Ace of Spades

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

  I plug the keyboard into the wall and it comes alive, the small square monitor in the corner flashing. I put my headphones on, running my fingers over the black-and-white plastic keys, pressing a few, letting a messy melody slip out, before I sit back, close my eyes, and picture the ocean. Bluish green with fish swimming and bright sea plants. I jump in, and I’m immersed in the water.

  The familiar sense of peace rises inside, and my hands stretch toward the piano.

  And then I play.

  2

  CHIAMAKA

  Monday

  High school is like a kingdom, only instead of temperamental royals, golden thrones, and designer outfits flown in from Europe, the hallways are filled with loud postpubescent teens, the classrooms with rows of wooden desks and students dressed in ugly plaid skirts, navy-colored slacks, and stiff blue blazers.

  In this kingdom, the queen doesn’t inherit the crown. To get to the top, she destroys whoever she needs to. Here, every moment is crucial; there are no do-overs. One mistake can have you sent to the bottom of the food chain with the girls who have imaginary boyfriends and wear polyester unironically. It sounds dramatic, but this is the way things are and the way they will always be.

  The people at the top in high school get into the best colleges, get the best jobs, go on to run the country, and win Nobel Prizes. The rest end up with dead-end jobs, heart failure, and then have to start an affair with their assistant to create some excitement in their otherwise dull lives.

  And it’s all because they weren’t willing to put in the work to make it in high school.

  Maintaining popularity at a place like Niveus is not about how many friends you have. It’s about looking the part, having the best grades, and dating the right people. You have to make everyone wish they were you, wish they had your life. I know to an outsider, it seems horrible—making people self-conscious, feeding off their envy, destroying anyone who gets in your way—but I learned early on that it’s either kill or be killed. And if I had to stop and feel bad for every instance I’ve had to step on someone’s toes to keep the crown, I’d be very bored.

  Besides, regardless of whether it’s me or someone else, there will always be a kingdom, a throne, and a queen.

  I stare down at the badge with Senior Head Prefect, Chiamaka engraved into the shiny gold metal. It’s weird that after three years of fighting my way up to the top of the ladder, it can all be summarized by something so small and seemingly insignificant. I find myself smiling as I run my thumb over the cold surface. Even though it’s so minute in the grand scheme of things, it’s what I’ve wanted since I was a freshman, and now I have it.

  “Your badge is really pretty, Chi. Congrats,” Ruby says as I walk out of Lion. She and Ava, the other girl I hang out with most of the time, are outside by the door, waiting. The hallway is still filled with students, talking and biding their time before the warning bell rings. The new headmaster kept me back a little longer than the other prefects, wanting to introduce himself properly.

  I’m hoping I made a good first impression on him. That first image someone has of you is etched into their minds forever, but the new head didn’t seem that enthused by me. He just stared at me coldly, like I had insulted his tacky suit or told him his tie didn’t match his shoes. I did none of that, I was polite. And yet …

  I slip the badge into my blazer pocket and wipe the smile off my face with a shrug, not wanting to seem too eager.

  “Thanks.” I look down to Ruby’s badge—dark blue—pinned proudly to her chest. “You too.”

  She gives me a toothy, empty smile, her green eyes wide as she says, “Thank you, Chi.”

  I raise an eyebrow. Usually there’s more from Ruby, a subtle jab that seems harmless to most but that I know isn’t.

  “I mean, it’s such a shame they don’t always give certain titles to the people who deserve them … But, you’ll look great in the prefect photograph at the end of the year, Chi.”

  There it is.

  I smile again as we walk through the hallway, heading toward my locker. “I know I will. I’m so glad you’ll finally be in the photograph with me. It only took, what—three years?”

  Ruby’s teeth are still bared as she nods. “That’s right, three years.”

  Ava clears her throat. “What did you guys think of the new headmaster?” she asks as we get to my locker, clearly wanting to defuse the tension and stop the weird power play Ruby has been trying with me since last year.

  Some days it’s like Ruby is praying for my downfall; other days she seems satisfied with where she stands at school. Then again, that’s Ruby. The catty, spoiled daughter of a senator. Even though I’ve known her since middle school, we only started speaking in high school, when I became someone worth speaking to, I guess. Anyway, she’s always been a bitch, but maybe that’s why we gravitated toward each other. Girls like us, unafraid to speak our minds, tend to do well together.

  I met Ava in sophomore year, when she transferred to Niveus from some posh private school in England. She’s this pretty, blond bombshell who everyone immediately took a liking to, with her British accent and her straightforward persona. I actually don’t mind hanging around her that much. Unlike Ruby, she’s nice and honest—most of the time.

  “The new head is kind of scary. Where’s he even from?” I ask, shoving my purse into my locker, glad to not have to continue playing this exhausting game with Ruby so early in the morning. I can’t wait to go to class and get away from her snide remarks.

  Most people think the three of us are friends, since we’re almost always seen together.

  But we’re not friends.

  Our relationship is a transaction. I need a close, attractive circle. Small, because the smaller your group, the less people know about you—and the more they want to know. And, in return, Ava and Ruby like how powerful the three of us are together.

  Ruby perks up, the way she always does whenever she has information that I don’t. Her fiery curls light up as she beams, leaning in. “I hear he’s from England, used to be the headmaster at some strict private boarding school.”

  “I didn’t even know Headmaster Collins was stepping down,” I say, annoyed that I have to restart all the work I’ve put in over the past three years with him. Especially given Headmaster Ward’s unwelcoming, icy demeanor. I grab some ChapStick from my pocket just as someone taps my shoulder. I turn to face a familiar bright-eyed sophomore carrying a cup holder with two drinks.

  “Morning, Chi. I got you a soy latte and a cinnamon latte on my way to school. Wasn’t sure which you’d prefer … I remembered from last year that you liked them both, but if you change your mind, I can bring you something else tomorrow,” she says, cheeks flushed as she rambles. I take the cinnamon one, relief spreading across her face.

  “Thank you, Rachel,” I say, taking a sip of the coffee and turning back to Ruby and Ava.

  “Actually, it’s Moll—”

  “He seemed fine before summer,” I continue.

  “I heard Collins had some kind of nervous breakdown,” Ava chimes in, and I shoot her a look that makes her shrink back a little. I understand Ruby knowing things I don’t; she always has her claws in other people’s business. But Ava too? I’ve clearly been slacking over the summer.

  Before I can pry further, my vision goes dark, hands clamped over my eyes. I don’t have to see to know it’s Jamie.

  “Guess who,” he says in a low voice. A part of me hopes the people in the hallway are watching. I can almost hear their thoughts … Did Chiamaka and Jamie get together over the summer? They’d make the perfect couple. I’d kill to be Chiamaka … All of them, drowning in envy. I smile at the possibility.

  “Hmm … Tall, dark, handsome, and missing billions of brain cells?” I say.

  The hands slip away and I can see again; Ruby’s face is unsurprised and Ava gives a sly smile.

  “Correct,” he says, before kissing my head and ruffling my hair like I’m his dog or his little sister. I hope n
o one saw that. I smooth my hair, avoiding Ruby’s and Ava’s gazes.

  “We should probably head to class,” Ruby says, and I can hear the delight in her voice. She loves any moment of weakness she can find, and I guess my only weak spot, despite all the hard work I’ve put into being perfect, is the fact that Jamie is still my best friend and not my boyfriend.

  For now, anyway.

  I force a smile. “Ruby’s right. Don’t want to make a bad impression on the new headmaster, especially now that I’ve been made Senior Head Prefect—not that that was a surprise.”

  Jamie laughs, shaking his head. “You’re too cocky. What made you so sure you were gonna get it this year?”

  I shrug even though I know why I was so sure. Every year since sophomore year—freshmen can’t be prefects—I’ve been Head Prefect. It’s not luck, it’s science. I deserve it, no matter what anyone says.

  I get straight As, and I’m the president of debate club, Young Medics, and model UN. I can speak four languages, five if you count English, and I’m going to Yale for pre-med, or at least that’s the plan. There’s no one else who makes more sense for the role of Senior Head Prefect than I do—and there’s no one else who’s worked harder for it.

  Head Prefect is the icing on the cake. It tells universities like Yale that I care about Niveus—which I do—and that I’m a leader—which I am. I’m more than qualified for Head Prefect. Even though I know I shouldn’t care, it annoys me that when girls know what they want and how they’re going to get it, they’re seen as cocky. But guys who know what they want? They’re confident or strong. The reason I should be Head Prefect is because I’ve earned it, and Jamie out of everyone should know that.

  I know he probably didn’t mean it that way, though, so I brush off his comment as we head out of the crowded hallway. As I’ve come to expect over the past three years, the sea of blue parts; people move aside as we pass through, drinking in our faces, clothes, and hair. I always opt for a simple look: today it’s black thigh-high socks, a velvet Dolce & Gabbana jacket, and suede Jimmy Choo pumps. The more it looks like you didn’t try, the better. I place my hand in my blazer pocket, feeling the badge again, the one thing to show for all my achievements. Everything I’ve overcome.

  I feel this energy coursing through me, excitement bubbling inside. I’m not sure what it is—maybe it’s finally being a senior, or maybe it is me being cocky—but something tells me that this year will be different from the others.

  That this year will finally be the year everything falls into place; the year that will make all the blood, sweat, and tears worthwhile.

  3

  DEVON

  Monday

  One of the only silver linings of being at Niveus is getting to miss some of my classes to work on my Juilliard audition piece.

  Ever since I mentioned the possibility of applying to Juilliard, Mr. Taylor has helped “fix” the problem of my attendance. Going to the best colleges is something of a priority for us Niveus students, and so it’s not all that unusual to see upperclassmen miss classes for extra lessons in their chosen majors.

  Like now. After first period ended, Mr. Taylor let me move to one of the smaller practice rooms. I’m meant to be in my fourth-period math class, but instead I’m here poking random notes out of the keyboard. I swivel in my chair, reaching for more blank music sheets from the cabinet behind me, but when I tug the drawer, it doesn’t give. I let out a sigh and drag myself out of the chair. I keep a large stack of music sheets in my locker for times when I need to scribble down ideas for new melodies.

  I sprint down the steps and through the doors that lead to the hallway where my locker is, stopping short when the students there pause to stare at me. All of them. Some smile with teeth and others look at me with calculating glares. As if they know me. People usually look right through me, like my body is covered by some invisibility cloak. It’s weird that they aren’t in class, not that I can judge or anything, seeing as I’m not in class either.

  I edge toward my locker, feeling a little confused and disoriented.

  “Is that the guy?” someone whispers. I turn back to find some of their gazes still fixed on me.

  I try to focus on entering my combination, and not the sound of someone gasping, or what feel like judgmental stares digging into my back.

  1 … 8 … 6—I start, but a tap on my shoulder interrupts me, and I drop my hand. I’m met by Mindy Lion, a girl in my music class who I speak to sometimes, whose long purple hair and bright purple lipstick are impossible to ignore, whether you want to or not.

  “Hey, Devon … Are you okay?” she asks, face filled with pity—which is really weird, because one, I don’t suffer from resting bitch face, so I assume I look fine, and two, Mindy and I are acquaintances at most.

  “Yeah, you?” I ask, because apparently we care about each other like that now.

  “Yeah, of course. I just wanted to come over, because I know how hard it must be with the picture circulating and everything.”

  “What picture?”

  Her mouth drops open.

  “You haven’t seen it?” she asks.

  I shake my head, trying to look unbothered. I glance up; the people behind Mindy are blatantly rubbernecking at us now.

  “What picture?” I repeat, my voice breaking a little. It’s like my body knows before my mind that whatever she’s talking about, it’s not good.

  Mindy fumbles around in her bright red designer bag and pulls her phone out, tapping, then presenting the screen to me.

  I blink, looking at her phone closely. It’s a picture of two guys. I glance back up at her, because what has this got to do with me? But then a weird thought pulls my eyes back down to the picture. It’s not just two guys, it’s two familiar figures—one with a bruised neck, and the other, a face I know all too well. I see it every day in the mirror. They are in a room, their lips locked.

  My stomach flips and jerks out of my body, heartbeat stopping altogether.

  Oh my fucking god.

  4

  CHIAMAKA

  Monday

  I’m in pain.

  Not the type of pain that hurts because it’s bad, but the type that hurts from laughing so hard, everything starts to ache.

  I attempt to look away from Jamie, who is the cause of all this. The only downside to having my best friend as my lab partner is painful laughter and distraction from the task at hand.

  He rips part of a page from his notebook and rolls it up into a thin cylinder before placing the end of it in the Bunsen burner’s flame. He brings it up to his lips and pretends to take a drag.

  “I’m so tortured. I listen to The 1975. I dyed my hair pink to be ironic since, you know, my soul is black, and my Christian name is Peter, but my clan calls me Tortured Stone—because I’m obviously tortured but really badass.”

  I put my hand up.

  “I’m requesting a different lab partner,” I say, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my white lab coat.

  Jamie pushes my hand back down.

  “Look at your options, Chi.” He gestures to the other tables around us. “You could sit with Lance, who breaks every piece of equipment he’s given; Clara, who eats the materials; or me: literal perfection.”

  I roll my eyes. None of that is true. Well, except maybe the last part.

  Jamie quirks an eyebrow up at me, eyes a little narrowed like he’s daring me to question him and his inflated ego. And he has the audacity to call me cocky. His golden freckles dance along his cheeks as his smile widens.

  “I guess you’re right,” I say, giving in.

  He looks triumphant. “Good choice, Chi, good choice.”

  He changes the flame from orange to blue, like the instructions say we should, his wrists covered with the colorful string bracelets his mom got him from her trip to India last summer.

  I place my hand on my stomach, which is still aching from laughing so hard.

  “Start packing up, five minutes until the end of class,” Mr.
Peterson tells us.

  Jamie groans, pouting at the Bunsen burner like a child.

  I turn the gas off and load our equipment onto the white tray it came from—much to Jamie’s annoyance. He loves controlling anything to do with fire in our experiments. I think his pyromania started in sophomore year, after a long summer at the camp a select few Niveus students get invited to annually, not that I care or anything. Everyone knows that legacy kids are the only ones who get invited to those events.

  Legacy kids = Niveus students with superpowerful parents and generations of family members who’ve attended Niveus Academy. Aka Jamie’s entire family from the beginning of time. My parents aren’t American and they don’t have old American money, just old Italian money, so I don’t get the same “privileges” as the legacy kids. Honestly, things would be a lot easier if I were one. My future would be more certain, and I wouldn’t have to work so hard.

  Jamie’s known since he was in diapers that he’ll get into any Ivy League school he wants, inherit his father’s billion-dollar company, have connections in any important organization here in America, and never really have to work a day in his life. I want my future to look as seamless as his, everything perfectly laid out. Money can only get you so far; you need power and influence to go with it, and the Fitzjohns—Jamie’s family—have all three.

  “I need to tell you something at lunch,” Jamie whispers. The intensity of his voice makes me jump a little. I nod, his shoulder brushing against mine. Jamie thrives on attention. Every single touch—every hand graze, every elbow nudge, you name it—is purposeful. He knows how to make sure he’s the only person you’re focusing on. That plus his winning smile are what make him irresistible; I’ve seen him charm his way out of homework and parking tickets. I’m pretty sure he’d flirt with Death herself if there wasn’t a possibility that he’d die and not be the center of attention anymore.

  “Sure, Lola’s?” I ask, trying to sound casual.