Complicit in His Chaos Book 1: Tempted

by Keilan Shea

  My hand glides across book spines, a sorry attempt at grasping reality, and a sudden turn leads me into a display case. My knees hit the glass edge and transmit the shooting pain to my watering eyes. I turn my head to face it and am met with a pair of probing beady red eyes. My breath hitches.

  “Follow the White Rabbit, Melody. Do you see him?”

  I cover my ears with my hands, driving my fingers as deep inside as they’ll go. My head aches and pounds, but I don’t relent. I don’t want to remember that. Standing on the roof of a rundown apartment building, buffeted by the cold, violent wind during a storm, Faith Turner told me to “follow the White Rabbit.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and, under my breath, I chant, “I’m not crazy.”

  I’m not crazy.

  I’m not crazy.

  CHAPTER 6

  At last, the pressure chases off the torrent. A dull headache thuds inside my temples and I fully expect to see blood dripping down my fingertips since they’re hot and damp, but everything is fine. Everything is normal. The balding, waistcoat-wearing white rabbit examining me from inside the display case is a stuffed animal. Other timeworn items reside behind the glass—ink illustrations, playing cards, and a blond-haired doll—but they’re all pieces of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll.

  This is the one fairy tale, the one fantasy, I despise. Faith never mentioned it to me, but maybe she read it once as a kid before her schizophrenia manifested and it flared in her subconscious, influencing her hallucinations and delusions. I picked up the book by chance when I was in elementary school. It felt as if I were peering into her mind; it repelled me from reading for a while after because I thought the stories might infiltrate my mind and alter my perception, essentially turning me into Faith.

  I know better now, but I’ll never like Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Since it has a display, though, there’s a good chance Lancaster Library has a fantasy section.

  I traipse down more hallways, squinting at faraway signs and adjusting my glasses until I find it. There is, in fact, a sizable space dedicated to fantasy. I make a beeline for it, my previous vigor renewed. For some reason, I didn’t think fantasy would be part of Gilded Academy’s vast collection. Maybe a couple of Gildeds are famous fiction authors. Most authors are poor, but some of them make it rich, so it’s not that far-fetched. And if you already have the funds to market your products in every way possible, like a Gilded, the rest is history.

  I eye the bookcases and spot a ladder. Now that I have the opportunity to use a ladder, I question it. I have slight acrophobia—but it won’t stop me. I drift to a bookcase containing books by authors whose last names begin with H. It must be my subconscious at work, because when I climb the first couple of rungs (nothing high enough to make my knees weak), I find the last name Harris and The Sister Star. The entire series. I tell myself there are a million other books to read and that I own physical and digital copies of this series. I grab the first volume and shove it into my backpack anyway. It’s the first edition with the cutout-style cover art instead of the oil-painted cover art of the second edition. Both depict the main character, a sun elf, but the former is a vague rendering of her, which I prefer. There’s just something raw about initial print runs. Like the typos!

  I continue like that. The fantasy section is where I stay. I’m not sure for how long, but long enough to fill my backpack to bursting. I don’t even make it past the third rung on the ladder. By the end, I’m puffing and straining with a pile of books on my back and in my arms. I remind myself that I’m not allowed to check out any more than I can carry in my backpack and return the armful one book at a time. It’s a shame. My arms become lighter, but my heart becomes heavier. I take pictures of the spines so that I won’t forget about them, which makes saying goodbye—for now—bearable.

  It’s time to find somewhere secluded to read, preferably a window nook as it’s every bookworm’s dream. I’d seek out the rooftop garden and possible solarium, but according to what Lucas said, there’s a white rabbit up there. I huff, adjusting my backpack and grabbing the straps to distribute the weight differently. I’m not too far from the lobby, so I return to it and stand in front of the spiral staircase and glass elevator, both vying for my attention. The elevator wins because I’m not a masochist. Except maybe I am because the floor is glass. I don’t remember that detail or think about it until the world drops beneath me and I float up as if I’m a helium-filled balloon.

  My stomach drops, and my knuckles creak and blanch as I cling to my backpack, unable to tear my eyes away. I squeak when the elevator stops and stumble, plagued by vertigo, out its retracting door. I rest against a bookcase to get my bearings. Note to self: next time I use a glass elevator, look anywhere but the floor. I’ve been in similar elevators at Santa Monica Place, but they don’t feel so fragile and their floors aren’t glass. This is not ideal for skirts. The architect probably doesn’t wear them, but someone should have thought of this.

  I tell myself to stop contemplating design choices and walk the lowest mezzanine floor. It’s sparser than the main floor because it’s smaller, but there are plenty of bookcases, tables, and chairs. Warm sunlight filters through double-height windows and lands on the tables near them. They’re inviting, but they aren’t that nook I’m searching for. There has to be one or else those towers and turrets led me astray. Instead of crossing a bridge and tempting another round of vertigo, I continue straight until I catch the perfect window nook in my peripheral vision. It’s a half-hexagonal shape, matching the oriel window. I plop onto the edge of the seat upholstered in red velvet and observe the vista of the campus—almost. I’m between the first and second floors. It’s still a nice view, though, with a colorful array of flowers in the window boxes. And it doesn’t trigger my acrophobia. Satisfied, I unpack my books.

  I scan the covers, berate myself for having no self-control when it comes to fantasy, and rest my eyes on The Sister Star. “You should start something new,” I tell myself. It’s a weak statement when rereading the series is on my agenda and I crave the familiarity. It’s comforting, like being wrapped inside a warm blanket.

  I crack open the hardback and flip to the first page. As soon as I begin reading, voices interrupt my thoughts. All this time I’ve been alone and now that I’m ready to delve into a story there are people close by? What irony.

  Blocking them out is impossible. I recognize the quiet, sweet cadence of one voice: Theo Earnshaw. I also recognize the harsh consonants and tone from the other: Ritsuki Uchiyama.

  “Have you heard anything new from Blake?”

  “I wasn’t supposed to tell you what I did.”

  “Please.”

  “I haven’t, okay? And I have no idea what’s going on. What Blake relayed is bullshit. It makes absolutely no sense for your father to transfer him to another school when a Realtor is much better suited to his ‘task.’ I get the Gilded Sovereign may want to leave El Sol and assemble his court elsewhere, but Blake isn’t the right choice, not at seventeen. Not when he was King of Gilded Academy.”

  “He’ll come back,” Theo says. “He has to.”

  “Did Jeffery have a stroke?”

  “No. Ricky, you don’t … Never mind.”

  “What? I don’t what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Spit it out. Being cagey around me is counterproductive.”

  “I’m not. I-I wouldn’t. I don’t have anything to hide.” Theo is soft-spoken even on TV, but he’s confidently present and never stutters.

  What sounds like a growl must come from Ritsuki. I can’t imagine Theo making such a guttural noise. “I have to go, and I won’t be at Richter Palace tonight, so don’t wait up for me. Don’t go out past curfew. You’re either among a mixed crowd with your phone handy, or you’re with an ally. Don’t get caught alone. Chloe and I think a buddy system needs to be mandatory at this rate. I don’t know how much Caesar thinks he can get away with, but he’s been up to something nefarious. Maybe
blackmail. Some of Blake’s biggest supporters have fucking betrayed us; they’ve switched sides without an explanation.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  A pause ensues, and then Ritsuki clips past my nook. He misses me, failing to stop or even glance my way. I wait for Theo to follow, but he doesn’t. Maybe he retreated in the opposite direction.

  I could read now that it’s quiet, but the words they exchanged repeat, incessantly bouncing around in my skull. I’m here for the education, not this intense Gilded drama.

  Sniffling assaults my ears. Is Theo crying?

  My jaw locks, and then my teeth grind. Stopping requires a conscious effort. I can’t concentrate. Grudgingly, I hold the book to my chest and creep away from my window seat, abandoning everything scattered atop it. I peek down a neighboring bookcase-lined recess and almost miss the curled-up figure occupying the darkest corner. It’s Theo. He isn’t aware of me because his face is buried between his knees.

  Oh no.

  I should leave.

  I don’t know how to handle this.

  My feet take me backward and then forward, unable to decide on a course of action—until the rebellious things walk me straight to him. Sighing, I crouch—which almost kills me and is very unladylike in this skirt—and ask, “Are you all right?”

  Theo jerks upright and hastily wipes his stained cheeks and blue eyes. The sclerae are red with the damning evidence of recent tears. I’m intimate with these details. I’ve seen them reflected in a mirror on my once hollow-eyed face. I wasn’t always immune to fake friends.

  Theo rises and I follow suit, hand reaching out to grab his before he can flee. What am I doing? I release him and blurt, “S-sorry!”

  Then I do something truly awful. I start babbling. “Have you heard of The Sister Star? It’s my favorite fantasy series. I didn’t think I would find it here—or a fantasy section at all for that matter—but there’s a huge selection. Do you know why that is? I guess creativity, even in fantasy, can amount to something, right? But it isn’t useful like technology, something everyone can benefit from. People crave entertainment too, though, and there are Gildeds involved in that industry. I know Chloe is a big actress …”

  I can’t stop. The words just keep coming—this time in the form of a lengthy series synopsis/review. Feminism. The magic system. The competent writing.

  Theo’s face is blank, but he isn’t crying anymore and he isn’t escaping.

  Finally, my prattling ends with “You should check it out.” Then I shove the first volume of The Sister Star into Theo’s chest.

  Oh yes. I did that. Quiet, nobody me pushed a book on a boy I don’t know.

  My cheeks are on fire. I expect the book to fall to the floor with a thud because I retreat without waiting to see if Theo grabs it. Seconds tick by and I hear nothing. Timidly, I raise my head. Theo’s almost-slender arms are wrapped around the book. A tiny smile has chased off his blank expression.

  “You’re nice,” he says.

  I sputter.

  “I’m Theo.”

  “M-Melody …”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself before, and for how everyone was talking.”

  “You told them to stop.”

  “I should’ve said more.” His baby-blue eyes shift downward. “I’m not a leader like my older brother.”

  I don’t know what to say in response and don’t want to risk revealing I overheard his and Ritsuki’s conversation, so I change the subject. “You don’t have to read that book.”

  “I want to.” His smile grows a millimeter. “It sounds interesting.”

  This boy … isn’t mocking me. I’m 80 percent positive he’s being genuine. He doesn’t have anything to gain by being nice to me. If someone were spying on us, he’d probably have a lot to lose.

  I jump when a generic tune bursts from my phone—which I didn’t bring with me. Panic lights a fire under my feet. At the window nook, I fumble with my phone and silence the alarm. I had no idea the volume was up so high. I hope it didn’t bother anyone.

  “Melody?” Theo followed me.

  I explain my alarm without finesse, blathering like a nincompoop. “So, I’m taking these books to Selenite Hall and then running off to dinner. Maybe I’ll see you around.” I cringe and excuse myself.

  “We could eat together,” Theo says, stopping me in my tracks. He holds out his sleek white phone. “Want to exchange numbers? I need to drop off my book, too.”

  For a moment, I stare at his phone and try to talk myself out of it, but I say, “Okay.”

  That’s how I get Theo Earnshaw’s phone number.

  CHAPTER 7

  I strategically place the library books throughout my too-white room, offering splashes of color and grunge with the grittier covers. It’s as if I’m erecting posters—not that I’d dare. Now this space feels more like me and my scuffed Mary Janes. It’s just missing Coco.

  It’s 4:40 p.m. I better get moving. According to the digital map, it’ll take me ten minutes to reach Richter Palace. If I walk at my quickest pace. The program has tracked and learned my average speed to better advise me. Leave it to Uchiyama Tech. I expect it to be accurate, but this will be a good test.

  Oh, I have a notification, a missed call from Naomi. She must have tried to get a hold of me while I was decorating my room. Before I can respond to her, I get a text from Theo. I’ll meet you at the palace entrance. I ignore his message to text Naomi so that she won’t worry and won’t expect a call from me until before bed. Then I bring up Theo’s message. It requires a simple reply, but I type a word and then erase it to do it all over again. I’m never going to get used to this. It won’t last long enough for me to get used to it. Eventually, I succeed anyway. Coming. And realize I’ve wasted five minutes of walking time.

  I hate running. I really, truly hate it, but that’s what I do when I fly out the front doors of Selenite Hall, my shoes clacking and the door greeter reminding me to slow down. Against my will, I’ll be fit as a fiddle once I graduate.

  I’m wheezing when I join the stragglers at the Crown Gate. The gate guard scans student IDs with mind-numbing speed, eliminating any chance of congestion. I barely manage to find a secluded space to slip my ID from my bra without getting caught. Maybe I should carry my backpack everywhere or invest in a handbag. Every female student seems to have one, from small purses that can be carried on one shoulder to even smaller purses that wrap around a wrist. If I had pockets, this wouldn’t be an issue. I’d request pants if I didn’t fear the superintendent’s watch-tapping fury.

  The Embers are bustling with twittering students of all ages, a sea of crisp black and white among yellow sandstone and sunset-colored pavers, then enlivened by glimmering gold accents. Sunlight reflects and casts sparks that sizzle and leap from one surface to the next, but it’s subtle, true wealth, a shade away from gaudy. Until Richter Palace emerges from behind the stadium. Nonsensical formations present it as more of a crown than a building, an abstract sculpture refined to the tiniest details. A tremulous violin echoes outside its gold and glass walls. It becomes clearer as I near the converging point, the open glass doors and the greeters welcoming everyone inside.

  All of this, everything inside this sprawling campus, for a student body no larger than the one at Samohi—and that’s counting every grade.

  I don’t know how Theo expects me to find him among the throng. I guess we have each other’s phone number. As I consider calling him, an unobtrusive shadow catches my eye. It’s Theo. He’s apart from the crowd, standing serenely at the base of a palm tree. The subtle motion of his waving hand is what revealed his location.

  A few bodies in front of me, Jet emerges from the crowd. Theo tenses as Jet approaches him and reaches for his collar. Jet pops the crisp fabric, grabs Theo’s tie, and bends down to whisper something into the freshman’s ear. It’s over before I arrive. Jet merges into the crowd while Theo adjusts his collar and tie with deft hands. A flicker of gold and blue draws my eyes to th
e badge pinned underneath his collar before it's concealed.

  “Hi, Melody.”

  “Hi. Is Jet … bullying you?”

  “No.”

  Oh. That’s a relief. “What does that badge mean? That you support Blake? And Jet supports Caesar?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what they mean.”

  “Even though Blake won the election, as you said.”

  Theo considers me. “We had better go inside. We’ll be locked out if we’re even a second late.”

  I follow a step behind Theo as classical music envelops us. It resonates, reaching into every ornate crevice, but it isn’t loud. The vestibule is long and narrow, a tunnel of gold rings interspersed with crannies and pedestals exhibiting alabaster sculptures of regal people.

  “The Richters,” Theo explains, “the founders of Gilded. They were energetic hosts and entertainers. These sculptures were commissioned so they’d be able to greet their guests long after death. A new sculpture is added whenever a Richter passes away.”

  That is both fascinating and creepy.

  “The Richters have dwindled throughout the years,” Theo continues. “The last son, the man who’s inherited the family’s vast wealth, is elderly and has no heir. His only child disappeared years ago. Everyone says he and his wife have been mourning her, and that’s why they’ve sealed themselves inside of their Gilded estate, never to grace the outside world with their presence again. They became a whisper, a taboo, but lately there’s been a lot of talk among Gildeds about what will happen to their fortune. Before I was born, no one heard Gilded without Richter. You’ve probably never even heard of them. Isn’t that strange? Now it’s Gilded and Earnshaw.” Theo clears his throat. “Sorry, I don’t mean to bore you with my thoughts.”