I drop my mail onto the table and set my briefcase aside as I hit play on the answering machine. The endless reel of voicemails from my father echoes through the space as I discard the letters he’d sent over the summer months. Numb to the pleas to return his calls, I delete his messages and spend the evening unpacking in the tomb of silence that’s become my life.
In my restless state, I consider going out for a run. But when I scoop the necklace from the bottom of my suitcase, I find myself collapsing into the nearest chair instead. In my haphazard packing, I knew it had been stuffed somewhere in the void of my clothes and toiletries, but I’d managed most of the summer without looking at it once. Now, it can’t be avoided.
I roll the chain between my fingers, studying the symbol rooted in Dharmic religion. I’m not a man to believe in the afterlife. Once things are gone from this earth, they just cease to exist. But if there were such a thing as signs, this would be hers. The ever-present reminder of why I’m here in the first place. What I came here for, and what I’ve yet to accomplish.
Katie told me once that if she could just change one person’s life, then she could say she’d really lived. I never got the chance to tell her that she already had. It was her dream to come back here and show these students that there’s more to life than Ivy Leagues and test scores and corporate jobs. She believed she could save someone else from the acute misery she felt growing up under the dictatorship of my father and the pressures bestowed on us. But Katie never got the chance to prove herself. She lost her life because of me, and now the only way to make it up to her is to follow through with what she started. That has always been the goal. But in the three years I’ve been here, every one of my projects have failed. I am not a teacher. I am not a mentor. I am simply a man without passion trying to honor the memory of the most passionate person I knew. And as I clench the necklace within my fist, I know this year I have to leave my mark. Leave my mark or be done with this existential crisis.
But for tonight, the necklace will remain in the cabinet.
CHAPTER THREE
STELLA
“IS IT JUST ME,or is the tension at this table so thick you could cut it with a chainsaw?” Sybil whispers under her breath.
“It’s not just you,” I assure her.
“I have a headache,” my mother mutters before she drains the last of her wine from lunch.
“Unfathomable.” My father eyes the empty bottle in front of her.
She shoots him a withering glare. Sybil and I stare at our plates, shoveling in food as fast as we can so this train wreck can be over already.
Unlike me, Sybil is a boarding school veteran. She’s an actual descendent of American royalty, and it just so happens that her father works with mine at the Arthur Group. That connection is how she came to be tasked with hosting me for the summer at her family’s house in the Hamptons. Neither of us were exactly thrilled at the prospect, but we quickly learned that despite our lack of common ground, we have a keen ability to be real with each other, which goes a long way in our world.
In just a few short months, we became fast friends. Friends with a double lack of parental supervision and a lot of time on our hands. Trouble seemed to find us. We spent countless nights raiding her father’s liquor cabinet and sneaking out past curfew to parties on the beach while Sybil single-handedly charmed every wealthy heir to their father’s fortunes on the East Coast. A few times, to my utter dismay, we even ended up in New York gossip columns because of Sybil’s socialite status.
Beside her, I found myself identified as the “unknown friend” in photographs, which suited me just fine. But while Sybil’s parents write off her shenanigans as harmless teenage fun, my parents seem to think I’m in a field of lava, narrowly avoiding a PR disaster for our family at every turn. Though they don’t exactly care for Sybil, they like the fact that her family has connections, and therefore, our friendship is beneficial to them. Naturally, when my mother heard that Sybil attends Loyola Academy, she decided that was the place to send your daughter when you’d rather not deal with her yourself. The only silver lining in this whole equation is Sybil. At least I won’t be facing my senior year entirely alone.
“I’m going to rest in the car,” my mother announces dramatically as she gets up and leaves without waiting for a reply. What she really means is she’s going to sneak off with our driver, Luis, who I’m pretty sure she’s having an affair with. I caught them kissing in the car once, and she tried to play it off like he was helping with her necklace. She never could explain the lipstick smeared all over her face.
“Your mom is super-hot.” Sybil wiggles her eyebrows and laughs as she watches Lila Monroe sashay out of the restaurant with the authority of a first lady.
“She was a model.” I offer the stock explanation I use whenever someone remarks on my mother’s appearance.
“And she’ll never let anyone forget it,” Dad chimes in, tossing his napkin down onto his plate. “Excuse me.”
“Ouch.” Sybil glances at me as he leaves the table. “And I thought my parents were bad. At least they make an effort to hide their resentment. How are you still sane?”
I laugh because sarcasm is the only defense I have left. “My mom feels like we ruined her life. She had a glamorous career and then she got knocked up by a photographer. My dad promised her they could make it work. He believed he could make her happy. I still don’t know if he did it to keep her or me.”
“Yikes.” Sybil cringes, obviously at a loss for words.
“Yeah.”
“You know what?” She reaches into her purse and pops a piece of gum into her mouth. “Forget them. You’re about to start a new chapter in your life. And the best part is, you’ll have me by your side. Pretty soon, we’ll be eighteen, and we can rule the world.”
I swallow the acid in my throat and nod even though I know that isn’t true. Sybil has dreams of being a dancer, and her parents are happy to foot the bill while she follows her heart. But my parents have made it more than clear what they expect from me. It’s Cornell or nothing. My mother won’t be satisfied until she can brag about her daughter with the inside scoop on all things fashion. I guess it’s not as easy to brag about the smartass daughter who really wants to be a photographer.
“Ready to go?” My father reappears with the lunch receipt in his hand. “I think it’s about time to drop you girls off.”
LOYOLA ACADEMY ISN’T FOOLING around when they boast about superior educational resources on their website. In today’s tour, with Sybil as my guide, I’ve learned that there is a dedicated building for almost every subject. College level classes are the norm, and there are a billion languages to choose from. In addition to the plethora of athletics on offer, there’s also an Olympic-sized swimming pool at our disposal. Oh, and a student who actually went to the Olympics at fourteen.
If I wasn’t intimidated before, Sybil’s offhand comments aren’t helping as she throws out statistics about how thirty to forty percent of students matriculate at top colleges. I knew coming here that the academics would be rigorous, but Sybil’s word of choice is cutthroat. While I’ve always done well in school, this isn’t just about keeping up good grades. It’s about being the best at everything, full stop.
“This is kind of insane,” I murmur as we stroll across the quad.
Sybil laughs. “Tell me about it. You’re in another world now, Cherrybomb. There’s a hierarchy here. The girls will see you as a threat, and they will test you. And the boys will all want a piece of the fresh meat. You have to remember these are kids who have been top performers since the age of five. They expect to be the future one percent, and they will accept nothing less. That means trampling over anyone they see as competition.”