Keyframe

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

"The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom."

- "Caged Bird," Maya Angelou (1969)

Lillian

"So you seriously called me out of class on 'official student council business' to...watch you take inventory for thirty minutes?"

I stare down at my uniform saddle shoes as I sit on a shelf and swing them gently. God knows that I don't even have to look up to imagine the face Jordan makes before he answers.

"I'm the president; I can do whatever the hell I want." His shoes come into my vision before he lifts my chin, and I'm suddenly looking into his icy blue eyes. "Besides...the fact that I'm taking inventory right now is your choice. We're all alone in here; there's plenty of...other things we could do to fill the time."

His hand slips underneath the black plaid of my skirt to show me that he means exactly what I think he means. My face flushes a painful red, and I quickly turn my head away just in case he can see it through my brown skin.

"No amount of boredom will make me want to lose my virginity in a storage closet."

I try to steady my trembling voice, removing his hand with two fingers. He scoffs, taking it back and picking up his clipboard again.

"Prude."

"Commitment-phobe."

He freezes at my words, the smirk fading from his face, and I go cold in fear. Too far? That was probably too far.

"Are you serious?" he utters, face darkening in the dim light. "We've been together for five straight months without one single issue. I have done nothing wrong."

Saying that he's afraid of commitment might be an unfair judgment, but, after years and years of stringing me along in a maddening on-again-off-again relationship, I'm too weary to get comfortable. He said things would be different this year, that he was done screwing around, that what we had in the summer wouldn't stop just because school started. So far he's kept his promise, and for that I'm grateful. But is my trust strong enough to share something like my first time with him when he might change his mind again?

"I told you what you have to do before I even think about it, Jo. And you still won't do it."

I look at him from my seat on the shelf, pleading, and he sighs before his face softens.

"Saying I love you is a huge step, Lil."

"So is sex."

We stare at each other for a few seconds before Jordan is the first one to relent.

"Fine. Then I guess we've reached a stalemate."

He turns away again, moving to the large plastic bins full of dance supplies, and I swallow hard to calm my throbbing heart. I can't afford to have stupid fights like this. Jordan Dawson is my future—he's all I have to look forward to. His plans are my plans, and, as of now, my only reason for being alive is becoming his wife someday.

Jordan's life was decided before he was even born. He's the only son of a first son of a first son, his birthright tracing all the way back to when British aristocracy first set foot in New York. He might be a hotheaded 16-year-old right now, but, by the end of his life, he'll be a patriarch with a legacy and company to worry about. His parents chose this high school for him, so I left all my friends behind and transferred here freshman year. Dawsons always, always go to Harvard, so I'm going to Harvard.