It’s important to keep your calm. Decorum above all else. Girls should be polite and modest, timid and quiet. Speak only when spoken to.
In other words, smack yourself in the head with a rock and pretend you’re living back in the 1800s. Women’s suffrage movement? Yeah, it never happened.
I stare back at Lavinia, wishing I were bold enough to call her out.
What?
What is so interesting over here?
Blythe sighs when she notices our little standoff. “Lavinia, don’t bother. You’ll only encourage her.”
Encourage me to what? Stand up for myself? Not likely.
I might think rebellious thoughts from time to time, might dabble in the idea of telling them all to go fuck themselves. I might sneak off into the woods to get a glimpse of Emmett Mercier, but at the end of the day, I’m still Elaine Davenport, all-around good girl, rule follower, straight-A student. Oh yeah, and depressed.
I’m not actually sure if I have clinical depression. That would require a diagnosis, and I won’t be getting one of those anytime soon because I won’t be visiting a counselor anytime soon. Sure, I lost both my parents earlier this year in tragic ways and sure, it’s been a bleak landscape inside my head lately, but my grandmother thinks I need to keep a stiff upper lip. Whatever that means.
Only the strange thing is, I’m not all that sad. I’m just…exhausted. Exhausted by the idea of dealing with girls like Blythe. Exhausted by the thought of trying to meet my grandmother’s expectations. Exhausted by the routine of St. John’s in general. I’m thinner than I should be because I’d rather stay away from the dining hall during meals to avoid the stares. I bought a rice cooker the last time I went into town and I use it to make food every now and then, especially when I’m desperate. To further avoid everyone, I study in a corner of the library that’s rarely used. So what if there’s poor lighting and a few spider families that fight me for the territory? I make do.
But the real secret, the embarrassing truth about what has kept me afloat this year is that I use Emmett Mercier the way some people use alcohol and drugs. I’ve built him up in my head. The way you can count on a favorite meal, a favorite book…Emmett is my reverie.
Chapter Three
Emmett
I’m the first to admit I don’t play fair on the soccer field, but apparently neither does the guy trying to defend me. This whole game, he’s been an asshole, faking injuries, shouting for the referee to call fouls, jabbing me when he thinks no one can see him.
Now, he nearly trips me up as I’m headed downfield, and I curse but break away. When he catches me again, he shoves me, playing dirty. It makes no sense. There are only a few seconds left on the clock and they’re up two goals. Still, I’m not one to back down from a challenge. Some of these guys need soccer to keep their athletic scholarships. I don’t. I enjoy the sport. I enjoy running until sweat is dripping into my eyes. I love the ache of a hard-earned victory. So when he shoves me, I go low and slam my elbow into his stomach hard enough to send him keeling over in pain, but not for long. He’s up and swinging before I step back, landing a solid punch to my jaw before the ref gets ahold of him. My teammates don’t have to pull me back. I know when to quit. I smile like a prick as they drag him away from me, tacking on a departing remark because I just can’t help myself.
“Sac à foutre.”
French is my native language, so the insult rolls off my tongue in such a pleasing way. Nobody but Alexander understands it. He laughs beside me.
“I could have said worse.” I shrug, already heading toward the sidelines where my coach is waiting for me, fuming.
“Sure, like tu es un sac à foutre.”
I laugh despite the ache in my jaw.
“You’re a real idiot, you know that? We could have pulled out a win there at the end.”
I shoot him a sidelong glare. “We? You played three minutes the whole game.”
He looks insulted. “I’m a freshman.”
“I started as a freshman.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re a real sac à foutre.”
I smile just as our coach growls, “Emmett, get your ass over here!”
It’s hard to look contrite when you have the world laid at your feet. This game doesn’t matter. We’re not going to make it to the playoffs. Earlier in the season, we lost two of our best guys to injuries, and another starter got kicked out of St. John’s because of drugs. Pity. He sold good weed.
My coach does a rousing rendition of Guy Trying to Rein in a Troubled Youth. He tells me I need to show some respect and I can’t go through life ignoring the rules, but he’s wrong and we both know it.
I stand there, silent, until he gets it all out, and then he waves his hand in defeat and tells me to pack up my stuff with the rest of my team.
Alexander’s waiting for me like a dutiful puppy. When I start heading back across campus, he falls in beside me.
“Parents Weekend starts Saturday. Excited to see daddy dearest?”
I ignore him, but he persists.
“Maybe Maman will come.”
That’s laughable. She’s never come to a Parents Weekend at St. John’s. We barely keep in touch, though she did call me out of the blue the other day. I almost let it go to voicemail.
“Oh Emmett! I miss my boys. Are you doing well? Learning and behaving as I taught you to?”
“I’m sorry. Who is this?”
She acted like she was in on the joke.
“Emmett, don’t be silly. Now, have you heard from your papa lately?”
It’s truly pathetic. After all this time, she’s still infatuated with my father.
Frédéric Mercier is a complicated man. Most people wouldn’t want to sit across from him in a boardroom, let alone a dinner table. He scared me when I was young, and any comfort to be found came from Maman. In our cold house, I equated happiness with her until I turned five and my father left.
Their divorce broke her.
She loved my father too much. When he left, our lives became a vacuum. I have memories of her being loving and attentive before they split up, but after, she checked out. Short trips turned into summers away from our home in Paris, winters with no phone calls. She was always off looking for her happiness, and apparently it didn’t include Alexander or me.
I used to give her the benefit of the doubt—it’s no easy thing to heal a broken heart—but that’s gone now. I see her for what she really is: selfish. Always searching, finding, leaving. When Alexander and I were still young and living in Paris, my father tried to be there some, but work kept him busy. You can’t be the head of a global luxury conglomerate and make it home for dinner every night, not to mention he remarried after he divorced my mother. Found himself a nice little family, a princess for a daughter.
Mostly, Alexander and I were left in the care of nannies, some nicer than others. They knew we wouldn’t be checked on, and that freedom bred carelessness and neglect. I was glad when we were finally sent to America to attend St. John’s. Here, we’re all on an even playing field, a motley crew of sad, neglected, rich kids. Poor us.
I almost lament the fact that my time here is coming to an end. The real world is biting at my heels, ready to sink its teeth into me.