I loved that feeling.
I’d wanted to see her again, had thought of her for weeks after that happened.
And now, the soft sound of waves filled my head, followed by the wind instruments from Claude Debussy’s La Mer. Shock rippled down my spine. I didn’t hear music that way anymore, yet the song flowed through my mind. The girl, the song… I shook myself. Literally. Like a dog flinging off excess water.
“I guess that disruption was to draw attention to yourself. Thank you for volunteering, Mr. Porter,” Ms. Gates said, her smile more of a sneer.
I never paid attention and still managed to get As. My ability to do so drove Ms. Gates batty, which was why she was always looking for reasons to give me extra work or make me look bad.
She waddled to my desk, iPad in hand. “Type out a note right now. That way I’ll know you did it.”
I rolled my eyes, which landed on the icon of Aya Aldringham. Her eyes seemed to comfort me even from the tiny picture.
I took a deep breath as I typed.
Hey, Aya,
I’m in what would be your English class in your grade at Holyoke School, aka School for Rich and Bored Deviants. Ms. Gates asked me to tell you a bit about the class, which sucks—and the school, which is okay but not really hard—so you’ll be more comfortable when you show up.
I bit my lip, remembering Ms. Gates saying the girl had anxiety. I could at least attempt to alleviate her worries.
Mostly, the kids establish a pecking order, and you hang out with people in your tier. Stick with me, kid, and you’ll be top-tier.
Why was I being so honest?
I needed to delete everything I’d written and start over.
The bell rang before I had a chance, and Ms. Gates plucked the device from my hands, tutting as she read what I’d written. I made a grab for it, but she pressed send before I could highlight and delete it.
“Now you’ve scared the poor girl,” Ms. Gates said, a malicious gleam in her eye.
Oh, this all made sense. She’d asked me to write something so she could get me in trouble with the head of school. As if a mark in my record would get me kicked out. Still, I didn’t want to disappoint my parents or my grandfather. They had enough going on already. No way this lumbering teacher was going to give my mother another reason to drink or get high.
“I wasn’t finished typing,” I said, snatching the iPad from her chubby claws and darting into the hall before she could catch me. I hustled out the side door and leaped over a low fence, tugging my phone from my pocket even as I tucked the iPad under my arm.
I pressed the first entry in my speed dial for Steve, my driver/bodyguard. Pop Syad had sent Steve home with me after Lev’s funeral. My guess was my grandfather expected the former soldier to keep me safe. I wished Lev had had a Steve shadow. Then maybe he’d still be alive.
“Meet me on the west side, under the big tree.”
I hung up before he could respond. I tore around the lacrosse field, backpack smacking my back as I tucked the iPad into my T-shirt. I shoved the tail into my jeans just as I made a running leap for the edge of the seven-foot wrought-iron fence, which I scaled with ease thanks to years of parkour.
I hit the ground with an ankle-jarring thud and glanced back, my breath rushing from my lungs. Ms. Gates was nowhere to be seen.
Good. I had time to correct the message by sending a second one that made Ms. Gates look bad. No way the squinty-eyed hag would jeopardize her cushy position at one of the premier private schools in the nation once I sent Aya my version of what had gone down in the classroom today.
I chuckled.
There was no point in just getting back at Ms. Gates, or anyone else.
I always preferred to get even.
4
Nash
The lyrics from “Gives You Hell” by the All-American Rejects drifted through my head as I stared up at the ceiling of my room. That song annoyed me even as I was thankful to have something in my mind again.
Aya had dismissed me. I’d saved her life—well, at least pulled her from that big wave—all those years ago, and she didn’t have the decency to reply immediately? It had been three full days since my messages to her. I’d followed up that first one with a couple more, trying to explain how she’d ended up with the first one. Maybe she thought I was crazy. Three freaking days.
I hated rejection. It gave me a squirmy, dark feeling in my gut. One that reminded me of Lev…
A new message popped up. I narrowed my eyes, but after no more than a moment, the oppressive boredom of being home, alone, in all that space, thinking about my dead brother, made me click on the message. That was the only reason. It was from her. Finally. Not because I wanted to see if she remembered me, too.
Or if she still thought I was pretty.
Or because I missed Lev.
Or because I needed to talk to someone since I’d not decided on whether to forgive Hugh yet…
The note opened on my screen.
Dear Nash,
I’m totally freaking out about attending Holyoke. Freaking out!
I don’t want to meet these atrociously mannered kids, let alone interact with them every day. But my mum said I need Western education. Probably because I’ve spent most of my life living in the bush in Africa and Asia. In case you didn’t know, my mum runs this nonprofit, Clean Water, that’s tackling sanitation needs.
We’re currently in Nepal. I get to school by climbing the side of a mountain. It’d be a lot cooler if I wasn’t terrified of heights. I nearly puke each time.
I don’t have social anxiety, though, and I have no idea why the teacher told you that. Maybe because I’m coming from a foreign country, and I told her I was anxious about the books you’re reading and what you’re studying in history, math, and science. Send me some details, please?
I only get messages on my phone when I climb to the top of the mountain. Write back soon—don’t make me climb up here for nothing.
Your friend,
Aya
PS—I’m glad you think my eyes are pretty. Send me a photo of what you look like.
* * *
Huh. This girl sounded genuine. She wouldn’t last long once Lord and his crew sank their mean fingers into her. I snapped a shot of myself lying on my denim-covered beanbag chair and sent it to her, along with a laundry list of books we’d read and were supposed to read. I glanced at my overflowing bookshelf, a pang of longing hitting me.
Lev had loved to read, and I’d commandeered most of his books. Maybe Aya had read them, and we could talk about them.
What was wrong with me? I didn’t like to read. And I didn’t chat with chicks.
I shoved thoughts of my brother aside and wrote to Aya about our history assignments and what math and science work we’d been doing.
She replied quickly, stating that I was “cute.”
I curled my lip at that.
You look like a boy I met, years ago, while on vacation. He disappeared before I could tell him my name, but I remember his: Nash Porter. Are you that same person, Superstar?
That was a loaded question. I wasn’t the kid I’d been on that trip. My family had been cohesive then, and I’d been happy. I’d enjoyed playing the little girl’s protector because everyone always babied me.
The song in my head faded, but I barely noticed. I was too busy typing…and enjoying myself. Huh. Who would have thought? I hit send, and within moments, she’d responded.