Those Ocean Eyes

Chapter 12

Rachel's through with trying to understand the twisted machinations of Cassandra's mind. Miss July has been stringing her along for weeks; there's been a flirtatious undercurrent to practically everything she's said and done. She's been breathing down Rachel neck; teasing her mercilessly; waiting for her  to spark temptation probably just so she could gloat about it afterwards. Short of making blatant sexual overtures, Cassandra couldn't have been any more transparent in her quest to make Rachel relinquish control, but when Rachel finally gave up the fight.

Cassandra ran for the hills instead of claiming her spoils. It doesn't make any sense, and Rachel wonders how the woman who thinks nothing of performing explicit dance routines in front of her class – of sleeping with her students and boasting about it afterwards – can get so worked up over one little kiss. Cassandra makes no secret of the fact that she thrives on sex, but apparently, Rachel isn't enough to satiate her.

"I'm more baggage than you can handle." Rachel doesn't even know what that's supposed to mean. That she's just some sheltered, clueless kid from the backwoods of nowhere who doesn't have what it takes to satisfy the Great Cassandra July? That she's so inexperienced and inept, Cassandra can't even bring herself to capitalise on the power that Rachel (stupidly) handed to her?

It makes Rachel feel like a fool for throwing herself at Miss July in the first place, and she wonders if this was Cassandra's plan all along to make her feel inadequate, and undesirable; to make her wonder if she's going to be called into Miss Tibideaux's office and asked to explain her momentary lapse of sanity.

Still, a part of her can't shake the image of Miss July's face after they pulled apart. That inherent arrogance that unwavering self-confidence was gone, and for a moment, Rachel caught a glimpse of something that made her want to wrap her arms around Cassandra and never let go.

That surge of protectiveness was almost as overwhelming as the kiss itself, but it doesn't stop Rachel from spending inordinate amounts of time fantasising about the softness of Cassandra's mouth, or remembering the intoxicating taste of her lips.

She can't afford to dwell on it anymore though. Tomorrow she has to walk back into that dance studio and weather whatever Cassandra is going to throw at her, and she has a horrible feeling that her teacher's going to relish fulfilling her promise to make her life a living hell.

It's almost enough to make her consider cutting class altogether, but Rachel always vowed that she'd never let anyone stand in the way of her dreams, and she isn't about to start now.

She consoles herself with the knowledge that she only has to get through one more lesson before they finish for the holidays, and soon she'll be sailing the open seas with her Dads.
She'll be lying on a deck chair in the blazing sunshine, reading a trashy novel, and Cassandra July will be nothing but a distant speck on the horizon.

New York used to be her Mecca, but now she can't wait to leave it all behind and take refuge with the people who love her unconditionally. Maybe then she'll be able to get into the festive spirit.

To Rachel's immense relief, her sense of impending doom proves to be unwarranted. Cassandra doesn't acknowledge her existence for the first thirty minutes of the lesson.

Rachel keeps sneaking glances at her teacher in the hopes of catching Miss July looking at her, even if it means she'll eventually have to baulk from the eye contact but Cassandra's doing an award-worthy job of pretending not to notice.

She's in a foul mood, though; taking her frustration out on the other students with a colourful array of insults, and Rachel isn't complacent enough to think that she'll escape completely unscathed.

Even though the painful knot in her stomach is starting to unfurl a little, she's still on tenterhooks, and it's affecting her concentration. They're practising para-diddles in formation, building up their speed, but Rachel's running on autopilot.

She's so consumed with trying not to watch Cassandra's every move, her shoe hits the floor before she's expecting it to, and she hisses with pain when her right ankle gives way and her foot rolls over at an awkward angle. She loses her balance, and suddenly Cassandra's catching her before she falls, wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her upright.

"Watch your step, Schwimmer," Cassandra warns her, moving away as soon as Rachel regains her footing. Her tone is subdued, and she turns away before Rachel can see her expression, but the fleeting warmth of her touch and the lingering traces of her perfume leave Rachel feeling completely dismantled.

"Miss July?" she ventures, and there's a moment where Cassandra seems to freeze before she turns around to face her.

"Yes?" she snaps, but she's looking at the wall, not at Rachel.

"I think I might..." Rachel flexes her foot, and sucks in a sharp breath, "I think I might have twisted my ankle."

"Then you're an idiot," Cassandra informs her flatly, but there's a flicker of something inscrutable in her expression, "Sit down. Let me take a look," she says, sinking to her knees and reaching for the laces on Rachel's tap shoe, but Rachel hops away from her, shaking her head profusely.

"No, that's OK," she hastens to reassure her, because the thought of Cassandra touching her right now is too much to bear, "I think I'll just... go home and put some ice on it. I mean, if that's all right with you?"

Rachel hopes it isn't obvious that she's desperately looking for an out.

Cassandra hesitates for a moment, and Rachel's expecting a tirade about how she has no staying power, or a lecture about how real performers suffer for their art, but Miss July just tilts her head in acquiescence.

"Go ahead," she permits, with a nonchalant shrug, but then she holds out a hand to forestall Rachel's departure, "But first, you have the dubious honour of being the first freshman to make it into my 'Klutzes and Walking Catastrophes' book."

Rachel studies the wood panelling on the studio floor as she waits for Cassandra to return with the accident log. Miss July hastily scribbles out the details of her injury, and Rachel finds herself noticing things that she's never picked up on before – like the fact that Cassandra's left-handed, and her writing is terrible, and her fingers are like a concert pianist's; long and impossibly elegant.

Miss July's knuckles are still bruised from the other night, and Rachel feels a pang of longing when she remembers what it felt like to be ensconced in her teacher's warm embrace. When Cassandra hands her the form to sign, there's a brief moment of frisson when their fingertips collide, and Rachel nearly drops the proffered pen.

"Do you need some help getting home?" Cassandra asks her, seemingly oblivious to Rachel's inner turmoil.

For a moment, Rachel misunderstands her and feels a hot rush of hope, but then Miss July nods towards her classmates.

"I could always get someone to take you."

"No, I'll be fine, thank you," Rachel tells her, and their conversation already feels too stunted; too polite.

"OK, well, have a nice Christmas... or Hannukah... or whatever," Cassandra says. She's trying to sound perfunctory, but Rachel doesn't miss the underlying note of sincerity in her voice.

"You, too." Rachel manages to conjure up a smile, but she's dangerously close to blinking back tears.

She stumbles out of the studio, casting one last look over her shoulder, and sees Cassandra watching her with a pained expression.