by MV Ellis
She also knows how important this is to me. She wants it as much as I do for all the same reasons. We had grand plans about her coming with me and helping me unpack and get settled in—some much-needed mother-daughter time while my dad bonds with a bottle of vodka or three.
As it is, Mom is God-knows-where, and I told my dad I’d take the offer of being collected by the school’s in-house driver to get me here, rather than have him drop me off. This way, I can hopefully prolong the embarrassment of my fellow students seeing what a mess he is. He agreed before the words were even out of my mouth, muttering something about it being “good thinking,” and shambled off to do whatever the fuck it is that he does.
Back in the grand drive outside St. Joseph’s Academy, I rummage in the secret pocket inside my backpack and for the millionth time get out the phone I keep hidden there. No message. Again. In my heart of hearts I knew there wouldn’t be one.
It’s mom’s phone, I keep it charged at all times and have the ringer on full now that I am nowhere near my dad. If she sends a message I will know about it. In fact, if anyone sends a message, or contacts her on social media, or if she logs in to any of her accounts, I will know.
In the five weeks since I saw her last there has been zero activity from her, but what’s maybe even sadder than that is the fact that nobody has contacted her in that time or inquired after her in any way, either. I get it. She’s the only child of only children, so she has very little family, and she believed my father’s lies when he walked her down the aisle and promised to be “all the family you’ll ever need.”
In reality, he’s been nothing but a weight around her neck, dragging her down to his level. Not only that, but he’s also done a fine job of ensuring that she became increasingly isolated as time went by. It doesn’t help that as a freelance makeup artist, her job is by nature temporary and transient. Jobs rarely last more than a day—a few days if she’s lucky.
My dad may have beaten some of the spark out of her over the years and helped dim the light behind her eyes, but what remains is smart, capable, and resourceful. I look up to her so much as an example of a strong black woman, or any woman, for that matter. And I’m still clinging to the belief that if there was any possible opportunity for her to contact me she would have found a way, no matter how hard it was.
My body is taken over with chills, my stomach turns over, and my mouth fills with saliva at the thought, just like it always does when I let myself dwell on my situation for too long. I gulp down the terror and panic, taking a few deep calming breaths. I’m not going to throw up—not here, not now.
I need to focus both on making the most of the experience that has been sent my way, and on finding out what the hell has really happened to my mom. Until I have solid proof to support his claim, I’m not buying my dad’s crap that she just hightailed it out of my life without a trace, which keeps leading me to the same conclusion. My mom might be dead.
Chapter 3
Blake
* * *
I do a double take as I get out of the car, and am greeted by two of the preppiest girls I’ve ever seen, though that isn’t the reason for the second glance. I need to look twice because these two particular preppies are carbon copies of each other, to the point where, for a moment, I literally think I’m suffering from double vision, or having a stroke, or something.
They’re dressed the same, though that part isn’t a shock given the crazy-strict uniform regulations at St. Joseph’s—maroon blazer worn with white shirts for boys, or peter-pan-collared blouses for the girls, both finished with the regulation maroon and gray tie. Boys wear gray pants, while girls sport maroon and gray plaid kilt-like skirts with gray pantyhose.
The girls’ sleek blonde hair is also seemingly a mirror image, and groomed to within an inch of its life, slicked to perfection, with not a follicle out of place in the most on-point ponytails I’ve ever seen outside of photos of models and celebrities.
Not only that, but they each clutch a green clipboard to their chest in exactly the same way and have identikit smiles plastered on their identical faces.
I close the car door wearily and try to arrange my features into an expression other than shock or disbelief, but no doubt fail.
“It’s okay, don’t be—” starts one twin.
“Shy,” finishes the other. “We get it—”
“All the time.” This is Twin 1 again, picking up where Twin 2 has left off. What the actual fuck? “On account of the fact that—”
“We’re twins,” Twin 2 kicks in again.
It’s all I can do not to say, “No fucking shit, Sherlock.” Instead, I plaster a Fakey McFakeypants smile on my face, and greet them as warmly as I can muster without feeling like I’m on some kind of uppers.
“Hi, I’m—”
“Allen?” Twin 1 questions.
“Umm... no.”
Both twins stare at their clipboards, matching frowns gracing their exceedingly beautiful faces.
“Allen,” says Twin 1 again, but this time, it’s a statement, not a question, and accompanied by a firm nod, as though that makes it true.
“Blake,” finishes Twin 2.
“Okay, so yes, that’s me. Kind of.”
“Your name is—” Twin 1.
“Allen?” Twin 2.
“No, my name is Blake. Blake Allen.” Lord, it is going to be a long trimester, and I haven’t even set foot in the place yet, but with Dumb and Dumber as the welcoming committee, I fear we’ll get stuck in a loop, and I never will. Instead, I’ll die in the expansive and excessively groomed drive, trying to get them to understand that my name isn’t fucking Allen.
“Don’t worry, I get it all the time. Blake’s an unusual name, especially for a girl, so even when people have the names in the right order, more often than not, they’re expecting a dude, then little old me shows up. I try not to take it personally when they’re disappointed.”
“Oh, we’re not disappointed.” Twin 1.
“No. Not at all.” Twin 2.
“We always like to meet—” Twin 1.
“Fresh blood.” Twin 2.
“New friends,” corrects Twin 1 with a shake of the head.
“Anyway, Blake, welcome to St. Joseph’s Academy.” Twin 1.
“Where the grass is green.” Twin 2.
And the money is greener. I don’t say the words aloud, but I sure as hell want to.
“And the air is cleaner.” Twin 1.
Wow. Their little double act is cute for about fourteen seconds, but it’s getting real old, real fast.
“We’re the—” Twin 2.
“School Captain.” Twin 1.
“Joint.” Twin 2.
“And identical twins.” Both in unison.
Thank you (School) Captain Obvious. Because I definitely wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t pointed it out. Wow. All that money spent on a first-class education, and these chicks are about as smart as the previously mentioned green grass.
“Hello, School Captains, and thank you so much for welcoming me. Do you have names, or do I just address you as School Captain, Joint at all times?” I try to keep the snark from my voice, but again, it’s a fail. I just can’t.
“Hahahaha. You’re—” Twin 1.
“Funny. She’s funny.” Twin 2.They wrinkle their noses in the exact same way as they speak, like they’re unsure whether they mean funny as a compliment or an insult.
I take it as a compliment, regardless of whether that was the spirit in which it is meant or not. There are plenty of ways to describe my personality that are way more insulting than that. Funny is not only very mild, but also, mostly true. At least I think so, anyway.
“We’re Trinity.” Twin 2.
“And Divinity.” Twin 1.
I break into a broad smile and am about to say something smart-mouthed, on account of their joke, when I realize that they aren’t, in fact, joking. Holy fuck. Who in their right mind, or even in their wrong mind, would call their kids those crazy-ass
names?
“Cox.”
Oh. The other shoe drops.
“I’m Trinity.” Twin 1.
“And I’m Divinity.” Twin 2.
Yeah, because it isn’t hard enough to work out who is who when dealing with identical fucking twins, they add a level of difficulty by initially introducing each other instead of themselves. I really hope I won’t have to spend too much time with these two for the remainder of the school year. They seem a little... off. Nice, but not playing with a full hand of dominoes, as my grandmother Nellie Mae used to say.
“Eeek! We’re so happy you’re not a—” Twin 1.
“Boy.” Twin 2.
It’s easy to see which is the more dominant twin. Trinity, was it? I think back over their introduction. I guess so, but it really is difficult to recall.
“You’re in our house.”
“And we already have too many boys.” Jesus. Bang goes my fantasy of not seeing them again until the last day of the year.
“It’s going to be fun.”
“Us girls together.” Lord give me strength. Despite being enrolled in a Catholic school, I’ve never really been religious, but I’ll get down on my knees and start throwing out all the Hail Marys if it means I’ll be spared hanging out with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb.
I recall from the student handbook that the houses are co-ed, but each floor is single-sex, as are the dorm rooms themselves, obviously. I also remember reading that there’s to be no co-mingling of the sexes between floors.
I immediately wonder if people keep to the mandated floors, or if there is unauthorized “fraternization” in the rooms. Not that I’m here for that. It couldn’t be farther from my mind, in fact. But I’ve never been to a school where anyone gave even half a fuck about the rules—there is no way those kids would stick to the designated areas, just because they were told to. I wonder if it’s the same in the preppy world, but the twins look like butter won’t melt, so I’m guessing it’s totally different.
“You can leave your stuff here. The porter will come and grab it shortly.” I have two cases and a small backpack, and the cases are on wheels, and not very big or heavy. I can totally manage them myself, but I don’t want to open up another conversation with the Prozac twins, so I keep that information to myself.
I’m also marveling at the fact that there is a porter at a school. I thought they only existed in fancy hotels and luxury apartment buildings—neither of which I’ve ever actually experienced firsthand. But that’s the beauty of TV and movies; we get a taste of lives that are different from our own. I guess I’m not in Kansas anymore, for real.
“Okay, thanks.”
“Great!” They beam their dazzling white smiles and turn on their heels, swinging their perfect ponytails behind them. I hurry in their wake, worrying about what I’m getting myself in for being in a place so different from my past experiences, and my life back home.
When we enter the accommodation block I try not to look like an awestruck yokel, but that’s exactly how I feel as I take in the grand, imposing foyer. I remind myself that I’ve seen it all before, on the tour—maybe not this specific block, but one very similar.
Even still, it feels different now that I’m here, and going to be living here for the rest of the academic year—the place is off-the charts luxury, from the immaculately laid wooden floors, to the marble ceiling and the wood-paneled walls.
It’s what I imagine the inside of some palaces look like, and now it’s my home. At least during the trimester, anyway.
“Uh-oh. This can’t be—” Trinity, who I notice, seems to initiate most conversations.
“Right,” finishes Divinity.
“They’ve put you on the—”
“Boys’ floor.” Divinity brings up the rear again. Both twins shake their heads, deep frowns etched between their immaculately plucked, and perfectly shaped brows.
“Oh dear. The Fallen will eat you alive.”
What the hell is going on? I stare from one to the other as they look at me like the world is ending, and can’t seem to shake the feeling that I’ve made a big fucking mistake in enrolling in this place. Huge.
Chapter 4
We Know Where You Were
Zeph
* * *
A little while later, Tyce throws himself onto my bed, lying on his back with his hands supporting his head, elbows out sideways.
“Come in motherfucker. Please... make yourself at home.” The joke is that he’s probably more at home in my room than his own. He definitely spends more time here.
He ignores me. “We should have stayed. They would have fucked us. You know the twins; they’re always good for it, even more so when there’s a chance we might get caught in the act.”
He’s right. Not only did we have enough time to do the deed before anyone came into the oratory to get ready for mass, but the Heels Up twins are also extra frisky when there’s even the merest chance of pissing off the principal.
It really isn’t like me to pass up sex, but neither my heart nor my head were in it, and I would rather spend the time trying to work out what the fuck to do about my current predicament than screwing the twins again. In any case, we at least got sucked off, so it’s not like we left with nothing. Well, we left with less cum than we had when we walked into the chapel, whereas the girls each got a mouthful. Somehow I think we got the better end of the deal.
“Yeah, I know. I wasn’t cock-blocking, though. You should have gone ahead without me. They would hardly have noticed I wasn’t there, and you’d have had all that ultra-eager pussy for yourself. Double the fun, and all that.” I loosen my stupid tie and pull my shirt off over my head, having only undone the top button.
I hate school uniforms—any school, not just this one—and make a habit of shedding it whenever I can. I resent wearing it even more today, given that the trimester hasn’t even officially started yet.
It was all for show for the stupid assembly to welcome the newbs before classes start tomorrow. I don’t even know why I bothered going. The fact that I did just goes to show how much the situation is affecting me. I’m not in my right mind.
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have been able to enjoy it fully if I was wondering what the fuck was bothering you the whole time, would I?”
“I mean, I don’t know. If the positions were flipped, and it was me potentially left alone with them, I wouldn’t have given you a second thought, man. Whatever was eating you could have waited until they’d eaten me.” I chuckle at my pun.
“Ha! You don’t need to tell me that. I know exactly who and what you are, you fucking sociopath, but someone has to be the good friend, and we all know that someone is me. So here we are.” He shrugs, always the laid-back one of the two of us. “My dick is still throbbing at the thought of the missed opportunity, so whatever’s got you shook up better be fucking good.”
“I’m not shook, just a little...” I can’t think of the exact word.
“Shook.”
“Shut up, asshole.” He’s right, much as I hate to admit it. And it isn’t just a little, it’s a lot.
“Okay, so what has rattled your cage enough to put you off of your screwing game? Did someone die? I mean... I didn’t mean it like that, obviously. Fuck. You know what I’m trying to say.”
“I know that if you weren’t my best friend, you’d be choking on your fucking teeth right now. Other than that, I don’t know shit.” I give him the hate stare to end all hate stares.
“Jesus, Zeph, it was a slip of the tongue, man. I realized my mistake as soon as the words were out of my mouth, but it was already too late to take them back. Can we drop it? You know I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Hmpfh.” I’m not ready to just let it go. His words cut deep, under the sensitive circumstances.
“Okay, so again, are you going to tell me what’s going on, or are you going to wait for me to accidentally fuck up again so that you have a legit excuse to end me?” It’s a genuine question, but I don�
��t bother to answer.
“Look at this.” I pass him the phone with the video lined up and ready to play.
“What is it?” The preview screen is black, so there’s no way of telling without pushing Start.
“Press Play, you dick.” He does, and I watch his features as he takes in what he’s seeing. The color drains from his cheeks as understanding dawns. Now it’s clear to him why I couldn’t have concentrated on fucking the twins, even if I’d wanted to.
“Jesus. Motherfucking. Mary and Joseph.” And then some. “Who sent it?”
“No idea. It’s from an unknown number. I’m guessing it’s either a burner phone, or one of those proxy phone services, so not even a real number. At least that’s how I’d do it, if I was blackmailing someone.”
“Is that what you think they’re doing, blackmailing us? Did you try calling it?”
“Yeah. I watched it a couple of times, then called. Predictably, it just rang out. It’s been scorching a hole in my pocket ever since, while I wondered what to do with it, or about it.”
“I mean, thinking about it rationally for a moment; it could be anything, from anyone and about anything.”
“Yeah, it could, and I could be an astronaut, or Olympic athlete or fucking rock star. But I’m not.”
“I know, but—”
“But what?”
“But it’s general enough that it seems like it means something, but maybe it isn’t. It’s like what my mom always says about horoscopes. They’re specific enough that people feel like they’re tailor-made for them, but also general enough that billions of people can identify with what they say, even if their circumstances are actually totally different.”
“What the fuck are you even talking about?” I’m on a short fuse at the best of times, but right now my patience is hanging by a thread.
“I’m just saying, imagine we didn’t know what we do. That video could be about skipping out on gym class to smoke blunts under the bleachers, fucking the twins in the rectory, and in the rectum, them giving us oral in the oratory, or any number of things we do that we shouldn’t. Doesn’t necessarily have to be about what you think it’s about.”