’d just agreed to.

  He grinned at me, a beautiful, wide, beaming smile.

  We drove back listening to Lucia di Lammermoor – the tale of a girl caught in a feud between her own family and that of another powerful clan. And then she went mad. I hoped it wasn’t portentous.

  I parked my car behind the vacant lot, making sure it was as well hidden as it could be on a public street.

  “Okay?” said Sebastian, squeezing my hand.

  I laughed nervously at my own recklessness.

  He led me through the darkness, following the line of a high fence. When we got to a large and beautiful Japanese maple that grew up close beside, he stopped. The tree partially obscured the fence.

  “How are you at climbing?” he grinned at me.

  “You’re joking?” He just smiled at me. “You’re not joking?!”

  “I’ll help you.”

  He climbed the fence easily, his strong arms pulling him up and over. He’d obviously done it many times before. He disappeared from sight briefly, then reappeared, balancing his torso on the fence as his arms reached down for me.

  “Jump! I’ll pull you up!”

  I took a deep breath and ran at the fence, jumping as high as I could. Sebastian grabbed my wrists and pulled me up but our combined momentum was too much, and we were pitched over the fence, crashing down onto the turf below.

  The air was forced from my lungs and I lay there winded for several seconds. Sebastian struggled to sit up, which wasn’t easy as I’d landed mostly on him.

  “Caro! Are you okay?”

  I couldn’t answer.

  “Caro!”

  I gasped for air and started to giggle.

  “Shit! You had me worried there for a minute. Seriously, are you okay?”

  “Ow!” I sat up slowly, still slightly hysterica
l. “If I have to come in through your backyard again, I’m going to buy a ladder.”

  Suddenly he pulled me to his chest and kissed me fiercely.

  “What… what’s that for?” I gasped.

  “You’re just so… brave!” he said, in awe.

  I was pretty certain he had me confused with someone else.

  “You are!” he insisted. “You always take that leap, whatever it is. God! I love that about you!”

  I flushed at his unexpected praise: I really didn’t think it was justified, but I loved that he’d thought it, and loved it even more that he’d said it.

  “Come on,” I whispered. “I want to make out in your bedroom.”

  “Definitely up for that,” he agreed, laughing quietly.

  He pulled me to my feet.

  “Wait here a sec: I’ll make sure there’s no one around.”

  I watched as he climbed onto a water barrel outside one of the rooms and levered himself in through a narrow window. I had the distinct impression that he was enjoying himself.

  I stood alone in the darkness, knowing that I was being swept along by all the craziness; or maybe, finally, I’d just dove right in and stopped fighting it.

  I saw a light go on upstairs and a moment later Sebastian was unlocking the back door.

  “Coast’s clear,” he said grinning. “There’s no one in.”

  From what I could see in the gloom, the Hunters’ kitchen was sleek and modern and well equipped. But everything had a pristine look about it, as if most of it had never been used. I remembered Sebastian saying that his mother never cooked. I could have gone to town in a kitchen like that – it was almost to a professional standard. I wondered why a woman, why anyone, would want to have a show-kitchen like that and not be tempted to use it. Maybe the answer was in the description: a show-kitchen; a kitchen for show – like everything else in Estelle Hunter’s life. Despite excessive opulence of the design, the room had a neglected air: the trash can was overflowing with pizza boxes and a surprisingly large number of empty wine bottles, beer cans and hard liquor bottles had been tossed haphazardly into the recycling box.

  Sebastian towed me quickly down the hallway and up the stairs, eager to get me into his room. An unpleasant thought crossed my mind: how many times had he brought Brenda here, maybe to make out in his bedroom?

  I tried to ignore it, but the idea was like a worm in my brain, wriggling, wriggling, burrowing away.

  On the upper floor, we passed several empty rooms that looked like guest suites before Sebastian opened a door at the end of the corridor. From the layout of the house, I guessed that this room, his room, must overlook the back yard. The fact that his parents had put their son as far away from their own room as possible had worked out well for Sebastian – in the end.

  He’d turned on his bedside light and drawn the curtains; I could feel the suppressed excitement coursing through him.

  His bedroom was small, barely bigger than a box room, with a narrow, single bed pressed against one wall. Several old surfing posters were tacked to the only free wall space; the rest were covered by unmatched bookshelves, crammed with a mixture of CDs, paperbacks, a few hardcover books, with what looked like surfing trophies jammed in amongst them.

  There was a large chest with one of the drawers partially open, and a couple of T-shirts hanging out.

  My eyes were drawn back to the bed, currently strewn with a pair of jeans, shirts and the boardshorts he’d worn to the beach yesterday. The sheets and cover, however, were neatly folded, almost with military precision. I shivered as I imagined Donald ‘teaching’ his son how to do that.

  Sebastian cleared away the clothes hurriedly, tossing them onto a small, wooden chair that was festooned with clothes already.

  “It’s pretty small,” he said, sounding embarrassed.

  “It’s very you,” I said, watching him throw his clothes on the chair. I turned to examine some of his books. I always thought you could learn a lot about a person by the kind of books they had on their shelves. David didn’t have any books; he only read the newspaper and occasionally medical journals.

  Sebastian had a whole shelf of Conrad, several Alain Quatermain paperbacks, Jack London’s The Road, countless travel books and The Red Horse by Corti in translation caught my eye.

  “Wait, what’s this?” I pulled out a heavy book, bound in cloth, and ran my fingers over the cover. I stared at him in disbelief. “You still have this?”

  He nodded, his face serious.

  I flicked through the pages depicting Hansel and Gretel, Rumpelstiltskin, Rapunzel... all the gruesome stories from the Brothers Grimm.

  I turned to the frontispiece, knowing what I’d see,

  To Sebastian, from Caroline

  And a date, nine years in the past.

  “You kept it.”

  “Of course,” he said simply. “You gave it to me.”

  I didn’t know what to feel, standing there with the evidence of his childhood in my hands, the grown man in front of me.

  “It’s always been you, Caro.”

  I continued to stare at the book, at my handwriting, evidence in black and white, of our innocent and childish friendship.

  His voice became anxious.

  “It doesn’t mean anything, Caro, not like that.”

  But it did, to me at least. It had been a horrible mistake coming here.

  “I think I’d better go now,” I said quietly.

  “It’s just a book, Caro, just a damn book. Please don’t go!”

  He grabbed me by the shoulders and forced me to look at him.

  “Caro! Stop it!” he said, almost roughly. “I was a kid: we were friends. That’s all. You haven’t done anything wrong.” He shook me, making me grab onto his arms. “I’m younger than you: so what?! It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Suddenly my knees gave way and I sat down on the bed hard. I felt sick. I hadn’t eaten anything since the omelet I’d made earlier, and that had ended up on the gravel of the country club’s parking lot.

  “Caro?”

  “Could I have a glass of water, please?” My voice was shaky.

  “Sure! Sure!”

  I heard him running down the stairs. I put my head down and tried to breathe deeply.

  He was back a moment later with a large tumbler of cold water. I took the glass from him and drank a few sips gratefully.

  “Are you okay?” he said anxiously.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Sorry. It was just… a bit…” Disturbing? Shocking? A devastating reminder?

  My hands were still trembling and I was in danger of tipping the rest of the water onto his pillows. He took the glass from my hands and placed it on the tiny bedside table.

  “Come and lie down with me,” he said, tugging gently on my hand. “Just lie with me. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want to do, you know that.”

  He pulled me down and held me in his arms, softly stroking my hair. We lay there peacefully. Somewhere in the room I could hear a clock ticking: my life was passing with every second.

  He continued to soothe me, kissing my hair, stroking my back and my arms, threading his long legs through mine.

  “Do you want to hear a bedtime story?” he said, quiet humor in his voice.

  “Not funny,” I muttered into his chest.

  He laughed gently. “You’ll like this one. It starts with a girl and a boy… a motorcycle and a full tank of gas.”

  “Very romantic.”

  “Told you you’d like it.”

  “Well, the boy says to the girl, ‘Hey, baby, let’s go see the world.’ And do you know what the girl says?”

  “‘I’m washing my hair’?”

  “Ha! No, not quite. She says, ‘Let’s go see Italy because the whole world starts there’.”

  “She sounds like an idiot.”

  “Hey! This is my bedtime story.”

  “Okay, I’ll be quiet.”

  “Is that even possible?”

  I punched him lig
htly on the arm and he laughed.

  “Okay, so the boy says, ‘I’ve got an idea. Let’s fly to Switzerland…’”

  “On the motorcycle? Because I should explain to you…”

  He put his hand over my mouth, so I kissed the palm and snuggled in a bit more.

  “‘Let’s fly to Switzerland, drive over the Alps and then we’ll go to Milano and see Il Trovatore at La Scala’.”

  “That’s the opera where everyone ends up dying.”

  “You said you’d be quiet.”

  “Sorry.”

  “So, then they stay at this amazing hotel where they have breakfast in bed, served on silver plates…”

  “And they scappati in the morning because they can’t pay the bill?”

  “Yeah! Then they ride off on their trusty motorcycle and go to Verona, one of the most romantic cities in the world…”

  “It’s not romantic: that’s where Romeo poisons himself and Juliet stabs herself to death.”

  “Shh! Then they drive down the spine of Italy, stopping to eat pasta… and have a lot of sex…”

  “This story is NC-17.”

  “Yeah, that’s because it’s my bedtime story. Then they ride to Salerno and take this little mountain road to a tiny village called Capezzano Inferiore and they meet all these wonderful, crazy people who turn out to be cousins and aunts and uncles of the girl, because she’s kinda crazy, too…”

  “And then what?”

  “They live happily ever after.”

  I sighed. “Okay, that was a pretty good story after all.”

  “Told you you’d like it.”

  I felt very comfortable lying in his arms and my attack of guilt and disgust was slowly passing.

  He didn’t speak after that and neither did I. We drifted to sleep, wound around each other.

  A loud crash woke me suddenly. I sat up, disoriented and panic-stricken in the darkened room.

  “Oh, fuck. Mom’s home,” said Sebastian sullenly. “Are you okay, Caro? Don’t sweat it; she won’t come up here.”

  My heart was pounding; it was so loud I felt certain he must be able to hear it knocking against my ribs.

  “Are you sure? Is your door locked?”

  “I haven’t got a lock – I put the chair up against it when I want some privacy.”

  I couldn’t believe how casual he sounded. I almost leapt out of my skin when he reached out to stroke my hair.