by LJ Byrne
Lucas holds his pencil aloft. “Already? I’m still working on the last two.”
I remember myself. “I must’ve done the last two wrong,” I mutter, pretending to look at my problems. I start working on a different assignment, surreptitiously writing my answers down. I peek up at Lucas and he’s taut with frustration.
Mason watches our exchange with narrowed eyes. “How are you doing academically, Elena?” he asks, tucking his fingers beneath his chin. He’s been waiting for us to finish.
“Okay. Not failing anything,” I mutter, reading over my answers.
“Ever had your IQ tested?” Mason continues.
Lucas's eyes flash with annoyance at his fellow Elite. “We’re trying to get this done before we tackle Literature,” he snaps at Mason.
But I consider Mason’s words. The short answer is no, I haven’t ever been tested. I’m different. Been that way since Day 1. I see numbers and musical notes in the air. Images come alive when I close my eyes. I struggled in elementary, hid in middle school, and barely found my bearing as I began high school. My life revolved around Mom’s mental well-being (or lack thereof) and taking care of John when I could.
If there’s anything I’ve gained from Highbury, it’s that time to think more and react less. Lately, I’ve been thinking about my biological father. Not in the oh-I-wish-we-had-time-to-bond sort of way. I wish I knew how he did academically, what his talents were, what made him that way. In all my years, I’ve never been curious about Peter Spark, but now I am. What would happen if I learned we were alike in more ways than one?
And what would these Elites say if they knew who my father was?
I never want to be like them.
I’m not able to consider things further. Brock finds us in the library, a wicked glint in his green eyes. He leans on the table, blocking Mason from speaking to me as he brings his head close to mine. “Come with me to the end of year dance. The one right before the last day concert.”
I hear Mason curse beneath his breath. “Brock, get out of here,” he says in a dark voice.
“Not until she answers me,” Brock responds, trapping my hand with his. “Come on, we’ll play music all night long. No one gets music the way you do. And no one gets music the way I do.”
Lucas crosses his arms over his chest. “Perhaps she doesn’t want to go with you. After all, she has more than one option.”
Brock’s lips thin. “I asked first.”
“She has at least three options,” Mason growls, standing up to look at me.
“Three?” I know I have that deer in headlights expression on my face.
“Three out of four Elite boys are asking you to be their date,” Lucas says, his disdain for the other two boys obvious. There’s a certain arrogance in the way he regards me. “I rule everything here. And I’m asking you to be my date to the party.”
It isn’t the sheer cockiness that gets me. It’s the way he implies that he can smooth everything over and keep it that way. Then there’s Mason, who just looks at me all the time, and Brock who laughed when the girls threw me in the mud.
I grab my things. “Contact me when you’re done with math. And when you two feel like getting work done.” I leave before they can reply.
CHAPTER 11
Lucas continues to puzzle me. I can’t forget the boy who walked with me during Thanksgiving, who watched Casablanca, and who listened to me play. Then there’s Lucas the Elite. He burns hot and cold, acts like a brat, and is generally unpleasant. Two sides of a coin.
Spring break is right around the corner. Katrina tells me her family’s going to the Caribbean. The twins are heading to Australia. Me? I debate calling Edgar Maverick. After agonizing about it, I leave him a voicemail and he calls me back promptly.
“I know I can Google this, but I want to know… Do I have surviving relatives on my father’s side?” I ask in a rush.
I hear the surprise in Edgar’s voice at my question. “You do. Your paternal grandmother is still alive. I’m not sure about cousins.”
I close my eyes as I curl up on my bed. “Does she know about me?” My stomach twists with anxiety.
“To be honest, I don’t know. I never asked Pete.” He pauses. “I could probably arrange an introduction, but you are aware of the risks. The more questions you ask, the more questions people will ask about you.”
“I was just curious.” I unclench my hands. “You went to school together at Highbury. What was he like?”
“In one word: intense. He might have been the smartest person I’ve ever met. He was an inventor and he was obsessed with forcing the world to bend to him. He was also restless. He could never sit still. He was impatient with people. He didn’t empathize. I don’t think, as a father, he would’ve been very likable.”
I think about the lodge and music room. “I see his last name on buildings here. He’s practically worshipped by the administration.”
Edgar then says, “You’re wondering how much of that genius transferred to you.” When I’m silent, he continues, “I got a video of you playing the piano. I think Brock recorded it originally. You’ve never had professional lessons. You improvised music with Henry Caruso. And you already know where you are academically. You’re starting to realize that there’s something more to you than a girl who takes care of her mother.”
“Is that why you wanted me to come here? Because you wanted to see how much of my father exists in me?”
“Perhaps. Don’t be afraid of embracing who you are. You may have your father’s genius, but you are not him,” Edgar advises, and I realize I have a lot to think about.
Hours after we end our chat, as I read messages left on my latest video post, I’m still thinking about what he’s told me. It doesn’t surprise me when I receive a text message from Edgar.
E Maverick: Her name is Corinne Spark. I’ve attached her contact information if you should ever change your mind.
I hand Lucas two books we should reference for our paper. I hate philosophy. Actually, that’s not true. I suck at philosophy. Give me a weak-acid equilibrium problem any day. The only good thing is that we get René Descartes, who was a mathematician first and a philosopher later – or at least, I like to think so.
“If we’re going to write about his thoughts about the existence of God, don’t you think we should look at related religious texts?” Lucas asks, looking at the books in his hands.
I make a weird sound in my throat and hit my head on the table. Philosophy is so—circular. In every situation, I see everything going from Point A to Point B. But not in philosophy. “’Let’s just withdraw our minds from our senses to perceive the world through an intellectual lens,’” I mutter under my breath, running my hands through my hair in frustration. When I finally look up, Lucas’s incredulous eyes stop my grumping. “What?”
“I’m waiting for your insight,” Lucas says graciously, his open palm extended like a platter. “You’re always one step ahead of me.” The right side of his lips curls faintly. “Or have we found something that stumps you?”
“I’m not stumped. I mean, we’ll write about how clarity is achieved through a lack of senses.”
“Descartes never said that. He never discounted senses altogether.” His steely eyes narrow. “Senses are sometimes deceptive. You could perceive actions one way due to a predisposed belief, which would lead you away from the truth.”
“You’re twisting the truth to serve your purposes, Lucas. Senses can mislead, I agree, but only if you perceive the world as a playground,” I retort.
“Life is like a game,” Lucas says with a brutal smile.
“Only if you choose to play. I don’t.”
“You don’t play because you hide. You run, Elena. You hold yourself at a distance.” His hand snakes out and traps mine. “Have you ever thought about letting go? Ever think about showing me what you’re exactly feeling? You hide everything about you from the world.” Our eyes clash.
“We should stay on topic. I don’t wan
t to be here all-night working on this paper.” I try to pull my hand free, but he holds it long enough to rub his thumb over the pulse point on my wrist. I pause. “You’re such a puzzle, Lucas. Weren’t you trying to convince me to leave? Sometimes, I think there’s more to you than that mean, rich kid you pretend to be.”
Lucas’s mouth opens and then closes. “Have you thought more about the dance and who you’re going with?” he asks, opening his book.
That topic again. I flip open my iPad and reread the assignment. “Nope.”
“And when will you decide?”
“So, are we going with proving God exists or whether clarity and insight are needed to discover the truth?” I look at him placidly despite his mocking smile.
“The latter.”
During dinner, Lucas, Mason, and Brock each leave me a box of chocolates. Each box has a personalized card attached. Eyes are on me after they deliver the boxes to me one by one. I eye the boxes like they’re filled with vipers. When I glance over at the Elite table, the Elite girls sneer at me and Vanessa starts arguing with Lucas. But what bothers me is the strange look of anticipation on Oliver’s face. I’m missing something.
Charles and Bruce hold their criticisms, but Charles warns me, “The girls are still out to get you, Elena. Be careful.”
It isn’t out of the question. I guess they could torch my room. I look at each card and read the handwritten notes. Lucas’s letters are bold and distinct. Mason’s writing is sloppy. Brock’s writing is slanted. I could analyze their writing, the angle of their sentences, the curve of their letters.
Katrina bumps my shoulder. “There isn’t a girl in school who wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. Except for me. Because it’s Mason – like, eww.” She flutters her lashes a bit at Bruce. I’m certain she’s waiting for Bruce to ask her anyway. “But are you going to accept any of them?” Katrina looks over her shoulder at her brother. “They’re looking to see what you do.”
I run my fingers absently over the boxes. I remove the cards from each box and pocket them. What if the chocolates are tainted? Would Mason run the risk that I might offer them to Katrina? It doesn’t feel right to accept them. It seems rude to give them back or feed them to other people.
“You don’t have to pick those three at all,” Charles says, and I get a lump in my throat. His blue eyes, darker than his twin’s, linger on my hands. “You could go with—a friend.”
I’m having one of those What the hell is happening moments. Am I not the girl that’s ignored, the one who everyone whispers about behind closed doors? I want to hide behind my mask forever and remain overlooked by the world.
“Every girl at this school – save you and Katrina – pine for the Elite boys,” Charles begins. “It’s because you know they’re full of it. They’re incapable of anything real.”
Bruce is silent, watching his brother speak from his heart.
“Elena, I think we’d be good together—” He breaks off when I stand up.
“Don’t do this,” I whisper, grabbing my bag like a shield. It isn’t just the fact that I don’t want to hurt him. It’s the fact that I see him as safe. I stand up and Charles stands up and I already see the pain.
You don’t play because you hide.
Don’t be afraid of embracing who you are.
“Elena,” Charles begins, and I start to see the world shatter in front of me.
“I’m sorry.” I prove Lucas right. I run.
CHAPTER 12
When Spring break begins, nothing is resolved. Charles and I aren’t talking. I begin to avoid the Elite boys altogether. I do, however, decide to contact my grandmother.
The time I spend with John grounds me. Mom had a few setbacks after Christmas, but when we visit her, she’s getting ready to plant in the garden. We start seeds with her, and she remembers that I’m still in school. But after a few days at home, I return to the academy two days early.
I leave a message for Corinne Spark. Three hours later, she returns my call.
I don’t get to explain anything. She says, “I know who you are, Elena. I know you’re Peter’s daughter. I will send a car for you tomorrow morning at nine. Be ready.”
I wear my school uniform because I don’t know what else to wear. A silent butler leads me to a sunroom where I find a frail, old woman sitting in her chair. According to my research, she had Peter Spark when she was forty-one. He was thirty-two when he fathered me, and she’ll be seventy-three this summer. She doesn’t rise or turn her head when I enter the room, simply gesturing to the chair across from her. I decline a drink and the butler leaves.
Corinne Spark was a famous beauty in her youth. She has had no work done and every line on her face tells me a story. Her bright blue eyes dart to my face and then to the window.
“I know who you are.” Her voice, though strong, has the faint waver of age. Her thin, pale hands lie in her lap, but the fingers rub the blanket resting there with restless energy. “I know who you are,” she repeats, this time pointing at me.
A chill runs up my spine.
“I know all about you. Peter thought I didn’t know, but I knew. I knew my son better than he knew himself.” Her lips settle into a haughty line. “Are you here hoping to get some of that money? Is that why you’re here?”
I find my voice. “No. No, I don’t want his money. I don’t want the Spark fortune.” I lick my lips. “I hate to tell you this, but I see him as nothing more than a sperm donor. But since I’ve been at Highbury Academy, I can’t help but wonder what he was like at my age.” I grasp for the right words. “Sometimes, I feel different. When I tackle a problem, I can see the pieces move in my head.”
Corinne rocks back and forth. “Good. I have no intention of giving you any money.” She pauses. “What you describe, though… Peter was the same way. He had musical talent, too, you know. And I know you play the piano.” At my surprise, she nods. “I’ve had reports on you since Peter died.”
I shake my head. “Why?”
“Do you know I was a mathematician in my youth?” Corinne asks me. When I tell her no, she says, “Yes, I had plans. I was brilliant.” She sighs, shrinking into her chair. “But my family had other plans. My husband had other plans. I gave up, had two children. My firstborn was unremarkable. He died young.” Her callousness surprises me. “But Peter… He had my genius. He had more than that. And because of that, I destroyed him.”
She waits for her words to sink in.
Her mirthless smile grows bitter. “How does a mother destroy her child? I gave him everything.” She makes a cutting gesture with her bony hands. “I gave him everything, but I never taught him to fail, to fear. He was restless. All he learned was to want and want. He wanted to turn the world on its head and mold the world with his bare hands. He loved nothing but himself and those who indulged him. Edgar Maverick is possibly the only friend he had, you know. A word here or there. I knew Edgar would eventually seek you out.” She laughs to herself. She’s rambling a little, moving on tangents.
“You kept track of me because of Peter, then?” I ask.
“I wanted to know what kind of person you were. I did not want my taint to touch you. At first, I respected Peter’s decision to have nothing to do with your mother.” She shrugs. “After he died, though… Yes, I kept an eye on you.”
“Was there anything wrong with him mentally?” I finally ask. I’m nervous she’ll be offended.
“Ah. Don’t you know, Elena? Genius and madness are often intertwined.” Her face softens. “Don’t be afraid of it. Embrace it. You think there is something wrong with you. You feel you are on the verge of madness. It is then when your brilliance shines, Elena. I know. I know. Don’t become like me. An old woman who never solved the mysteries she wanted to. I left you alone so I wouldn’t taint you with my mistakes. Stand up!”
I jump to my feet. She makes me turn around. “Yes,” she says to herself. “I wanted to wait until you were fully grown. But you came first, so it must be alright.”
“I don’t wish to.”
Corinne snaps. “Why not? The Sparks have dominated the world for centuries. Our legacy, our bloodline, is impeccable.”
“I don’t want it.” I think about the Elites. “I’ve seen what money can do to people. I don’t want that for myself.”
“You’re not angry about not getting his money? You have a right to it,” she declares, which is strange since she said I would never get a penny, but I shake my head.
“If he had raised me, maybe I would have a right. But I don’t want his money. I’m only at Highbury for my mother.”
“I know,” she whispers, and there is a sad look on her face. “I know.” Her eyes close. “I am weary now. I have answered your questions.”
I go over to shake her hand, but she waves me off. “My driver will take you back to school, Elena. Perhaps, when the school year is over, I will call you. Perhaps I will show you some of my work.” Her wrinkled lids flutter against her cheek.
“I’d like that.”
“You will call me Corinne. Not grandmother.”
“Of course, Corinne.”
I use the extra time to create music and get ahead on academics. I know, I can’t sit still. My latest piece I call “Morphing.” Yes, I know it’s heavy on the symbolism, but it’s the only way I know how to address my feelings. At night, I dwell about my strange grandmother and wonder why there is nothing normal about my life.
Lucas returns early, too, and strangely enough, when he realizes I’m at the school early, stops by. He doesn’t ask me about the end of the year party, but he’s sporting a black eye and a bruise along his cheekbone. I don’t ask questions, but at some point, he tells me that it was “over a girl.” I haven’t seen him tumbling out of restrooms lately – again, eww – and when we walk around the school talking, there’s a quiet need to him that I can’t place.