Black and White

by Ludivig, K. R.

  Black and White

  By. K. R. Ludivig

  For Christopher

  Table of Contents

  Prologue 4

  Chapter One: Suitor 5

  Chapter Two: Party 11

  Chapter Three: Christopher 19

  Chapter Four: Horses 29

  Chapter Five: The Wedding 42

  Chapter Six: Saw V 46

  Chapter Seven: Alone 49

  Chapter Eight: Alex 55

  Chapter Nine: Nightmares 61

  Chapter Ten: No Matter What 66

  Chapter Eleven: Blake 71

  Chapter Twelve: Deceived 76

  Chapter Thirteen: The Trial 86

  Chapter Fourteen: Fight 93

  Chapter Fifteen: Bentley 101

  Chapter Sixteen: Prom 109

  Chapter Seventeen: The Day After 115

  Chapter Eighteen: Auditions 120

  Chapter Nineteen: Two Months Later 121

  Chapter Twenty: Spring Concerto 125

  Chapter Twenty-One: Surprise 131

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Next September 133

  Epilogue: 2026 139

  Prologue

  Is this that day?

  That we pronounce our love to thee,

  That I do say,

  ‘I love you’?

  From every preface,

  And being,

  I have loved one like you,

  Imaginary before you,

  One that no one compares to,

  One that not even I could match up to.

  But you,

  Dear Christopher,

  You match him perfectly,

  You match the very fiber of my being,

  The very soul to match mine,

  The other heart I’ve searched for.

  And now that I’ve found you,

  I won’t ever let go of you,

  I won’t ever let go.

  -Katie White

  I wrote that after Chris and I started going out. It was amazing for me actually. I had never written poetry in my entire life.

  Chapter One: Suitor

  The afternoon of September 3rd, I moved into my dorm room at Lightstaff Academy. I pulled my trunk up the stairs to the quiet hall of Beethoven, the bright pillars illuminated in the light.

  School didn’t start until the fifth but I was determined to get a head start on unpacking.

  Lightstaff was the type of boarding school that parents sent their kids to because they studied hard in music and arts in a boarding school like Ault, two states away.

  I entered the hall, took my Armani sunglasses off my face and held them in my hand, I breathed in the sweet aroma of cedar.

  “Katie!” said a voice to my right. I turned my head to find my articulation and rhythm studies professor right behind me.

  “Professor House.” I answered her call. “How are you?”

  “I’m well Miss White. I hope you practiced a lot this summer,” she encouraged. She hoped and prayed that I, the prodigy to the White Golf Legacy Fortune, would practice. Ugh.

  “I did, and I learned other things too.”

  “Oh like what might I ask?”

  “The oboe.”

  “The oboe?” she repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you good?”

  “Decent… I thought I might try clarinet instead. Much easier.” I was really bad at the oboe.

  “Truthfully, it is.” She stated the obvious. “But you are the most talented.” She paused for dramatic effect. “But I’ll let you find your dormitory. I’ll see you in class on Monday.”

  “Good-bye Professor.”

  The way I spoke and the way I thought were opposite. Every time someone asked me an intelligent question, I had to carefully compose the answer in my head before I spoke. My professors believed I was ingenious for my college level thinking and analysis on any subject. As a matter of fact, I am not smart. I do not have many friends; I have to work just as hard or harder for my grades as anyone else, and music does not come easily to me. All I do is give my heart to my music.

  Last spring I had to memorize a solo for my audition to Juilliard. Every day for two hours, a month long, is how long it took to master.

  The image I lead as Katie White was not even close to the real Katie White at all.

  I walked up the stairs to check in. The desk sat a very beautiful receptionist, Jane, who thought of herself as plain as a piece of paper. Jane was just about to get married when I’d spoke to her last, last spring.

  “Hi Jane,”

  “Miss White, how was your summer?”

  “Wonderful, full of lessons. How was your rendezvous?”

  “Beautiful. Good that you remembered.”

  “How could I forget?” It was the only thing she talked about the last two weeks of school last year.

  She just shook her head.

  “Room 401B.” She handed me a key.

  “Thanks.” I said.

  I proceeded to the room 401B in the Bach Building. All of the buildings were named after famous composers. The newest building was the Whitacre Building. I wished I had been placed there; it was the newest and the nicest. My building was all girls. As seniors we got to choose.

  I walked up the stairs to the Bach Building, my hair wavy and flowing in the wind. It was not perfect, though I was often told people were jealous of my hair. It had many flaws: split ends, natural curl in every wrong place, too thick, and the wrong color. I could pick myself apart in ways you never thought possible.

  I pushed the key through the lock hole and turned it. The knob came with it, which meant it was unlocked. I stepped my Gucci checkered heals through the doorway. I placed my purse on the bed, I lifted my suitcase with ease and began unpacking. My blanket came first, I unfolded it, spread it across my bed. It was a navy blue, dolphin blanket my dad gave me when he came home from Iraq.

  That’s what my dad did before he invested in Legacy Golf. He was my daddy then. Now he’s a dad to the whole city of Detroit. I’ve always lived in Michigan, always in Uptown Detroit. My dad and mom live in a house on Legacy Drive, right on my father’s golf course. I couldn’t play golf to save my life.

  My pillow came next, with my grandmother’s pillowcase, the one she made for me when I was little. I was a senior. I was graduating this year. It still had not sunk in that I was going on to do greater and better things in less than a year. It scared the living crap out of me. I unpacked my clothes, neatly put them in drawers and hung my dinner dresses in the closet. I would be returning to my house for dinner that night, just because my mom didn’t want me to sleep in the dorms all on my own. The dorm advisors didn’t care anyway. If you snuck out and got caught it wasn’t their fault so they didn’t care.

  I hated the way my family looked at me. They would sit at dinner and hinder at the way I looked, the way I presented myself. Apparently I wasn’t good enough. They gazed at me in wonder how I led such a perfect life, I have straight A’s, and I hadn’t missed mass since I was baptized; I practiced French horn every day. There was nothing wrong with me according to my family, besides my mother, who apparently knows the truth about me, which confuses me because not even I know that.

  In eighth grade, when my dad came home from Iraq, he harped on me so much because I was never good enough. I cried so often, I was in such pain, I was tired of my life, and I attempted suicide.

  My mother put me in the hospital for five straight days on suicide watch. I saw so many actually crazy people, I decided not to be like them. I was going to change. After that, I was the perfect angel, even more so than I tried before. I lived to please people and never myself, besides entering myself into Lightstaff as a freshman, which was hard to do.

  It was the best choice I ever made. It was th
e perfect idea for me since my destiny was in music anyway. My parents loved the idea, especially my mom, because I was the White prodigy to musicianship. But look where it got me, miserable in my own skin.

  My roommate’s name was Ella Hart. She was a freshman. She had to be, I had never heard of her. She had to be just as good as me or better to get into Lightstaff as a freshman. I quickly sketched a note to her to introduce myself. Although, I knew she wouldn’t be here until tomorrow, the thoughtfulness of my note would let her remember me as a kind person, hopefully.

  After removing my shoes and jacket, rearranging my organized closet to my liking, and checking my watch for the fifth time, I sighed. I was waiting for a call from my mother; I was supposed to meet the chauffer downstairs so he could take me home.

  I put my suitcase underneath my bed after retrieving my makeup and toiletries bag from the front pocket. I placed the bag on the top shelf of my closet.

  My cell phone vibrated on the bedside table. I picked it up.

  “Hello?” I said, answering.

  “Katie, it’s time for dinner,” She said.

  “Alright, I’ll be right there,” I replied.

  I heard nothing. The phone instantly shut itself off.

  I went to the door and put my Gucci checkered heals on, and grabbed my new brown and checkered Coach wallet and green ostrich skin Hermes Burkin bag. I closed my door and locked it. I walked swiftly down through the hall and down the stairs. The car outside waiting for me was mine, a 4509 Premier Limited Edition Continental Bentley GT Coupe. I paid for it. Yes, I paid for it, as unbelievable as it seems. No, I’m not a drug dealer. I earned money, let’s just say that.

  As I drove to the house, I pushed the custom installed ultimate Kicker 12-inch subs and 1200-watt amps to the highest volume before we hit the mile. The car was gliding down the street. I turned down the speakers, having enough good sense as we passed downtown Detroit. On the outside, the windows on my car were as close to illegal tint as we could get them and rolled them up. I saw the cutest house with a white picket fence and blue window shudders. I imagined myself in that house one day, closer to the north side.

  As we passed, I saw one very different looking teenage boy dressed different than all the rest. Aside from the others’ South Pole and five sizes too big attire, this boy dressed in DC. His pants, his shirt, and shoes were DC. His eyes followed the Bentley as we passed. One other boy, who looked more like a man than a boy due to the facial hair, patted him on the shoulder, shook him and from what I could read on his lips said, “Keep dreaming.”

  The boy had brown hair, hazel eyes and a strong build, his shoulders and back were straight, he stood like a soldier. I know because of my dad. My father taught me to stand like a soldier, to salute like a soldier, to provide for others like a soldier. The boy stood like this, I could picture him in uniform, and I could see his future as a sniper. The muscles along his arm bulged, making his tone defined. For a split second, it looked as though he could perfectly see through the tint, and as if he were gazing through the dark glass and into my eyes. It felt like I was driving past the shattered windows of occupied apartment buildings in slow motion. Just before I turned my head, before we sped away, I could swear I saw him wink at me. It could have been just my imagination. I drove thinking about how every visible muscle in his upper body glistened, how the jaw line of his face was perfect, no bruises or blemish. How the crookedness of his nose was perfectly harmless in every way. Even when I got to my parents’ house, I still thought of him. I thought of his hair, and even though I had never met him and knew nothing about him, his hair made me want to make out with him. It fit him perfectly somehow. Thinking of him made butterflies invade my stomach but I knew nothing about him, not even his name. I was pathetic. Besides that, my parents would never approve.

  I pulled up to the front steps. I got out with my purse and realized that there was a new car in the driveway, one I didn’t recognize. I forced myself up the steps to the house not able to imagine who my mom found “suitable” for me now. That was the only time we had family dinners, otherwise it was “fend for yourself.” It was when my mother and father brought home a suitable husband for me. Since we got The Legacy, my parents have been all for the idea of an arranged marriage. Only technically, they’re letting me decide out of their suitable dates. If I don’t like them, they bring home another one. So far, none have been so lucky. They’ve gotten as far as, “Hi Katie,”

  I walked in through the front forier and took off my jacket. The maid appeared out of nowhere and took my coat to hang it on the stand by the door. I traipsed through the house to the dining room where my mother and father sat at the ends of a very long Victorian-styled table. There in the middle of the table sat a young man, about my age.

  “Mom, Dad, who is this?” I asked them.

  “Katie, this is Zackary Michaels.”

  He was gorgeous, brown hair, big bulging brown eyes, and decent build. He was wearing a Hollister polo shirt and Abercrombie and Fitch jeans.

  Zackary got up and pulled the chair for me.

  “Thanks you, Zackary.”

  “You can call me Zack, Miss White.” He said his voice deep and seductive.

  “So Katie how was school?” My father asked.

  “I just went to drop my stuff off, Dad.” I said.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I spoke to my articulation professor today,” I said, breaking the stupid silence committed by my insecure mother.

  “Oh, what did she say?” Mother asked genuinely.

  “She said there’s a very intriguing French horn solo this year. First semester I’m being moved up because I proved worthy of being section leader, and Justin is moving down!” I was abnormally boasting because Zack was here. I sometimes liked to show off. No doubt would my mother would make a comment.

  “Katie you mustn’t boast about your solos. No one will want to hear them.”

  “No, Mrs. White, let the young woman speak; this is intriguing.” This came from Zackary. “Justin who?”

  “Justin Brown.”

  “Oh that…” Mom just shivered. “Of course, he’s got to be the most arrogant French horn player on this earth.”

  “No, I’ve met others,” I said. “They’re from the Symphony Orchestra of the Age.” The way I said it made them sound like arrogant fools. The way they sounded was like they were playing for gods.

  “Mom!” I said. “Justin is a fantastic French horn player, and I should be so lucky to lead the section that he now has to follow in. Do you remember at the spring concerto when he played the solo from the Lincolnshire Posy?”

  “Of course dear, it was beautiful.”

  And I had to learn to top that. It was going to be impossible.

  Dinner was a blast, that is, until Zack started asking me questions I couldn’t answer in front of my family. I walked Zack out to his car. His dad bought him a silver Mercedes McLaren, a gorgeous piece of machinery.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He didn’t insist on kissing me good night, which gave him bonus points. Instead he kissed my hand and ‘bid me adieu’ in proper terms.

  I realized it was dark now. I wasn’t driving all the way across Detroit at night. I’d drive tomorrow morning when the cops were awake. I thought a moment, I’d sleep restlessly tonight knowing that my blanket from Dad and my pillowcase from my grandmother all the way across town, without me.

  “Katie, are you staying tonight?” My mother asked.

  “I should go back.” I said. “Even though I’d like to stay here.” I said under my breath. But I stayed all the same.

  Chapter Two: Party

  As I entered the “Beverly Hills of Detroit” the next morning, I relaxed, knowing that since I would not be returning home anytime this week, I would live another few days. I parked my car and got out. I grabbed my bag and walked up to the front door of Bach Hall.

  “Miss White,” shouted a professor’s voice behind me. I rolled my eyes as I turned. I found that
it wasn’t a professor at all, that it was Zackary Michaels. He stood leaning up against the banister, his gray uniform school sweater and crest made him look sick! But his red-blaze turtleneck made his figure better than the sweater over top of it.

  “Zachary Michaels.” I replied stepping down one stair so my black Prada heals made a loud noise on the polished wood. “You are well aware that you can call me Katie, right?”

  “Of course but I’d want your permission first.” Zackary added politely.

  Zack was a gentleman when he wanted to be. He seemed fake though. I couldn’t tell why. Everything he did seemed forced, as if he had to make himself do all of the sweet gestures. He wasn’t at all genuine. He walked with me up the stairs and into my dorm. I knocked before I entered.

  “Ella?” I asked.

  “Come in,” said a high voice. It was high and inquisitive but dearly inviting and could be called seductive by certain ears.

  I walked in and found her unpacking her suitcase. They all went into the right side dresser drawers.

  “Ella?” She didn’t even look up from what she was doing.

  “Yes?” Her hair was blonde, blown straight right out of the shower. Her eyes a mesmerizing blue.

  “You’re gorgeous Ella.”

  “Shut up,” she looked up. “Oh my goodness!”

  “What?”

  “You’re Katie White.”

  “Yes I am.”

  “You’re the most amazing musician of the age.”

  “What?!” I had never heard that expression before. Not only was I astounded, I had never been confronted by someone like this. I was pretty sure that the most amazing musician wasn’t me. That depended on opinion, not someone’s mere image.

  “You’re the reason I started playing French horn. You’re my idol.”

  “Well thank you.” I was blushing.

  “I want you to be my mentor.”

  “Thanks, I guess it’s good we’re roommates.”

  “Yeah.” She said. I thought she might drool.

  “Katie, don’t you have to meet your professor?” Zack saved me.