Elysium Academy: Book One

by Abbie Lyons

  Chapter One

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  That’s what they all say, one after one. Some of them throw in an extra something else like, “he was such a good person” or “I can’t even imagine how you’re feeling” but it’s always “I’m sorry for your loss” that comes first.

  I wonder if they realize how stupid it sounds. For one, it’s so unoriginal. Hearing the same trite phrase over and over doesn’t exactly provide the mourner—me—with much comfort. Just the opposite, really.

  And then there’s that word—“loss.” Because my brother dying was so much more than just that. A loss is when you misplace your keys and still can’t find them after overturning your entire bedroom. A loss is when you have a little too much fun one night and can’t find your phone the next morning. My brother dying? That’s not a loss so much as a hole drilled directly through my heart. It’s my world shaken to its very core. This was the person who practically raised me, and now he was gone just like that, never to return.

  I knew these people meant well. But any meager hopes I had that the funeral would provide at least some degree of peace were being completely dashed. There was absolutely nothing anybody could say that wouldn’t make me feel any less like total garbage.

  “So...” some would say after waiting in line to pay their respects, “any big plans for this year?”

  It only added insult to injury. It was bad enough that my brother was dead, but the fact that I didn’t have any definitive plans for my life after graduation? That was the rotten cherry on top of a melted sundae.

  They’re just trying to be nice, I had to keep reminding myself. The last thing I wanted was to lash out at one of my brother’s seemingly million friends at his funeral. He would’ve hated that.

  “I hope you can see how hard I’m trying not to snap, bro,” I said in my brain as if he could somehow possibly hear me. I wasn’t sold on the concept of an afterlife, but the act of pretending like I could talk with him was one of the only things that had been keeping me going for the last few days.

  The line of well-wishers seemed nearly endless. Scott was nothing if not a world-class charmer. People just naturally gravitated toward him. We were a good balance for each other that way. My tendency was to push people away, and if he weren’t there to take care of me after my parents died suddenly in a car crash back when I was nine years old—the first time “I’m sorry for your loss” reared its ugly head in my life— I definitely would’ve ended up even more bitter than I already was.

  This was probably the first time in years half the people in attendance were even dressed formally. My brother was a programmer here in San Francisco, and a lot of his friends were the type to work at startups with dumb names like Flooper or Dooper or whatever. They were the jeans and a t-shirt kind of crowd. But for the respect of my brother, they’d broken out the fancy stuff.

  Guess that’s what happens when a good guy plunges to his death off a bridge.

  I wondered how many of them knew how close Scott had been to launching his own company at the time of his death. I knew that was a card he was holding close to his vest. He had big dreams, just like so many other people here in this city, but even a cynical girl like me thought that if anybody could make it big, it was him. But now those dreams were dashed. He was nothing more than ashes in a box.

  Scott was such a born entertainer that I’d met all of his friends approximately a million times. He was always hosting some sort of game night or barbecue at our place. When I wasn’t feeling social, I’d hole myself in my room until they left. But other times I’d venture out, have a few beers, and let loose a little—not always the easiest thing for me. His friends were pretty okay for the most part. But the ones who wanted to talk about anything other than their jobs or some byzantine programming problem were few and far between. If I’m being honest, some of them were pretty cute and good for a bit of light flirting. Of course, I’d never hook up with one of my brother’s friends. That would’ve just felt icky.

  So most of the faces at the funeral were extremely familiar, even if I couldn’t quite place them with a name. Or, if I could, the only name I could remember was their D&D character, which was both embarrassing and hilarious.

  All except for one of them.

  “This really sucks, huh?” he said, as he greeted me. He flashed the trace of a smile—a far cry from the somber “I’m sorry for your loss” crowd.

  He had fair blond hair— nearly white, actually—and bright blue eyes. But that wasn’t what was most striking about him. Unlike the other guests who looked so damn uncomfortable in their suits, this guy was rocking his. Tech bros who almost never sport suits move a little awkwardly when they have occasion to wear them, as if they’re a little kid dressing up as a Big Serious Businessman for Halloween. Not so with whoever this person was. He moved with swagger. As dumb as it sounds, he positively glowed.

  “It does suck,” I replied, though I couldn’t bear to return even the tiniest of a smile. “How did you know my—”

  But before I could finish my question, he’d moved on, allowing the next guest in line to offer their cliché condolences.

  I had to wonder: was the stranger some sort of fucked up funeral crasher type? That would be bizarre, sure, but he stuck out like a sore thumb. My brother knowing him seemed almost as strange. And I really didn’t want to deal with that type of sicko on one of the worst days of my life.

  I subtly flipped him off, and moved on.

  AS IF ENDURING THE long line of well-wishers wasn’t enough, I had to give a speech.

  Well, I didn’t have to. But I was Scott’s only living relative. If a bunch of his buddies were going to step to the podium and say a few nice words about him or tell some sort of funny-yet-heartwarming anecdote about an inside joke they had, it was only right that I go up there too. I didn’t want to do it. But I owed it to him. And he would’ve been pissed if I didn’t.

  “Wow, not even a speech at my funeral, Quinn! Damn that’s cold,” I imagined his ghost playfully teasing me. “What was the point of taking care of you all those years if you’re not even going to say a bunch of nice things about me now that I’m dead?”

  I let his friends go first, because frankly I didn’t want to show them up. The grieving sister who now didn’t have any family left had to be the grand finale. Nobody was going to be able to top that.

  But a funny thing happened when his pals told their predictably silly-yet-serious stories about Scott—I started to feel something other than crushing numbness for the first time in days. It was easy to be cynical, but I had to remember that my brother had also meant the world to a lot of these people. Beyond the platitudes I’d been hearing all day, it was nice to hear about stuff like all the dumb pranks he’d play on his coworkers. Or about the time he drove one of his buddies for a surprise weekend in Las Vegas after a bad breakup.

  “I’ll never forget about how Scott welcomed so many of us into his home,” said one of his admittedly cuter buddies. Zack or Brad or something? “I’m going to miss that sense of community he provided, and I know that’s never going to be replaced in quite the same way.”

  My brother, as I already knew, was one hell of a person.

  When it was finally my turn, I stepped to the podium and scanned the crowd before me. It was mostly all dudes, but hey, that’s the San Francisco tech scene for you. I was the only woman who’d be speaking.

  “Hi,” I started, a bit weakly. “I’m Quinn. Scott’s sister. I guess you all knew that already.”

  “Bravo! Great start!” I imagined his ghost teasing yet again. “What an opener!”

  “It was nice hearing so many of your stories,” I went on. So far, I’d been holding it together.
But something about being up there and seeing all those faces was chipping away at the façade. I was beginning to sense that all too familiar feeling of my tear ducts welling up. Don’t you fucking cry, I warned myself. Keep it together.

  “So if you knew my brother well, and you all did, then you’ll know that he was obsessed with tabletop gaming.” A few appreciative murmurs. “Most of you probably knew him as your ever-creative DM, coming up with elaborate scenarios that only he knew the way out of, and the rest of us just had to hope for a good roll of the dice.”

  More laughter. Thank God. I wasn’t sure that joke was going to land.

  “But I knew him...well, my whole life. He always had this joke when we played games together as kids. If his character died, he’d...” My throat got thick again. “He’d ball up his fist and yell Aveeeeenge meeeee! And then do a dramatic death scene.”

  That one? Not so much. Maybe joking about death was one step too far.

  Of course it is, Quinn, you fucking monster.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Um, anyway. I can’t...I can’t avenge you, Scott, but I can tell everyone here the guy I knew.” Deep breath. “Scott was always mature for his age. We all know he was brilliant, but he was also just...preternaturally calm. Not many ten-year-olds would be excited to hear that their parents were having a ‘surprise baby’”—I drew air quotes—“especially if that baby was a girl. But Scott was. He loved me from the first day I can remember being conscious. And after the crash...and our parents died...” It was getting hard to finish sentences. “Anyway, he pretty much raised me, all while putting himself through college. I don’t know how he did it, because I was really a bratty kid.”

  That got a warm little laugh from the crowd.

  “I’m not sure what else I can even say. Words aren’t enough to explain how I’m feeling. He—”

  I paused. It wasn’t at all clear to me what I should say next. Just as quick as my comfort of speaking in front of all these people had arrived, it left. The absurdity of trying to say a few words to put a neat bow on my brother’s entire life hit me all at once.

  People are always talking about the stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But that’s all bullshit. It’s not that you don’t experience those feelings—because you sure as hell do—it’s just that a lot of the time you’re experiencing all of them at once.

  Like right now, at the podium. I was feeling all of them except for acceptance. I wasn’t accepting any of this yet.

  As I scanned the crowd hoping to see something that might muster a few more words out of me, I saw the well-dressed stranger in the back right corner away from everybody else. And that’s when I started to feel the anger rising above all those other emotions swirling away inside my brain.

  Because what right did this stranger have to be here? Was this some sort of stupid game to him? There are a million different kinds of assholes in the world, but the kind that shows up at a funeral for somebody they didn’t even know is truly special. What was in it for him? A few free hors d’oeuvres? Maybe it was something even more pathological and twisted than that. It could’ve been some sick desire to feed off the pain of others.

  All I knew for sure was that I was pissed.

  “I just want to add,” I went on, “that Scott loved everyone. Even people he didn’t know. Even total strangers. Me, I’m not always that generous.”

  The crowd tried to hide their confusion, though I noticed a few of them couldn’t help but look around to see if they could spot the offender. Most of them probably just thought I was nuts.

  Hell, maybe I was going crazy. Because when I looked back to the corner of the room, the mysterious guy was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter Two

  I woke up the morning after the funeral with a pounding headache and the urge to expel every single bit of my insides. Because after the services, the only thing I could think to do was grab a bottle of whiskey at the liquor store. Usually I’d have to pull out my fake ID, but the old woman at the counter probably just knew by the look on my face and my dripping eyeliner that I wasn’t worth carding—I clearly needed a drink.

  “Take care of yourself, hun,” she said as she handed me my brown paper bag. “I’m sure he’s not worth the tears.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “The guy you’re crying over. There’s a lotta fish in the sea. You’ll find one who treats you right someday.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was dealing with something so much worse than a stupid heartbreak.

  When I got back to our place—I couldn’t stop thinking about it as ours—I parked myself right on the couch, turned on some sort of nature documentary on Netflix, and proceeded to go to town on my whiskey. I can’t recall a single bit of info from that documentary. All I know is I woke up the next morning feeling so awful that I almost hoped I could just roll over and die.

  Come on, Scott. Do me a favor and take me with you ‘cause this is going to be the worst hangover I’ve ever had.

  Honestly, if he was looking down at me, he probably would’ve been laughing. He was always telling me I drank too much, and he’d give me a playful “I told you so” whenever I was hungover—all while still running out to the corner store to grab me some Gatorade and a bagel. And he was right because I definitely did have the tendency to imbibe a little too much from time to time even though I was only a few weeks past my nineteenth birthday. But what can I say? Losing your parents so young has a way of making you grow up fast, for better or worse.

  This time, I was going to have to be on my own getting that Gatorade and breakfast. First, I had to gather all my strength to get up off the couch and brush my teeth. My mouth felt like something had died in it so I used about ten times the toothpaste a normal person would. Once I drank a glass of water and was semi-confident that I wouldn’t throw up—miracle of all miracles—I trudged out of the house toward the local deli.

  It was an uncharacteristically hot day, Which wasn't doing much to help my hangover. Usually I loved the cool, foggy streets in the mornings in San Francisco—almost enough to get up and go for a jog, if I owned a pair of sneakers. But today, for some reason, the sun was playing a cruel joke and blazing down like it was determined to give me a sunburn, which as a fair haired, fair skinned Irish-ish woman, was a regular occurrence if I dared to go out of doors.

  I wiped the sweat off of my forehead with ladylike grace and strode down the street, inhaling deeply and trying not to feel sick. I was wearing the kind of sad sack outfit that you would probably see in central casting for “girl who's made bad life choices”: a pair of jean shorts with frayed edges, and a ratty Oakland A’s baseball shirt that was cut artistically to look stylish and that I had paid dearly for the privilege of getting pre-mangled.

  Scott and my place was in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the city, not because there was anything particularly charming about the area, but because it was an easy commute to whichever startup he went to and stood at a standing desk for 16 hours a day at. Personally, I just liked the easy access to really fancy coffee and overpriced breakfast food, especially on a day like today. Like all things in San Francisco these days, the deli was far too bougie. Gone were the days of my youth where I could grab a sandwich for a couple bucks from a little hole-in-the-wall. Now it was nothing but pretentious service and avocado toasts. Even two bagels would cost you something like 40 bucks.

  Shit, should I have brought more cash?

  Then I remembered. I only needed one bagel today.

  “Ugh!” I screamed. Which you would think would draw stares, but in San Francisco there are always people talking to themselves. I wiped sweat off my neck this time, for variety, and kept stomping. Ahead of me was the corner bodega, and in front of the bodega was a scruffy looking guy with dirty skin, patchy clothes, and raggedy hair. A junkie, in other words. San Francisco was full of them. This guy was humming a little to himself and holding
up a tattered cardboard sign with “Life Coaching, $5” written on it in scribbly, streaky Sharpie. I admit it: I was so caught off guard by the humor that I actually laughed.

  “Atta girl,” he said and smiled at me. “Hey, whatcha gonna do with your life?”

  Wish I knew. Out loud, all I said was “I'll think about it.”

  He tapped his sign. “Happy to advise.”

  For some reason the question stuck with me as I entered the bodega. What are you going to do with your life, Quinn? I asked myself. It was such a dumb question, the kind of thing that 18 year olds normally wrestle with when they're thinking about who they should take to prom, or whether they should break up with her high school boyfriend before going to college, or if they should pursue their dreams of becoming an actress. Me, I was just trying to figure out a way not to kill myself with alcohol poisoning or guilt. When I was younger, I’d wanted to be something wholesome and helpful—a veterinarian, specifically, probably since animals were always better than people. There had been a brief period where I'd wanted to be a firefighter because Scott had wanted to be a firefighter. Then I really thought about becoming an EMT as a teenager until it turned out I faint when I see blood. Plus, it also turned out I wasn't actually super good at a lot of the technical things you needed to become an EMT—or a veterinarian—like biology. Apparently, just loving puppies isn't enough qualification for the job.

  I shuffled forward in the bodega, squinting up at the trendy letterboard sign that listed the different options. Why do all these sandwiches have to have cutesy names? I wondered. I don't need a nickname, I need to know whether or not it has bacon.

  “Next!” The cashier, a girl with white-girl dreadlocks and ear expanders, waved me forward. I shuffled into place and folded my arms.

  “Yeah, can I get...I guess a California Dreamin’?” I asked, wincing as I said it. I must have stumbled into a tourist deli if there was something in here on the menu actually named after the state of California.