Salt

by Mara White

  “There’s no equestrian program, Dad. I looked through the pamphlet already.” The mood was somber. Her mood was somber. Her father had hired a driver because he wasn’t as internationally minded as he wanted everyone to think. Driving in a foreign city tripped up the control freak in him enough to bypass the opportunity to drive an exclusively European-made Audi. Her mother had faked a headache and backed out of the tour. Salana had seen so many schools in three days that she wished they’d just pick one—any one at this point—and pack her the fuck off. The only thing she cared about was whether or not she could ride horses. They’d been to Bern, Liechtenstein, and Geneva, seen some of the most elite college preparatory schools in the world. But Salana couldn’t shake the feeling that they were just trying to get rid of her, like she’d already disappointed them in her sixteen years of life and they couldn’t even wait two more to see her out the door.

  She reached down and brushed croissant crumbs off of her navy cashmere sweater. Her mother had snatched the second one out of her hand and tossed it back in the basket. Her stomach growled and she wondered how far away lunch was. White pants were awful. So were pearls. Why did she ever listen to her mother? Knowing her luck, her period would come and surprise her early, either that or she’d sit in yellow mustard.

  “Fifty different nationalities and nearly twenty different languages spoken. They make up for the lack of horses with what they have in skiing.”

  “I don’t ski, Dad. I don’t even really like the cold.”

  “You’ll learn to love it. Besides, it’s a sign of good pedigree. Skiing in Bern or Geneva, you’ll meet the right people.”

  Salana stared out the window at the beautiful scenery rolling past and imagined gagging at her father’s words, sticking her fingers down her throat. He didn’t care if people were assholes, as long as they were the right assholes. Sometimes she felt like no matter what she did, she would never be enough. Their expectations were a ball and chain that perpetually weighed her down. She was just a kid who liked horses, not an international superstar, which is what it seemed like they wanted.

  They pulled up at the school in Leysin, to what looked to Salana like a luxurious hotel from a bygone era. There was something romantic about the setting that appealed to her sense of sacrifice. She’d dedicate herself to her studies, give up the comforts of home, her horses, her friends, and even, in a way, her life of luxury. The opportunity to study abroad and receive the education she would was of course a privilege that many couldn’t ever dream of, but it still felt like a sacrifice. She could appreciate it, make the best of her situation. It could be a new beginning where she would untether herself from all previous impressions and create a new Salana if she wanted to.

  She inhaled the clean air as they got out of the car.

  “Something about this one feels right, Dad.”

  “Salana, dear, we haven’t even made it inside.”

  The headmistress was younger than she would have expected. Ms. Voight dressed more casually than they did at some of the other preparatory schools, where the uniform seemed to hold utmost importance to the image and discipline of the institution. At ISS, people dressed for the weather and it was refreshing. Ms. Voight had on beige pants with no crease and a green wool sweater that looked handmade. No jewelry, simple wire frames and a genderless haircut. She made Salana feel welcome, which immediately warmed her to both the school and the woman. She couldn’t help but wonder if it did the opposite to her father, who liked it when her mother dressed for him. He thought the word feminine was a good descriptor for clothing. Salana liked sweat pants and leggings with her riding boots, sweatshirts where the cuffs hung over her hands and she had to roll them up.

  No clacking heels down the hallway—Ms. Voight wore wool slippers. Her father frowned and she smiled. The classrooms were full of natural light and the students huddled in groups, working, instead of the usual teacher controlling the room from the front of the classroom. But ultimately, it was the private quarters that sold her. A balcony with a view of the mountains where she could drink her tea in the morning or even study if she wanted to.

  “I think this is the one, Dad.”

  “We’ll see what the test scores and rankings show.”

  Salana tried to tune them out as they sat in Ms. Voight’s office discussing the tuition. Almost a hundred thousand dollars a year for tuition seemed like a lot, even to Salana, who was used to having her parents drop large sums of money on her education and extracurricular activities. She knew the stables weren’t cheap and neither were the horses she rode.

  The door clicked behind them and both Salana and her father turned around. Ms. Voight smiled at the young man who strode into the room exuding great confidence.

  “Mr. Lawrence, this is Salana Livingston, from the United States. Would you show her the common area and the dining hall while I discuss technicalities with her father?”

  “Delighted,” he said, handing Ms. Voight a yellow envelope. Salana wasn’t quite sure if he worked there or he was a student. “Right this way,” he said, holding the door open. Salana stood, waiting for approval from her father. He brushed her off and she practically leaped out the door into the freedom of the hall. She ran her palms down her lower back and over her butt, hating the white pants and feeling like a goddamned strobe light in a dark forest.

  “What part of the States are you from? Sal... what was your name again?”

  “You can call me Salt.” She didn’t even know where that came from. The guy was definitely a student, she could tell by the way he walked down the hall, made eye contact with other students and low-fived a kid coming in from outside decked out in full ski equipment. “I’m from Connecticut.”

  “That’s right. Meals are in here. Menus and serving times are always posted outside on the bulletin, but you can get that information from the website anytime you want to.”

  Mr. Lawrence had an interesting accent, definitely not American. But he spoke English with a fluency that made Salana embarrassed about her high school French which she was mortified to speak in public.

  “Do you like to party, uh, Salt?” He looked at her a bit suggestively. Mr. Lawrence was devilishly handsome. Shockingly perfect teeth and shining blue eyes, curly hair that was long enough on top to give a hint of prep school rebellion.

  “What’s your name? I feel weird calling you Mister.” She did like to party but she wasn’t about to let this guy create her reputation before she’d even been accepted.

  “Julian,” he said. His voice was crisp and clear.

  “I ride horses. Pretty seriously, and my parents are strict. So, no, not really. I’m coming here to study, not to party and disappoint them.”

  “Hmm, you ride?” he said, looking her up and down with an air that felt like assessment. The comment somehow made Salana feel like she’d said something perverse about horses. Rich, handsome and smart, in her experience, wasn’t a good combination. Dangerous: she labeled Julian Lawrence in her head. Entitled. Probably wicked smart and used to getting whatever he wanted.

  He held the door to the library open for her. When she stepped past him, she accidentally experienced his expensive cologne, the warmth from his body. It overwhelmed her senses and made her feel acutely homesick even when she had yet to be accepted or even start the semester. Because after her parents left, she wouldn’t know anyone in Europe.

  “The stacks are good.” He raised an eyebrow. Salana knew what went on the stacks. She wasn’t a complete novice. “Research, a quiet place to, you know… study.”

  “Right,” she said and smiled at him nervously. “Where are you from, Julian? Or is this your home?”

  “My mother is Swiss, my father is British. We live in Bern. I’ve spent summers in the States though. We have a house in Newport.”

  Salana couldn’t figure out what was making her feel so needy, like she wanted to plop down in one of the quiet armchairs and have him read her a story, snuggle and tell her she’d be happy here. Give her hot
cocoa and a sweater and slippers like Ms. Voight.

  “Pam, Karl, this is Salana. She’s a candidate for the senior class?” He presumptuously placed his hands between her shoulder blades. She liked it even if she didn’t want to; the gesture made her feel like less of an outsider. The girl was Korean, the guy, maybe Swiss, but everyone spoke perfect English and they welcomed her genuinely.

  “I’m a junior.”

  They stood silently looking out the window at the view of the incredible grounds. Snow fell softly on the rolling hills, the background framed with real snowcapped mountains. Julian’s hand dropped from her shoulder to the small of her back and without processing the message she was sending, Salana let him touch her in this overly familiar manner even though they’d just met.

  “Do you ski?” she asked him. Stupidest question in the universe.

  “Of course.”

  “Sail?”

  “Sure, why?”

  “Do you ride?”

  “That can be arranged.”

  Settled. This was Salana’s school of choice.

  Chapter 6

  Tiago

  Life wasn’t easy. It was a fucking grind. He was so used to selling drugs that sometimes he let his guard down to the extent of inviting danger into his life. He cut coke at Chico’s kitchen table with him and his old lady. He could smell Chico’s armpit, they were sweating like pigs, but having the fan on fucked up their project. They weren’t cooking rock, that was too time-consuming, even though ultimately it would probably bring them more money. Tiago wanted to unload on petty dealers and make his money quick. He didn’t like preying on the poor either, he was more like Robin Hood minus the fucking tights. Let the suits and Beamers make him rich, not his own people.

  “You fucking stink, dude. Heard of a shower? Don’t sit so close to me.”

  “Reyna, Tiago’s on his period. Get him a beer, would you?”

  Tiago didn’t like to drink while he worked. He only ever tried his drugs to make sure they were quality and he wasn’t getting ripped off. He didn’t do drugs recreationally—the numbers were too important. Maybe if he’d stayed in school he could have worked as an accountant or for a bank in the finance sector. Tiago never got his numbers wrong and everyone knew it—suppliers, dealers, friends, all knew he could figure the facts in seconds without a calculator. It wasn’t much, but it was a skill. So was not getting addicted. So was not getting caught like his dad did.

  “Thanks, Reyna,” Tiago said. He gave her his best smile. He liked to be sweet with Chico’s girlfriend just to piss off his friend. Chico looked up and showed him his teeth. He was all pudge and false confidence, bark and no bite. Chico was about as badass as a lop-eared bunny rabbit, but he liked to act tough. Santiago held all the connections, he was the one who went to pick-ups in the South Bronx at El Ciego’s. A crazy motherfucker who dealt with some of the purest shit around, but whose massive pit bulls and the bullet holes in the drywall warned you not to fuck around. Chico would have peed his pants on El Ciego’s couch. But Tiago met him when he was only twelve. El Ciego had known his father and wasn’t averse to doing a friendly favor, becoming a mentor of sorts. Tiago was just grateful that the man was on his side; he couldn’t say no to the offer unless he wanted to end up dismembered in a suitcase floating in the East River. He agreed to be sculpted by a madman who ruined lives for a living. It wasn’t like there were other options on the table. Tiago had seen up close what El Ciego was capable of. Knocked-out teeth, bashed-in heads, boot to the throat for a simple corner swindle.

  He stuck his finger into the tiny mountain of snow on the scale. Rubbed the residue on his gums. Chico followed suit and Tiago slapped away his hand.

  “Watch it, bro. I’m just checking for dirt. We’re not getting fucked up. I want this batch out of your kitchen tonight and none of it left tomorrow morning.”

  “Such a tightwad, Tiago, I oughta go work for someone else.”

  “Try it,” he said to his friend with a smirk. Chico had a soft face and an even softer gut. He looked like an overgrown toddler in his wife beater and gold cross. Tiago sometimes called him caradura ‘cause he was the biggest baby face on the block. Chico rubbed powder on his gums again, ignoring Tiago’s warning. He relit the joint in the ashtray and took a pull, handed it to his old lady.

  A bald lightbulb hung down on an extension cord they’d rigged to lower it closer to the table. Santiago liked precision, even though the bright light cast a depressing hue on their enterprise. Yellow light, cheap linoleum, shitty cabinetry and appliances. But the neighborhood was changing—move out and they’d demolish the seven-hundred-square-foot apartment in an eye blink. Throw in some stainless steel, repaint, upgrade to the next level above cheapest shit available. Chico and Reyna would be outpriced in an instant and Tiago and his grandmother already had been. Sometimes he liked to fantasize about buying her a house in the country, maybe upstate New York or Westchester, some ritzy place with big houses and long green yards with nothing in them but tulips, an old tree with a swing, maybe even a swimming pool out back with something to grill on. Ma on a rocking chair sipping iced tea in the breeze. Himself with a legit job, paycheck arriving in the mailbox. He was feeling the coke, his mind running with the idea and his blood pumping enough confidence to make him believe he could obtain it. Sweat ran down his arm and he wiped it on his jeans, not wanting to contaminate the coke he had to turn into cash.

  What about real money, like Salt and her people? Country club, Rolls Royce, private jet, who knew what the fuck they had?

  He took a long drink of an ice-cold beer, the bottle covered in condensation. It was a joke to imagine that he could ever get there, but he savored the full-blown fantasy the drugs gave him.

  They cleaned up after everything was weighed and bagged. Reyna put down plates of rice and beans, pork chops and plátanos to fill the table.

  “We’d make more if we cooked rock, Tiago. Just saying,” his baby-faced friend muttered through a mouthful.

  “Shut the fuck up and eat.” He didn’t want to sell drugs to the poor, they already had enough problems. He’d sell to the suits because at least their kids wouldn’t go starving to feed a drug habit, there’d be enough left over for food and clothes. Not like it had been for him. He was crashing. No more butlers or flashy cars, swimming pools or white picket fences. Tiago was once again hunched over an unevenly-footed kitchen table with a block of wood shoved under one leg to keep it from rocking. Sitting on a torn pleather chair with the polyester filling exploding out of the gash like fluffy popcorn. No air conditioning, just an old-ass window fan that seemed to suck in hot city air from outside and blow car exhaust all over them. But even it wasn’t on—couldn’t risk it with the stash. He needed a shower. He needed a reason besides just keeping on and so far he hadn’t found it. At least the rice and beans were killer and the beer went down cold.

  SALANA

  There were fewer than two hundred students in her entire school, all of them the crème de la crème skimmed off the upper echelons of society from countries all over the world. The children of diplomats, financiers, and private equity firms. Families that had held great wealth for centuries along with noble titles that they shared with streets, towns, and libraries. By comparison, her experience was tame to deprived. Her parents owned no yacht, no offshore accounts, they didn’t fly in private jets or attend fashion week in Milan. Salana was expected to grow up and get a job, make a real contribution to society and not ride the coattails of a husband or live off of her inheritance. And luckily, at the school in Leysin, they expected all students to learn and excel; it was by no means a free pass or an academic bedpost notch on the way to the right university. The school’s expectations and pressure were rigorous and real. She learned to navigate a heavy curriculum along with a busy social schedule. Rich kids knew how to party and to stay afloat; Salana had to make room in her academics for keeping up with the Joneses. And the Lawrences, mainly one domineering, whip smart, and never-take-no-for-an-answer J
ulian. He pursued her, and the more she tried to push him away, the more he insisted. He paid her way on trips to Bern and Geneva and even to a concert in Paris that four of them escaped to for the weekend. All of his older siblings had studied at ISS and Julian was the baby of five, four brothers and one sister. Salana had even taken a three-day weekend to meet his family. He lived in a castle, in a literal castle with turrets and gilded furniture. His parents were nice, pathologically nice, especially his mother.

  “Salana, Julian tells me you ride horses in America!” They were having tea in a sitting room, in one of what appeared to be a dozen sitting rooms in Castle Lawrence. Salana stared out a large window that looked onto an endless sea of perfect grass, the border marked by topiaries and a stone wall, just tall enough to give her reason to panic. His mother had lipstick on her teeth and rings so extravagant-looking her fingers seemed heavy as they lifted a shaking teacup to her lips. Mauve. Shiny lipstick. All over the poor teacup as well.

  “Yes, ever since I was little. I stopped competing at fourteen because I had a growth spurt and kind of lost the passion. But we own some riding stables and I love to ride for recreation.”

  “We must visit your farm next time we go overseas.” Her English was superb and it appeared to be the language they spoke in the house.

  “My parents would love that.” Her parents might. She wouldn’t so much.

  Julian ran his fingers through his hair and scrolled through his phone. He’d put on “slacks” before they left school because his mother, Emily Lawrence, thought jeans were too pedestrian for a man as gorgeous as Julian. Salana wanted to tell Mrs. Lawrence that her little prince had talked her out of her virginity. Been as persistent as a hungry mosquito locked in a bedroom on a summer night. Salana was the ripe body bag full of blood. He pestered her and bullied her and made her a pros and cons list, which made her laugh out loud and even endeared him to her the tiniest little bit. Who makes a pros and cons list about sex? Salana, a fact she admitted only to herself, relied on Julian for survival, and not because she had fallen for him. She found his indulgent ways and his spoiled attitude at every turn tiresome. He was handsome, not hot. Pale, lanky and well groomed, Julian was not exactly the kind of male specimen you’d hang on the wall in your sorority wearing a yellow hardhat or orange fireman’s suspenders. His body was Cape Cod, not Malibu. But she wasn’t too picky and she needed a safe place to fit in and someone to hug her when she felt homesick and lonely.