The Freshman (Kingmakers)

by Sophie Lark

  I wish we could all put the whole thing behind us. We’re talking about a twenty-year old feud where nobody has clean hands.

  Leo enjoys conflict and competition. I just want to be left alone to get my work done in peace.

  I’m not sure what Dean wants. I haven’t seen him picking fights and causing trouble as much as his roommate, but he certainly surrounds himself with bullies and assholes. And he looks like he wants to kill someone almost all the time. I don’t think he’s smiled once since we got here.

  Not that I’d usually judge someone over that. I’m not too free with the smiles, either.

  Today we’re learning about offshore accounts.

  Professor Graves is up at the blackboard going on about shell corporations. He’s the same professor who was hollering at Miles on the first day of classes, (rightfully so), but luckily he hasn’t seemed to remember that I was present for the theft of his very last pen. Or at least he hasn’t been any ruder to me than to anyone else in our class.

  I’m taking notes by hand, filling my fourth notebook of the semester. I write down most of what the professor says, but I also like to draw my own diagrams. Right now I’m making a diagram of tax havens, shaped like Russian nesting dolls. Even though it’s not really necessary, I’m decorating each of the dolls with a little headscarf and a floral-patterned apron.

  “Non-profit entities can be useful as an extra layer of insulation,” the professor says. “A private foundation can then own a corporation, adding another diversion to your tax-evasion schematic.”

  We’re up on the third floor of the Keep, which means the sky outside the window is full of large, heavy clouds steering through the wind like barges on water. No sunshine today—just a slate gray sky and those clouds, dark on their underbellies with unshed rain. The air is fresh with geosmin.

  I draw rain clouds over my nesting dolls.

  “For this assignment, I’ll be splitting you into pairs,” the professor says.

  I look up sharply. I wasn’t paying attention to the details of the assignment, and he hasn’t written them on the blackboard.

  “Wilson and Paulie,” the professor says, looking around the room. “Kyrie and Nelson. Anna and Dean.”

  My stomach clenches up. I throw an involuntary glance in Dean’s direction.

  He looks just as annoyed as I am. But he doesn’t hesitate in scooping up his books and coming to join me at my table.

  “Which part of the assignment do you want to do?” he demands, as soon as he sits down.

  “Well . . . I . . .”

  I haven’t thought it over, because I wasn’t listening.

  Dean looks at my open notebook, at the nesting dolls and the rainclouds. He scowls.

  “Do you even know what we’re doing?” he says in his cold, disdainful voice.

  “Yes,” I lie. “Don’t forget, I’ve got the best grade in this class.”

  Only as of last week, because I beat Dean on our most recent exam by a measly two points.

  I can almost hear Dean’s teeth grinding together behind his full bottom lip.

  The softness of Dean’s features does not at all match his personality. The white-blond hair, the fine pale skin, his long lashes, and his pouting mouth are completely at odds with his constant sneer and his body, which looks carved out of marble.

  I bet he hates being pretty.

  I can sort of identify with that—I don’t look on the outside how I feel on the inside.

  I look like I should be sweet and delicate. But I’m a killer to the core.

  For that reason, I would never underestimate Dean.

  “You won’t beat me at anything by end of term,” he says.

  I shrug. “I guess we’ll see. We’ll both be getting the same grade on this project, so you might as well tell me how you want to divvy it up.”

  Dean lets out a slow exhalation of annoyance, and then he explains the assignment to me over again, each of us marking down the parts we intend to handle.

  “It’s an analysis of Caribbean versus Swiss banks,” he says. “We’ll have to present it together, so we can’t do all the work separately.”

  “That’s fine,” I say. “We can get the books out of the library after class.”

  It’s strange sitting side by side with Dean as the professor finishes the lecture. I haven’t been this close to him since we collided in the changing room. I can smell the soap on his skin and the remnants of fresh shampoo in his hair, just like I did then. It brings our first meeting back to me vividly, and I keep my eyes rigidly fixed on the blackboard, hoping he doesn’t notice the color in my cheeks. I don’t know why I still feel embarrassed about that—it’s not like me to hold onto some silly, insignificant mistake.

  When the professor dismisses us, Dean snatches up his books again and starts walking in the direction of the library without checking to see if I’m following him.

  I sling my bag over my shoulder, taking long strides to catch up with him.

  Dean hears my boots hitting the flagstone floor, and he glances down at my feet.

  “Did you draw all that too?” he says, nodding down at my Docs.

  I doodled all over them with white pen. Moons, stars, dragons, vines, rivers, flowers, and birds.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Drawing and dancing,” Dean says. “Maybe you should have gone to art school.”

  “I’m right where I want to be,” I tell him coldly. “I’m an Heir. Isn’t your father a bookkeeper?”

  If looks could kill, I’d shrivel and die on the spot from the look of loathing Dean throws at me.

  “It doesn’t matter what my father is,” he spits back at me. “I’ll be Pakhan because I’ll earn it myself.”

  Ha. Nice to know I can get under Dean’s skin when I want to.

  It’s a long walk to the library located in the tallest tower on the northwest corner of campus. The bookshelves form a vast upward spiral, like in the lighthouse of Alexandria. The books are mostly organized by topic, but when you can’t find something, you can always ask Ms. Robin, the librarian.

  She’s shy and quiet, but quite beautiful behind her thick glasses. She’s got auburn hair and dark eyes. She’s probably in her forties, though she dresses like an old cat lady.

  I’m curious how she came to work at Kingmakers. Virtually all the professors were mafiosos themselves, but she obviously wasn’t—she’s so timid that she almost jumps out of her skin if you close a book too hard. She must be somebody’s daughter or niece.

  She probably likes working here, because Kingmakers is so isolated, and the library is quiet and peaceful. Besides, it’s a dream for anyone who likes reading, which Ms. Robin clearly does. Every time I come here she has her nose buried in a book, or a bunch of papers and charts spread out at her desk.

  I don’t have to ask her where the banking section is, since I’ve come looking for materials for this class plenty of times before. Dean and I scour the shelves, finding a half-dozen books that should help us.

  Dean hauls them down—a mix of modern publications and a few old tomes thicker than a phone book.

  He gets distracted when he sees an old copy of Blood Meridian already laying butterflied on our reading table.

  He picks up the book, flipping through the first few pages, his face betraying his interest.

  “Have you read that one before?” I ask him.

  Dean startles, like he forgot I was standing there. He drops the novel back down on the table like I caught him looking at porn.

  “Yeah,” he admits. “I’ve read it.”

  Interesting.

  I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—after all, Dean is one of the top students in our year. He obviously isn’t stupid. I just didn’t picture him as someone who read novels for fun.

  “Was it for school?” I ask him.

  He frowns at me. “No,” he says. “It wasn’t for school.”

  “Just curious,” I say. “Cormac McCarthy is one of my favorite authors.”

>   His lips tighten, and for a moment I think he’s going to say something rude. Or, at the very least, tell me we should focus on our project. Instead, he says, “I liked No Country for Old Men better.”

  “Have you seen the movie?” I ask him. “It’s one of the best adaptations I’ve seen—maybe even better than the book.”

  “The movie’s never better than the book,” Dean scoffs.

  “It can be,” I counter, listing off the best examples on my fingers. “Fight Club, Gone Girl, The Silence of the Lambs, Jaws . . .”

  Dean stares at me. It’s odd looking at his face this close. His eyes are the exact same color as Aunt Yelena’s. It’s a shade of blue I’ve never seen on anyone else. Like the irises that grow in the walled garden at my parents’ house.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Dean says unexpectedly.

  My mouth falls open. Of course I thought I was right all along. But I didn’t expect him to admit it.

  We sit down next to each other at the ancient, heavily-scarred library table. It might be strange for some of the students to live in a place where every stone, every sconce, every piece of furniture is centuries older than they are. For me, it just reminds me of home.

  I like objects with history. I like to think who sat at this table before me, and who might sit here in ten or twenty or a hundred years. This library is full of the discoveries of thousands of people. That’s the strength of humans. We can collaborate. We can share. A thousand of us together are infinitely stronger than any one person can be.

  Assuming we can get along.

  Dean opens up his notebook and starts telling me what we’re going to do for the assignment.

  “Hey,” I interrupt him. “You’re not in charge.”

  “And you think you are?”

  “It’s a partnership,” I say. “Ever heard of it?”

  “No,” Dean says seriously. “I’ve always found that there has to be a leader. One person at the top. It’s usually best if that person is me.”

  “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, all the Heirs feel that way.”

  Dean raises an eyebrow. “There’s wanting to be the man. And then there’s actually being the fuckin’ man.”

  “I prefer to be the fuckin’ woman,” I say.

  Dean laughs. It’s not a mocking laugh. Actually, it’s pretty genuine. “Oh yeah?” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe I would, too. If I looked like you.”

  He’s already turned back to the stack of books in front of him, but I’m turning that particular comment over in my brain.

  Was that a compliment?

  Impossible to say, because Dean goes right back to being cold, stiff, and business-like as we work our way through the reading materials for the next hour, muddling through the comparison of banking systems, taking plenty of notes by hand.

  Contrary to what he said, Dean actually does cooperate pretty well once we’re in the swing of it. He’s clever, detail-oriented, and organized. We only argue once over whether we should weigh the historical benefits of each banking system or focus on their current strengths and weaknesses.

  By dinner time, the frosty tension between us has melted enough that Dean says, “Can I ask you something?”

  “What?” I say warily.

  “Why do you paint your face like that?”

  It’s a question I hate, and it immediately makes me lose whatever charitable feelings I was developing over our successful cooperation.

  I scowl at him. “Because I like it,” I say.

  “What does it mean, though?”

  He’s looking at me, genuinely curious. Not trying to give me shit or preparing to make some dumb fucking joke about it.

  “You want the real answer?” I say.

  “Yes,” Dean says. “Or I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Clothes, hair, makeup . . . it’s all part of your personal brand. What represents you. How you want other people to perceive you.”

  “So you want to be perceived as . . . dark and scary?” Dean says.

  “No. It’s more about how I don’t want to be perceived. I don’t want people to see me as someone who seeks approval or belonging. I don’t want to be a part of trends or styles. And I don’t want to look like I’m trying to attract anyone.”

  “You don’t want to attract anyone?” Dean says, disbelieving.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s no one I want to attract. I don’t like dating.”

  Dean gives me an inscrutable look. I expect him to ask if Leo and I are dating. Or maybe to ask if I like hooking up. That’s usually the next line of questioning—“If you don’t want to date, do you at least want to fuck?”

  Instead, he says, “I know what you do like.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  “You like dancing.”

  “No big mystery—you saw me practicing.”

  “I know you practice every day. In the cathedral.”

  I can feel my cheeks getting hot. I wish they didn’t do that—I can keep the rest of my face still and expressionless when I want to. But I can never stop that damn pink flush spreading across my face.

  “How do you know that?” I say stiffly.

  “You’re not the only one who can’t sleep. I wander all over this place.”

  It makes me feel strange knowing that Dean is walking around the grounds in the middle of the night just like I am, when most everyone else is asleep.

  To change the subject I say, “My mother’s a dancer.”

  “She taught you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must be close,” Dean says.

  Now I see something in his face that I don’t think he would want me to see. Pain. And envy.

  “She loves me,” I say. “But we’re not close. Not as close as we should be. I’m not like her. I couldn’t be, even if I wanted.”

  I don’t know why I told him that. Habits of honesty, I guess. I’m too used to spending time with Leo, where I say exactly what I think and feel all the time, never holding back. Well, almost everything.

  “Why would you want to be like your parents?” Dean says, his face darkening. “I hate when I—”

  He breaks off abruptly, biting back the rest of his words.

  I wish he would finish. I very much want to know what the end of that sentence would have been.

  Instead, he shoves back from the table, closing his notebook and stuffing it back in his bag.

  “I’m hungry,” he says. “That’s enough for today.”

  Without waiting for me to respond, he swings his bag over his shoulder and stalks out of the library.

  I stay exactly where I am, thinking over the dozen different things he might have been about to say.

  I don’t think Dean stopped talking because he didn’t want me to hear it. I think he stopped because he surprised himself with what almost came out of his mouth.

  I can’t be sure—but it seems most likely that he was about to say, I hate when I’m like my father.

  10

  Leo

  Anna and I are hiking on the east side of the island. It’s Saturday, which means we have no classes and plenty of time to explore. On the weekends everyone takes the chance to get off campus, to go visit the little village down by the harbor or to wander around the fields, farms, vineyards, and beaches.

  The village doesn’t have much to interest anyone—or at least it wouldn’t if there were other options for entertainment. But any change of place seems exciting on the island. So Anna, Ares, and I often walk down to have coffee and scones in the little cafe on the harbor’s edge, or to eat freshly-battered fish and chips at the even smaller restaurant that serves only the one dish.

  I’ll admit, it’s the best damn fish and chips I’ve ever eaten, with bass caught the same morning, still cold from the ocean when they throw it in the fryer. That’s the only way I enjoy seafood: battered, fried, and disguised.

  I’m thinking we should
get some as soon as we’re done hiking. It takes a lot of calories to move this giant body around, and I’m fucking starving.

  Anna likes to hike the cliffs right above the bay. They’re not quite as steep as the cliffs directly below Kingmakers, but there’s plenty of parts on the trail where the path becomes so sheer that you have to climb up the rock hand over hand.

  I can see Anna ten feet above me, hauling herself up the white rock, nimble as a mountain goat. She always hikes like she’s in a race, trying to power through it as quickly as she can. I’m faster than Anna and stronger, but she’s got a fucking engine. She never seems to tire, or at least she’d never let me see it.

  I can feel myself grinning as I climb a little faster, trying to catch up with her.

  We wore hoodies when we left early this morning, because the sky was overcast, and the wind was chilly. Now the sun has come out and I’m sweating from the climb.

  As I get closer to Anna, her foot slips out from under her. I catch her heel neatly in my hand, pushing her sneakered foot up again so she can regain her position.

  “Saved you,” I say.

  Anna looks down at me, tossing her long blonde ponytail back over her shoulder.

  “I wasn’t going to fall,” she says scornfully.

  “Of course not,” I say. “ ‘Cause I was right here to save you.”

  She makes a disdainful sound and climbs even faster. I can see she’s smiling, though. I can always make Anna smile, whether she wants to or not.

  When we reach the very top of the cliff, Anna sits down on the shelf of rock overhanging the ocean. This is the goal, the reward for the climb. One of the prettiest views on the island. You can see the fishing boats out on the water, and the waves hitting the rock at the base of the cliff, churning up thick white foam. Down to our left, the half-moon-shaped village clustered around the harbor, each of the buildings perfect and uniform in miniature, like a model set.

  Anna looks out over the water, her pale blue eyes keen and intent. I want to know what she’s thinking. I always want to know all the thoughts whirring away inside her head. I know there’s always something fascinating on her mind—she’s never just spacing out, dreaming of nothing. Anna is brilliant. One of the only people who continually says things I’ve never even considered before.