Brave the Skies by Kennedy Ryan
Brave the Skies
Kennedy Ryan
Senior Year—Finley College
Celine
“Your assignment was to write a confession as a short poem.”
Dr. Zekiah Lowe’s deep voice rumbles from the front of the class.
The first time I heard him speak, I shivered.
A full-body response to the sound that seemed to pluck a chord in me.
The timbre has been spit shined, polished, but my ears are attuned to the slightest accent.
Maybe that comes from growing up as an American in Paris.
Living there with my mother, I heard so many languages and accents brushing up against each other.
I usually detect accents and inflections.
Dr. Lowe’s is smoothed like a carefully pressed suit, but I hear the wrinkle—the lingering traces of Texas none of his degrees and time in the hallowed halls of America’s finest institutions could iron out.
“Of course,” he continues, sliding his hands into the pockets of the jeans he’s paired with a Public Enemy T-shirt and a blazer, fully equipped with elbow patches, “if you’re clever, no one should know what you’re confessing.”
He stands at the front of the class, a tall, commanding figure and one of the smartest men I’ve ever met. The deep mahogany of his skin, well-groomed beard, and tight fade lend him a Kofi Siriboe vibe. Mind, body, smile, soul—all irresistible.
I never stood a chance.
I’ve felt this bond since the day he told us about his father, a military man who ascended in the ranks to general and was disappointed when his son was more interested in Hamlet than handguns.
I know what it’s like to have a complicated relationship with your father since mine is one of this generation’s most celebrated journalists and authors…
but was at times absent from my life because he was off traveling the world becoming one of this generation’s most celebrated journalists and authors.
“It’s public, but also private,” Dr. Lowe goes on. “You were to write it in such a way that we could never figure it out. Your secret will still be safe. Any volunteers?”
His intent gaze roams the room, looking at everyone around me, but not at me.
That’s what has pushed me to this—what has provoked me to air this clandestine thing hidden in my rib cage and curled up behind my heart. His studied indifference. The lie of it, when I know I’m not in this alone.
At least I think I’m not in this alone.
How will I know if I don’t make a move? If I don’t test the waters? Test the theory that there is something that draws us together. My breath catching every time our eyes meet. The flare of heat and interest I spy before he has time to tuck it away—those things testify that he feels this, too.
Maybe.
But am I really going to do it? After a semester of wondering if I’m in this alone, am I really going to put myself out there this way? In front of everyone?
In front of him ?
My heart floats into my throat.
Blood hammers in my ears.
The pulse at my neck beats wildly, untamed.
My head is swimming.
My thoughts—drowning.
My emotions—a maelstrom.
Despite my body’s panicked rebellion, I grip the edge of my desk with one hand and slide the other trembling hand up and into the air.
Dark espresso eyes meet mine over the rims of his black-framed glasses, and his mouth—full, and on a less disciplined man, sensual—tightens.
His gaze flicks away from me, as if he’s searching for another volunteer, but there is none.
No one wants to do this—to air their deepest, darkest secrets in thinly veiled stanzas.
What kind of masochist volunteers for this devastating transparency?
“Anyone?” he asks, still skipping determinedly over me like a stone across water.
I wiggle my fingers and wave my hand to get his attention, which should be unnecessary since I’m the only volunteer of the thirty students, all seated in neat rows in the small classroom.
Hayes, which houses the English department, is one of the oldest buildings on campus.
It’s muggy outside for May, and the windows are propped open to let in what little breeze might bless us.
“Ms. Wallace,” he sighs, finally meeting my eyes with obvious reluctance. “You’d like to read your poem?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Yes, sir.”
It sometimes feels weird addressing him so formally since he’s not even a decade older than most of us. He leans back, not quite sitting on the desk, but propped against it with arms folded over his strong chest, feet crossed at the ankles.
“Go on.” He nods to me. “Let’s hear it.”
I nod, fix my eyes on my iPad, and let the words I’ve typed there loose.
Tread lightly through my thoughts, soldier.
Your boots are heavy.
Armed and dangerous, that’s what you are.
Strapped, aiming for my heart.
Do we engage? Do we fight this enemy within who tricks us into thinking we should when we can’t?
Love is a battlefield, yeah?
Lower your guard. Strip down.
Are you naked beneath that armor? Is that a Purple Heart? Show me your scars.
I would lick your wounds, soldier. I would lick your wounds.
Do you have a white flag? You can borrow mine, and we’ll wave it together.
Victory is sweet, but I hear surrender can be sweeter.
I could get addicted to giving it up…to you. I’d give in.
Cautious of the flame, but for you I’d go down in a blaze of glory.
I’d go down in a blaze of glory.
Afraid to fly, but for you I would brave the skies.
For you I would brave the skies.
Would you?
My final words melt into the silence, and a buzz rises from the students around me. There’s no way they could know it was about Dr. Lowe, but secrets blossom under light. And it’s clear from my words, this secret is laced with the forbidden.
I hazard a glance at Dr. Lowe. I’m so accustomed to him avoiding me—averting his eyes as soon as our gazes catch and spark, focusing on a point beyond my shoulder when he addresses me—that the sudden directness of his stare jolts me, sends my heart into a sprint.
“That was…” He clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. “Very good, Ms. Wallace.”
“Thank you,” I manage to whisper, refusing to look away until he does.
His attention is like a drug I’ve sampled but never had enough to become addicted.
I know it would be addictive, though. That if he’d give me a chance, I’d lose myself in those strong arms and dark eyes and that scent that is so particularly his and that makes me think of rain.
“Anyone else?” he asks, dismissal in his tone and indifference back on the beautiful harsh geometry of his face—all measured angles and blunt edges. “Mr. Kelton, let’s hear from you.”
The coolness of his tone, the abrupt withdrawal of his attention—it’s cold water dashed in my face.
My fists clench in my lap as the student he called on reads his poem.
I couldn’t for the life of me tell you one word he wrote.
Nor the next student nor the next. I hold myself so stiffly in my seat that my muscles ache.
I don’t look up from my desk for the remainder of the class.
The rejection burning behind my breastbone is unreasonable.
I knew he wouldn’t acknowledge my poem—a declaration, really, of my feelings that have been growing since the day he showed up in class.
When Dr. Ackerman, the professor who was supposed to teach us this semester, had a scare and went on bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy, the university scrambled to find a substitute.
A Finley alum who had recently completed his doctorate in literature from Berkeley, Zekiah Lowe was the best they could do on such short notice.
And he is the best they could do. Brilliant.
Thoughtful. Funny when he chooses to be.
Nurturing or stern as the situation warrants.
Everyone loves him. I’m sure half the students in this class are crushing on him.
I’ve had crushes before. This isn’t that.
And he doesn’t look at other students the way he looks at me…
when he allows himself. When his guard drops.
So it was worth a shot. I tried it, and he acted as if my risk and my words meant nothing.
Putting this in perspective, I’ll be fine.
More than fine actually. I’m a twenty-one-year-old honors student attending one of the country’s finest HBCUs.
I was even homecoming queen. I have a job lined up as a production assistant on a morning show in New York.
There is a bright future ahead of me, but with only a few weeks of college left, I didn’t want to leave Finley without an answer to the question that’s been burning a hole in my heart for weeks.
Does he feel it too?
Am I a delusional coed with a crush, or could this dangerous thread that pulls and snaps between us every time our eyes meet ever be something real?
“Thank you,” he says, clapping his hands once like he does at the end of each class. “See you all Monday. I’ve posted a loose study guide for your final. I hope it helps.”
For the first few seconds, I don’t move, even as everyone around me stands, grabs their belongings, shuffles toward the door.
I shake myself out of this disappointed haze.
What did I expect? That he would fall to his knees by my desk and confess in front of everyone that he feels the same?
I’m not afraid anyone else figured out the poem was about him. I’m sure none of them knew.
And I’m positive—despite the way he ignored me—that he does.
Guess I got my answer.
I stand and force my feet toward the exit.
“Ms. Wallace,” Dr. Lowe says, his voice even, firm. “Could you hang back? I need a word.”