by Jordan Grant
“It’s nice to meet you all,” I say, digging into my salad before a waiter whisks away my empty bowl and delivers a steaming entree, choice of Cornish game hen with risotto or a vegan quinoa and sweet potato timbale.
Raven speaks first after the waiter leaves.
“I heard what happened this morning. You put Finn Berkshit in his place.” She says the mispronunciation of Berkshire’s name loudly and with a smile like she hopes the douche-canoe is listening. “I wish I had your ovaries, new money.” She frowns like she just realized what she said. “I’m sorry. No offense meant.”
“No offense taken.” I shrug. “It’s true.”
Steam rises from the Cornish game hen in front of me. I’m hungry, but I can’t quite figure out how to cut into my dinner.
Raven pushes her plate over to Vixson, who begins chowing down without hesitation.
“I can’t imagine you being afraid of much,” I say.
She shrugs. “Normally, I’m not, but I have to live with the witch, and the last time I pissed her off, she made sure Daddy thought it was me who left out the coke that killed the dog.”
I suck in a hiss of air through my teeth. There are some things in life anyone remotely decent knows to never, ever harm. Doggies rank along with babies and the elderly on that list.
I stab the chicken-like thing on my plate with a knife and pry off a piece of meat with my fork before popping it into my mouth.
Raven finishes her lemon water and steals Vixson’s.
“Aurora’s a trollop in every sense of the word,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Luckily for me, we are only bound by blood for the next seven or so decades.”
I snort, set down my fork, and try to not choke. Coughing, I reach for my glass of water and fumble it, sending the glass tipping straight over into Molly’s lap, which causes her to shriek and throw the glass she’s holding, making it rain down on our heads.
Throughout it all, Vixson continues to eat, but Raven, Jesse, and Molly laugh at the mess I’ve made, drying themselves off with their cloth napkins and, in poor Molly’s case, the tablecloth.
I am apologizing, and we are chortling. Headmistress DuMonte turns from a table on the far-side of the room and regards us with a frown. As I dry myself off with a napkin and lift my head, laughter fading from my lips, I meet Ian’s gaze from across the banquet hall.
He smiles and winks at me.
6
Harlow
I grab my copy of Beowulf and shut my locker. Students mingle in the hall, showing off their new Burkin bag or Neiman Marcus find. I am woefully unprepared for this sort of talk.
Dior? Louboutin? Jimmy Choo? That’s about as far as my luxury brand knowledge goes. I like to look at pretty dresses and fancy shoes as much as my fellow students. The difference? They can spot a knockoff a mile away, whereas I would have already forked over my wallet.
I walk down the hall into Adaptive English. The building teems with students who are having a hard time giving up the freedom of summer. Everyone avoids me like I carry the plague, which is sort of nice because they move out of my way without asking and clear a path wherever I need to go.
A short brunette girl points at me and says to her friend, “I heard she made Berkshire cry.”
I smile down at the marble tile because even though it is definitely not true, it’s nice to realize even the blue bloods aren’t immune to gossip.
I walk into class and find my desk. For a moment, I debate switching seats, but I decide to stay put, which isn’t surprising. After all, less than three months ago, I nearly got put in a psych ward before I admitted I had an anxiety problem.
I am half an hour early to class, and the room is empty. Not even Professor Edmonds has arrived yet.
Molly claimed food poisoning this morning, and although I’m pretty sure she was faking it, the school nurse took pity on her, no doubt knowing she’s been the brunt of many jokes, and wrote her off for the day.
I don’t blame Molly. She’s dealt with their shit for years. This is my first go. I still have stamina left.
I am determined to not let yesterday get me down. William never let anything ruin his day. He was the most positive person I’ve ever met.
Voclain means everything to my family. Therefore, it means everything to me, though I was never meant to come here alone. William should’ve been here beside me, his smile bringing with it the brilliance of a shining star. Tears prick at the edges of my eyes at the thought, and the darkness peeks out of the recesses of my brain, wanting to play.
I close my eyes.
One, two, three, four, blue.
I let out a shaky breath as the darkness retreats and I open my eyes. I frown down at my copy of Beowulf, the first book in our semester-long journey of translating archaic to modern English. It feels deceptively light under my fingers, but like any good book, there’s more to it than just the page count.
I bury myself in my notes, scribbling translations in the margins next to old English words. I am still on the first page when students begin to filter into class, chatting with each other and bragging about their newest caffeine creation from the campus coffee shop. For the foreseeable future, my mornings will consist of listening to my classmates debate whether their newest more-sugar-than-coffee creation could land an appearance at Starbucks.
“Duuuddddeee,” the guy two seats in front of me says, his eyes going wide as he sips his drink, “you’ve got to try this.”
“Give me,” his friend demands, bringing his thumb to his palm repeatedly like his hand is a lobster claw.
The guy forks over his drink, and his friend takes a sip before he gags and pushes it back at the guy like the cup is contagious.
“What is that?” the friend wheezes, popping the top on a pack of breath mints and shaking the open container into his mouth until they start spilling past his lips onto the floor.
The guy two seats up from me grins and puffs his chest. “One grande pure Kona coffee, two scoops of chocolate protein powder, three scoops of matcha powder, one tablespoon of ginger, two lime wedges, and one bag of earl gray tea. Perfect for the gym rats and the stay-at-home moms looking for a little antioxidant action in their morning cup of joe.”
The friend’s mouth falls open. He pops another mint for good measure.
I bite my lip to stifle my laugh. William would have brought a Route 44 cup to class and done something truly ridiculous like added all of the above and a slice of pizza for good measure.
I manage to tune out the world and resume my study of Beowulf, but I get stuck on “ofer hronrade hyran scolde,” which I think has something to do with scolding a whale—wait, that’s not right.
My fingers flip through my already dog-eared Etymological Dictionary until I find it. Scolde, the past indicative form of the verb sculan, means must or shall.
The whale must... The whale must? Crap.
As I wallow in my misery, a book drops next to my feet with a thud.
“Pick it up,” a voice growls, its owner pressing his palms flat against my desk.
The chatter inside the room stops, everything going quiet as I look up to see Ian freakin’ Beckett staring down at me. His words repeat inside my head like the stylus of a record player skipping over a disc.
She is mine. She is mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
His gaze is like molten silver, heated by an invisible furnace. I blink up at him, letting a mask of boredom fall over my features, though I have to clench my fists to stop the tremble in my hands. My heart stutters out of control, the rhythm erratic.
I am going to develop an arrhythmia because of this a-hole.
I must be certifiable to question him. Molly said he practically owns the Academy. I must have a death wish, but the word tumbles from my mouth nevertheless.
“Sorry?” I ask, sounding positively unapologetic.
Ian’s gaze narrows. He knows I damn well heard him. “Did I stutter, Stormy?”
“My name is Harlow.”
“No.” He
shakes his head as if I’m just not getting it and he’s losing patience.
He leans in so close that the peppermint lingering on his breath stings my nostrils. “Your eyes are the color of the sky before the hurricane hits. Your hair is as white as lightening, except for this,” he tugs on the black lock near my temple, “which is like the ashes left behind after the strike.”
His words might be beautiful if they didn’t come out of his wicked mouth.
“Isn’t that the name of a prostitute?” I frown at him, tilting my head like a confused puppy. “May I choose the prize behind door number two, Bob Barker?”
Someone snickers.
His smile spreads like a pour of honey over his face. He leans over, his gaze latched on my black lock of hair, which he seems obsessed with.
“I don’t give a shit who else claims that name, Stormy,” he says, his gaze flicking back to mine, “because you fucking own it.”
I roll my eyes. I don’t want him to know how his proximity has caused the butterflies that sleep low in my belly to awake from their slumber.
“Ian whatever-your-middle-name-is Beckett,” I say loudly, “you are the human equivalent of cheese pizza.”
He smirks, his response instantaneous. “Hot and delicious?”
“Disappointing.”
The class titters, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s still smirking.
He leans back down, crowding me, and purrs his next words so low only I can hear. “I want to fuck you until I die so the last thing I know is your arms.”
My eyes go wide.
What. The. Hell.
I blink up at him. He’s so close, and I’m lost in clouds of cardamom and fresh cut pine. I shake the fuzziness from my brain and plummet back to earth as my firecracker mouth crackles to life.
“Do you have a fetish for fender benders?” I snap.
“No.”
“Then stop with the Jekyll and Hyde act,” I hiss. “You’re giving me whiplash.”
He smiles. His hot breath heats the shell of my ear as I turn away from him. I can’t bear to look at his stupid, beautiful face.
“Oh, Stormy, you’re welcome to slam into me anytime, though preferably sans car.” His lips brush against me as he adds, “I’m going to give you three more seconds to pick up that book. If you don’t, I’m going to taste those smart-ass lips of yours in front of the whole class.”
My gaze snaps to him. He looks like he just might do it, and the thought sends me into a tailspin. My pulse hears the battle cry of impending war and beats its drum louder.
“One,” he says, arching a cocky eyebrow. He cannot kiss me. He cannot kiss me! “Two...”
HE CANNOT...
“Thr—”
I scramble, knocking him away as my head spears his gut. I grab the book from the floor and slam it against his chest. He winks at me before taking his seat.
I’m going to fail this fucking class.
— Ian —
“Beckett!” Coach calls. Fuck me. “Get your head in the game, or it’s double-time for the next two weeks.”
“Goddamn it, man,” Archie whines as the team grumbles around us. “Ivy will have my balls if we gotta’ do doubles. Where the fuck are you today?”
I don’t answer him. I’m thinking about her. I’m lost inside in a Storm...I wish.
I flash him my best here’s-Johnny smile, and he winces like I’ve just stabbed him. He says my smiles, and I quote, “freak him the fuck out” because, and again I quote, “you look like you are wearing someone else’s skin.”
Whatever. He’s the only one who complains, probably because he sees through my bullshit.
Well...and her. I’m pretty sure if Stormy shined a flashlight at me, she’d see something neither one of us would be comfortable with.
Anders slams the ball into my gut a little too hard, and a rush of air bursts through my lips. I crack my neck to the side and make a mental note to get him back later.
“Line up!” Coach calls.
We take our positions, Everett in front of me, to my left, just like it has been since we were toddlers. Archie is off to my right, a pristine running back, protected by the best damn wide receiver you’ve ever seen, Chase.
Rainey, Anders, Davenport, and Bones. Wimbley, Tinsor, and Patton make up the remainder, each a necessary part of our kickass offensive lineup.
“757 pump f-stop on three,” I call, and then I repeat it even though everyone is already in position because I am a lazy bastard. “Ready on three! One! Two! Hut!”
Sweat stings my eyes as Davenport hands me the ball. I run backward, my teammates grunting and grumbling as they collide. We’ve been at it for hours.
“Becky!” Archie shouts, waving his hands furiously.
I smile despite my bad mood. Fucker’s gonna’ pay for that one later. Not to mention he’s completely ignoring the play I called, but that’s probably a good thing since my fullback is currently on the ground, groaning, and cupping his balls.
I throw the football, which sails through the air in a perfect arch. It’s a good throw, but I’ve probably pushed Archie a little too hard for practice.
Archie’s feet pound the field, and although Victor “Vic” Rothschild could totally tackle me right now—if I didn’t punch him first—he doesn’t because we are all watching Archie, the beautiful, golden-haired running back he is, go for it, Coach included.
It’s like pouring a coke and watching the bubbles fizz up to the very edge of the glass and stay there. It’s like biting into a Hershey’s bar and having it break at the seam. Watching him run is goddamn, unadulterated perfection.
The ball falls in a fast but gentle arch, and Archie stretches, his hands flexing as he reaches for it.
I hold my breath as he jumps, his feet launching into the air just as he hits the white goal line.
Just a little more. Just a little...
He catches it with one hand and swings his other around to clamp it tightly.
He tumbles forward, stumbling but still standing.
Coach claps, and the whole team, me included, cheers.
7
Harlow
My gaze flicks to the clock on the wall above the dry erase board as I tap my pencil against my notebook. I need to go back to my dorm and begin on the mountain of homework looming over my head.
I’m quickly realizing Voclain isn’t just a high school for rich kids. The Academy takes its studies seriously and that includes making sure its pupils spend as much time out of class studying as they do in class taking notes.
My Organic Chemistry professor, Mr. Collins, stares out at the class. His glasses make his eyes look bulbous and enormous, and they don’t do any favors for his nose, long and hooked like a bird’s beak. Hair dusts the top of his otherwise bald head like a ruffle of feathers. He gives an I-don’t-take-shit vibe, and I’m pretty sure it’s against school policy to even laugh in his presence.
I should love this class. Science has always been my favorite subject. It makes sense when other things in life can be tricky. Yesterday though, Mr. Collins managed to make Lewis dot structures boring. By the looks of it, today won’t be much better.
Mr. Collins examines the roster in his hands, not that he needs to look at it. I am pretty sure he’s taught everyone before, just not me.
“Miss Hawthorne,” he says, “switch seats with Mr. Diode.”
“But why?” Blythe whines, her voice raking over me like nails on a chalkboard. I recognize her. She’s always hanging out with Aurora.
“If you wish to pass my class,” Mr. Collins snaps, “you should sit with your lab partner.”
She huffs, and I am glad she’s not partnered with me. Maybe I’ll get lucky and get partnered with Raven, but as Mr. Collins continues to read names, I realize I am not so fortunate.
He is barely halfway done when he says, “Miss Weathersby, join Mr. Blakely at the table in the back.”
Damn it.
I know his name from Molly’s explanation on
my first day of school, but I know his face from seeing him in the hallways with Ian. He is friends with my enemy, which makes him my enemy.
I rise from my stool reluctantly as though I am a piece of tape trying to unstick itself. I hurry the pace when Mr. Collins glances over at me, his spectacles resting on the end of his nose.
As Mr. Collins continues to read names, I take a seat next to the boy called Archie. Boy isn’t really the right word for him though, given he looks like he sprung to life from a textbook on Norse mythology. He has to be a junior like me, like all of the students in our class. All the classes here are divided by grade.
To my surprise, the boy offers his hand.
“Archie,” he says, his voice rolling over me like a slow tide. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting, and trust me, I would remember.”
He winks at me, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. He can’t be serious. This has got to be a mind game.
“Arnie,” I say, accepting his handshake, “it’s nice to meet you.”
“Archie,” he repeats.
“Artie,” I say, shaking his hand as I nod my head.
“Archie,” he says. “A. R. C. H. I. E.”
His eyes don’t narrow in annoyance. Instead, they spark with delight when I say, “Ohhh, Ardie.”
He smiles, and I suddenly regret ever stepping foot on the game board because his smile is devastating.
It’s like looking at the sun and being unable to blink.
It’s like watching a vase topple and holding your breath as it plummets to the floor.
It’s beauty and exhilaration and danger rolled into one.
I release his hand abruptly as Mr. Collins argues with a kid in the back of the room and threatens a demerit.
Archie leans in as if he’s whispering a secret, and I think it actually might be, given the way his eyes dart to Blythe, who is studying her phone under the table.
