Turn the Tables

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Turn the Tables Page 6

by LJ Byrne


  CHAPTER 7

  With the trauma of the fire, I get a break from academics. November rolls around with cold rain. After the attempt on my life, things go strangely quiet. The Elite girls stop harassing me. In fact, they ignore me completely. I’ve become invisible.

  I take a break from posting songs. I’m swamped with schoolwork, but I’ve also withdrawn from the world a bit. Katrina and the twins try to cheer me up with chocolate. I attempt gratitude, but I’m struggling to show anything. When John calls, I’m a perfect actress. The school only told him that I was in a minor accident. I assure him I’m fine. I’m looking forward to the Christmas break and he promises to take me to Mom.

  In music class, we’re tasked with writing a joint composition. After a week, we submit our pieces and Brock asks to play his piece for the class. Ms. Waldorf is delighted.

  Brock slings his guitar over his neck and sits on a stool. “I’m dedicating this song to Elena,” he says to my surprise, his green eyes on my face.

  The girls eye me enviously as he begins singing. I’ve heard him sing before, but this is the first time I’ve bothered to listen. The notes are soft and sweet as he sings about a girl who doesn’t realize what makes her beautiful. His words indicate several qualities I doubt I truly possess. The song’s not bad. A bit sappy. After he’s done, he looks at me expectantly. I raise a brow in surprise, but I incline my head in acknowledgment.

  I make my way back to the dorms when Brock catches up to me. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s the rush?” He cocks his head at me. “I’ve never written a song for a girl before. Should I put it on my next album?”

  I shrug, causing Brock to frown. “Come on, Freeloader, where’s your spirit? I hear it every time you play the piano.”

  How interesting. Should I mention that I’ve been harassed since Day 1? Drugged and nearly assaulted? Nearly burned alive? And we’re not even to Christmas. I presume tarring and feathering is next. Maybe drop an anvil on my head for good measure.

  “I’m tired,” I say. “And I’m tired of this school.”

  “It’s not for everyone,” Brock agrees in a friendly tone. “I know we’ve been a little harsh.”

  That’s an understatement if I ever heard one. I avoid rolling my eyes.

  “I’ll turn over a leaf if you at least tell me what you think of the song. I can be charming when I want to be, sweetheart,” Brock insists, touching my nose with a finger.

  “It wasn’t alternative,” I finally say, stopping to stare at him.

  “What?”

  “I thought you sang alternative music. It wasn’t alternative. It was pop.”

  A slow smile spreads across Brock’s face. “So it is. Come on, aren’t you hungry? Let’s grab dinner.”

  Reluctantly, I let him usher me to the dining hall. Katrina waves at me, but when I join her, Brock plops himself beside me. “What are you doing?” Katrina asks, aware that people are looking at Brock sitting away from the Elite table.

  “I’m sitting next to my muse,” Brock says, winking at me.

  I exchange a look with Katrina. Bruce and Charles are equally puzzled. “Muse?” I scoff.

  He leans back in his seat to regard me. “Have you ever listened to the music you play? It’s amazing. You inspire me to write music, Elena.”

  I hand my order to the server, noting the glares from the Elites. Vanessa doesn’t look pleased, but she tosses her hair at us dismissively. Lucas, on the other hand, watches us with a strange fascination. He stands and deliberately makes his way to our table.

  I should ask him how he keeps his uniform so fresh looking after an entire day. Extra starch when pressed? “What’s going on, Brock?” Lucas asks, but his eyes are on me.

  “I’ve decided Elena is my muse, Lucas. I’m going to write song after song glorifying her,” Brock declares with a roguish look.

  I try not to look bored with his declaration.

  Lucas ruffles his blond hair before leaning on the table with a hand positioned between me and Brock. “Don’t fall for his cheesy lyrics, Elena. You can do much better than this loser,” he tells me, his lips faintly curved.

  Our food arrives and Lucas returns to his table. Brock continues chatting amicably with Katrina, Charles, and Bruce, ignoring my reticence. On our way back to our rooms, Katrina won’t stop talking about it. “What was up with Brock? I’ve never seen him leave the Elites’ table. And he wrote you a song!” she exclaims. “Don’t tell me you weren’t a just a tiny bit thrilled by that.”

  “I don’t trust him. I don’t trust any of them,” I reply, but Katrina continues to gush about it.

  It’s only Bruce who agrees with me. “Don’t trust them, Elena. Not with your life.”

  Most students head home for Thanksgiving, but not me. There’s no way John can get me, and I’d have to rely on the auspices of the Mavericks to get home. Katrina begs me to at least consider coming to her home, but I decline. I plan to get ahead on academics and post an update online.

  Thursday morning, I bundle up against the chill and walk over to the dining hall. I’m glad I don’t have to wear a uniform so I’m in comfortable jeans and a sweater. I plan to get breakfast and spend the morning writing potential lyrics. I order the French toast and open my notebook to start writing.

  I’ve barely written a word when I sense someone standing behind me. I slam my book shut and turn.

  “May I join you for breakfast?” Lucas asks, making my jaw drop a little. He’s not in uniform, but he’s not dressed casually. He has preppy down to an art with his V-neck sweater and black slacks.

  I glance around, but I don’t see anyone I recognize. There are only a handful of students in the hall. “I guess,” I say slowly.

  When the server returns with my food, Lucas submits his order. “Surprised to see me?” When I nod, he answers my unspoken question. “Father is busy and doesn’t want me at home right now.” I don’t miss the slightly bitter tone. He clasps his hands together. “I’m surprised to see you here. Katrina didn’t offer to get you home?”

  “I don’t like imposing on people,” I reply, cutting into my food. I fall silent, waiting for the usual cutting remark. My peace, my quiet is ruined. Briefly, helpless rage fills me, but I quell it as fast as it rises.

  “My father just barely tolerates me,” Lucas continues, glancing sideways at me. “I decided it was just easier to stay here.” His food arrives and he starts to eat his breakfast.

  I don’t offer Lucas any pity. He doesn’t seem to be the kind that likes pity anyway. For all I know, this could simply be a ruse to see if he can get an emotion—anything—out of me.

  “What are you thinking about?” Lucas’s voice is quiet and contemplative. It causes me to look at him directly.

  I finish chewing, wiping my mouth carefully. “Why are you talking to me?” A question for a question.

  “We share a lot of classes. We know each other.”

  Not good enough, Lucas. “What do you want from me?”

  An arrogant smile forms. “Your vivacious company, of course.”

  I shake my head. “Everything’s a game to people like you.” I’m about to stand when he grabs my wrist.

  “Don’t go,” he whispers. For some reason, I stop and listen. “I thought we could at least keep each other company. Grab meals together.”

  I can’t help the sarcasm. “Hang out, share secrets, knit matching gloves?”

  “Knit—gloves?”

  I lower my chin “We’re not friends, Lucas. I don’t want to be your source of amusement.”

  His dark eyes flicker with emotion. “Do you ever want anything?”

  I laugh and the sound astonishes him. “I want to be left alone. I want this year to be over and done.”

  “Why stay here if you’re so unhappy?”

  I clamp my mouth shut.

  “You’re planning on leaving after this year?” Curiosity? Hope? Disappointment? Resignation? When I refuse to respond, Lucas leans close to me. “I want to hear you play.
On the piano.”

  My lips tighten as our eyes meet, assessing, questioning. “Why?

  “Just once, I want to hear you play.”

  I stand up. “Fine.” Lucas’s so surprised that I almost laugh again. “Come on.”

  I don’t bother to check if he follows me to the nearest private music room with a piano. I wait as he closes the door behind him before he leans back against the door with solemn nonchalance.

  I sit on the bench, considering my options, before playing the theme song from Love Story. I play it from memory, from a time when I considered romantic notions, from a time when I wept at the sad story of love lost. I’ve always preferred the song without the accompanying lyrics. Without the words, you can feel the sorrow and depth of emotions the song means to convey.

  When I’m done, I turn to Lucas expectantly. His lips are parted, as if he wants to speak but can’t find the words. His smile is genuine and there’s a strange tenderness to his eyes. Even his posture is relaxed and loose.

  “Brock says you’ve never taken proper lessons,” he murmurs, but it’s more to himself than to me. “You’re very talented.”

  “I’m okay.” I rise, rubbing my hands nervously on my jeans. “You’re easier to talk to when you’re not being such a prick.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I clap a hand over my lips.

  I expect Lucas to get angry, but all he does is laugh boyishly. “I suppose.” He leans against the piano. “Let’s go for a drive. Leave campus for a bit.” He extends his hand to me with an openly hopeful expression.

  For some reason, I’m not opposed to the idea, and we make the one-mile journey to get his car. On the drive, he asks me about how I learned to play the piano. I surprise myself when I explain that it started with watching a movie about Beethoven called My Immortal. I describe the scene when Beethoven, losing his hearing, presses his head to the piano to feel the music he could barely hear. As a child, I mimicked that many times, feeling the music not just with my ears but through the vibrations from the piano.

  We stop in the nearby town. Only the theaters are open, so Lucas cajoles me into watching Casablanca at a movie theater showing classics. I agree only if he lets me pay for my ticket. “I won’t call you Freeloader,” Lucas states quietly, frowning a little.

  “That’s not the reason. I don’t want to owe you anything. Take it or leave it.”

  I do, however, let Lucas buy me popcorn as a small concession.

  On the ride back, we discuss whether Ilsa should’ve stayed with Rick. Lucas argues that Ilsa didn’t love Rick. “If she did, she would have been willing to endure hardships – she would’ve given up everything – to be with him.”

  “Ha! And turn away from her true nature? Ilsa and Rick were a what-if. She would never have fallen for him if she’d known her husband was alive,” I retort.

  “You don’t believe someone can see someone and fall in love?”

  “Without knowledge of that person’s character?” I shake my head. “You surprise me, Lucas. I took you for a cynic.”

  He gives an honest laugh. “I’m a cynic. But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in passion or the perfect union between two people.”

  I think about Lucas and public restrooms, and then I wish I didn’t.

  “You have that look on your face again,” he says, his fingers flexing on the wheel. “What thoughts are going through your head?”

  I bite my tongue, frowning as Lucas exits and pulls into a lot. He turns to look at me and waits expectantly. “I guess, how are you going about looking for this perfect union? Or is that not what you’re doing?” I hedge awkwardly.

  Lucas veils his eyes with his lids, lowering his head to the side for a moment. “It’s probably best if you don’t think about my actions too much,” he eventually says.

  “Considering that I’m in a car with someone who normally isn’t polite to me, I can assure you I don’t think about your actions enough,” I retort. My words elicit a wry smile.

  “This might be the first time you’ve spoken so much. It’s—refreshing.” There’s an open honesty between us as he confesses, “I rather like it.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” I warn him drily.

  His eyes grow serious. “I won’t.”

  Lucas and I have our Thanksgiving meal together, then end up on a long walk discussing classes. We end the day reading books together quietly. This is not the Lucas Rhodes who dismisses me publicly or pretends I’m barely alive. He’s relatable the entire time.

  But after sleeping on it, I worry that he’s playing me. That makes me less benevolent when, the next morning, he wakes me for another walk.

  “Seriously? I’m trying to sleep in,” I gripe, staring at him dressed and alert and completely kickable.

  The Elite bastard checks his nonexistent watch. “How are you still sleeping at this hour?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I didn’t feel like being alone.”

  “Solitude is healthy for your soul. Oh, wait, I forgot who I’m talking to,” I say sourly, walking to my dresser to run a brush through my hair. “Give me a damn minute and stop lurking by my doorway.” I slam the door in his obnoxious face.

  After I’m brushed and vaguely presentable, I find him leaning on the wall with a half-smile plastered on his face.

  Dressed in a black wool coat, his white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, Lucas’s completely unruffled and calm. He’ll have to make do with me in my sweats. “You’re rather testy this morning,” he remarks, but the little smile tells me he knows why I’m annoyed.

  “What will you do if you leave Highbury?” Lucas asks as we start on a path.

  Clearly, Lucas is anxious for me to leave Highbury Academy. “Why do you all hate me so much? Why do you want me to leave so badly?”

  Lucas stops and confusingly stares at me. He brushes a lock of my hair back. “It’s – not about hate. You can’t be here, Elena. This place…it isn’t right for you. You don’t belong here. You’re clever, talented. Go anywhere but here.”

  I can’t tell Lucas why I’m at Highbury. I can’t tell him I’m a Spark. In many ways, I do belong at Highbury. And maybe that’s why I can’t completely commit to leaving. “That’s it? You just want me gone? No tolerance for one charity case?” I laugh harshly to myself.

  “You have a choice.” Lucas’s voice becomes faintly bitter. “You can choose to leave. Some of us don’t have the luxury over our lives.” When he sees my incredulous glare, he adds, “I don’t get to choose which school I go to or who I marry or what I do. Everything I do is to my father’s benefit.”

  All because he loves his money more than he loves himself, I think sadly. I’m glad my father left me nothing. I want to coo Poor little rich boy, but I don’t. “We are all capable of making choices. You just need to decide what you’re willing to give up for that freedom.”

  When we end our walk, I keep my eyes averted. “Your—attempt—between us. Stop. Amuse yourself some other way. You’re just trying to soften me up before telling me to leave again. I’m not playing your mind games.”

  That night, I check in with John and Mom. She’s lucid, speaking slowly but deliberately. John plans to spend the weekend visiting her at Rosebud and we agree to check in nightly. I go to bed smiling.

  CHAPTER 8

  The school “treats” the students to the ski lodge either right before Christmas or in the middle of February. Each year goes to the school’s private lodge for three days. This year, the snow comes early in the mountains, so the second-year students are sent up before Christmas break. I don’t have any of the gear – I’ve never been skiing or snowboarding in my entire life. Katrina shows me a few snowsuits online, but I gag at the prices. I could buy enough food to feed an army! Eventually, I cave and borrow one of Katrina’s outfits, although I have no intention of heading out into the snow whatsoever.

  The lodge has fifty rooms, so Katrina and I agree to be roommates. The twins, of course, pick each other – “I’ve been stuck with this bastard a
ll my life,” Bruce complains – and they show me the trails which I will never ski down.

  As I walk into the lodge, dusting my shoes off, Katrina remarks, “The lodge belonged to the Spark family. But when Peter Spark died, he granted it to the school. He’s like a legend. It’s too bad that family line pretty much died out.”

  I freeze while bent over when I hear Peter’s name. It’s a terrible idea because I feel a smack on my bottom and jump up. Mason grins at me. “It was a nice view,” he says as I’m torn between horror and embarrassment.

  Katrina saves me by striking the back of her brother’s head. “You’re so crude, Mason! You can’t smack girls on the bottom, you arrogant pig!” She is positively scandalized. “That’s harassment!” She berates him until he flees from her rage after mouthing a hasty apology.

  After we dump our items in the room – to be honest, I’m carrying half of Katrina’s things – we head down to meet the twins. Bruce and Charles have found a spot by the fireplace and have reserved two seats for us. I hesitate, seeing the Elite boys on the other side. Vanessa has draped herself over Mason’s swimmer physique – it’s impressive that she can with that substantial frontal anatomy – but he seems more interested in talking to Oliver. Katrina blatantly scowls at Vanessa. Brock has three Inner Circle girls giggling, and one of them is perched in his lap. Kiana, fluttering her fake lashes, pouts as Lucas ignores her in her new red outfit, but that doesn’t stop her from complaining about it and running her hand down his arm.

  Vanessa runs her hand through Mason’s brown hair and purrs, “Shall we hit the hot tub or sauna first?” I avert my gaze because it seems intimate. For some reason, students at this school have an aversion to privacy. Katrina makes a loud gagging sound.

  I plop down next to Charles, my arms a little sore from lugging Katrina’s “things.” Honestly, how many times will Katrina change her clothes in three days? I have a bag shoved with jeans, sweats, long-sleeved shirts, and underwear. Oh, and a cheap swimsuit I bought at Target because Katrina said I needed it.

 

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