Heartless: A High School Bully Romance (The Privileged of Pembroke High Book 1)

by Ivy Fox

  “Good afternoon, Ms. West. How lovely to see you again.” The restaurant host beams happily at my mother, standing elegantly poised from behind his maitre d’ stand.

  “Thank you, Alphonse,” she answers with the fabricated smile I’m well familiar with.

  “Party of two for lunch?” he asks, taking in my unfamiliar features none too discreetly.

  I sincerely doubt that he has any idea I’m the daughter of his frequent client, or that Vivienne West even has a daughter, but his close inspection and eager eyes tell me he’d love nothing more than to spread that little bit of juicy gossip. I offer him a soft smile instead of the formal introduction he’s so blatantly soliciting for, trying to be as polite as I can without saying a word. I’m hoping I can pull off the same thing with whichever friend my mother is so desperate to appease that she has gone to such lengths as to introduce me.

  “Actually, no. I’m here to meet Judge Grayson. Is the table ready, or shall we wait at the bar?” my mother asks, ignoring his curious stare.

  “The judge and his daughter are already seated, Ms. West. They arrived five minutes ago. Please, let me take you to their table,” he announces gleefully, but behind the cheerful man, a side-eyed glance is sent my way. I bow my head and step just behind her, so I don’t have to suffer her wrath on the short distance to the table.

  “Ah, Vivienne, so glad you could join us.” A rather tall man, around his late forties, stands from his seat to greet my mother.

  By the small conversation my mother had with the host, I was able to learn this friend of hers is a judge, but by his build, he looks more like a former football player than any advocate of the law I’ve ever seen. Though, the three-piece suit and salt-and-pepper hair out his true age and elitist background. Only the few sun freckles on his nose and cheeks make him seem somewhat approachable.

  “Apologies, Malcolm, but you know how teenagers are. They run by their own inner clock,” she sing-songs, and her fake, musical tone makes me cringe, sending waves of nausea down to my already sensitive stomach.

  Whoever this man is, he’s important to my mother. Or at least she deems him to be. I’ve heard her talk on the phone to only a handful of people this way. But I’ve heard it enough to know that this precise, melodic tone is only used to cajole someone when she wants something from them. I don’t even know this stranger, but I already feel sorry for whoever he is. He’s just another pawn in Vivienne’s well-crafted game of chess.

  “I understand perfectly. Lest we forget, I have four of my own,” he remarks with an overdone politeness that has the back of my neck prickling furiously.

  The artificial, fabricated tone that he used when mentioning his children dances beautifully with my mother’s own deceptive tongue. Maybe my sympathy shouldn’t be wasted on such a man, since he appears to have frequented the Cynical College of Misanthropy—the same one my mother graduated from, with honors.

  “You mean three, don’t you, Father? Roman is twenty, hardly a teenager anymore. Or have you forgotten your eldest son’s age?” The young brunette, who is standing behind her imposing father, interrupts, gaining all of our attention.

  One glance at the girl, and I see all the reasons why my mother took such efforts in making me look presentable today. The judge’s daughter looks as if she just stepped out of a Teen Vogue photo shoot.

  With long wavy brown hair, olive skin, and amber eyes—much like the ones her father has on her now—she is the embodiment of a Hollywood star. In a vibrant, high-fashion, green dress that hits just an inch past her knees, she wears the whole ensemble with grace and confidence, which makes me feel even more inept when compared to her flawless self-assurance and beauty. I imagine this was the end result my mother envisioned she would get when she put her makeover dogs on me. Given a chance, my mother would sell me out to the devil himself just so she could have this gorgeous, elegant girl as her child, instead of the broken mess that God gave her.

  “Quite right,” Judge Grayson rebukes, with a thin smile painted on his lips, while facing his young daughter. He then turns to face his intended audience, all big smiles once more. “I apologize for my manners. Vivienne, you remember my daughter Eleanor?”

  “Of course I do. My, you’ve grown to be a lovely young lady,” my mother praises, pressing her cheeks side-to-side on the young girl’s, making pretentious kissing noises in the air.

  “Thank you,” Eleanor responds amicably, but there is little friendliness behind her tone or her golden eyes. They do, however, bypass my mother entirely and land on me, showing the first genuine expression I’ve encountered all day—a tinge of interest.

  “Oh, of course, silly me,” my mother interjects, attentive to Eleanor’s quizzical eye. “Malcolm, Eleanor, this is my daughter, Holland. Holland, this is Judge Malcolm Grayson and his daughter Eleanor Grayson. Judge Grayson is a friend of mine from way back when,” my mother announces, fawning over her acquaintance.

  I have to bite my inner cheek long and hard, trying not to burst out in hysterics upon hearing the small school-girl giggle my mother lets out when she presses her palm on one of the Judge’s biceps.

  “It’s a pleasure finally meeting you, Holland. I’ve heard many good things about you,” Judge Grayson adds as he takes my hand in his, subtly pushing my mother aside.

  I awkwardly shake it and withdraw my hand, perhaps too quickly for his taste and protocol, judging by the small tightening of his jaw. But my hands are clammy and nervously wet; to which I’m certain he would establish that for himself if his hold on my hand lasted more than two seconds. Leaving his hand sticky from my nerves is hardly the first impression my mother is looking for me to achieve this afternoon. I draw my attention to the young goddess next to him and smile, hoping our greeting will run much smoother.

  “Hi, Eleanor. You have a lovely name,” I tell her honestly, and her amber eyes light up like the dawn on a new day.

  “Thank you. It was my mother’s. But you can call me Elle. Everyone does,” Elle replies warmly, and the cramping in my stomach, full of bubbling nerves, lets up a tad with her tender smile. “I like your name, too. Very original,” she adds amicably.

  “Oh, thank you, dear. So nice to hear you say that. However, I can’t take full credit for it. My late husband was the one who came up with the name, God rest his soul,” my mother interjects solemnly, taking the small, friendly compliment Elle gave me, as her own, and slipping my father into the conversation at the same time for added sympathy.

  The mention of my father robs me of whatever easy-going feeling Elle had been able to create with her soft smiles and kind words.

  “You have our immense sympathies for your loss. His death was greatly felt in our community. I should think his untimely departure left a very big hole in both your lives,” Judge Grayson counters somberly, ushering us all to take our seats.

  To the untrained eye, his concern and heartfelt condolences may have passed for genuine, but I can tell that it is all for show—much like my mother’s manufactured grief.

  Untimely departure. Right. I guess that’s the nice way of putting it. I mean, offering condolences because one day your father dove head first off the Brooklyn Bridge just doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, now does it?

  “Yes. We all miss him terribly. But life goes on, and we have to make the best of it. He would have wanted it that way,” my mother adds in better spirits, taking a sip of the lemon and kiwi water the waiter was kind enough to fill while we were making our small introductions to one another.

  “Yes, quite right. Shall we order?” Malcolm instructs, and I don’t miss the scathing look Elle throws at both our parents, the contempt and repulsion is evident in her whiskey-colored eyes.

  Luckily, before they raise their heads up from their menus, her poise is back to being prim and proper, not giving any hint of her distaste for both adults. Maybe my mother was right, after all. I should take pointers from the girl in front of me since I have a feeling she’
s played their game of false etiquette before and has learned to maneuver away from any of their landmines.

  “So, Eleanor, I’ve heard you gave quite a performance yesterday at the country club. Am I looking at the next Serena Williams?” my mother asks in a flattering tone once the waiter leaves with our orders.

  “Tennis is only for fun, not a career I want to pursue,” Elle answers courteously.

  “Well, you are still young. You have so many years in front of you to figure out what you’d like to do with your future. The world, for a girl like you—daughter of such a well-respected man like Malcolm—has so many great possibilities. I’m almost envious,” my mother beams, and launches a flirtatious wink to the judge, which makes me shift in my seat.

  My father hasn’t been dead for more than eight months, and she’s already looking at Judge Grayson as if he’s on the menu. At thirty-nine, there is no doubt my mother is young enough to build a new life for herself with whomever she chooses. It just irks me the wrong way, how little time she grieved over my father’s death, if at all. Is that why she wanted me here so badly? So I could be vetted by her new lover?

  “I’m sure your father will be able to ensure you choose wisely. Maybe even go into law and follow in his footsteps,” my mother says, continuing her flattery.

  “Maybe,” Elle mumbles, taking a sip of water out of her glass, preventing any further discussion on the matter.

  “However, you will have some big shoes to fill, especially now that your father is on the shortlist to become chief justice of the Supreme Court. You must all be so proud of his accomplishments,” Vivienne praises enthusiastically.

  Elle’s brows crinkle in the middle of her forehead before turning to her father.

  “We might have been proud if we were made aware of such an accomplishment. Shortlist, is it? When will the nomination be made?” Elle asks her father point-blank, unable to conceal the taint of hostility in her voice.

  “Judge Roberts ends his term later in the year. We predict the nominations will be around the Christmas festivities,” he retorts, not one bit bothered by his daughter’s sudden change in demeanor.

  “We?” Elle interrogates, her brow now raised up to her scalp.

  “I’d rather not discuss my work right now, Eleanor. I am on vacation, am I not? These things should be discussed in a more opportune setting. At home, perhaps?” he explains calmly, but I don’t miss the heat in his eyes, warning Elle not to say another word. Elle’s veil of propriety is once again in place, and her father takes advantage by moving the discussion to safer topics. Unfortunately, he sets his sights on me, hoping I can accommodate.

  Oh boy. Here we go.

  “What about you, Holland? Your mother tells me you’ll be a senior next fall. Any ideas on which colleges you’d like to attend?”

  I haven’t yet opened my mouth to answer, and my mother is already doing it for me.

  “We’re still debating,” she replies.

  “Which school do you go to now?” Elle questions, no longer brooding over her father’s possible promotion, but seemingly more interested in learning about me instead. “Maybe we have friends in common.”

  Doubtful.

  “Oh, no, Holland doesn’t have many of those, unfortunately. She’s been homeschooled almost all her life by my mother-in-law. You’re too young to know these things, but Craig’s mother was a Nobel Prize winner in the field of science—a remarkable intellect to this day. She offered to be Holland’s teacher and, as I’ve never been too keen on putting her in a normal school environment anyway, it worked well for us.”

  “Why not?” Elle asks, puzzled.

  I see my mother trying to string her lies together, but Judge Grayson comes to her aid.

  “Now, Eleanor, a mother has a right to choose what she feels is best for her daughter’s education. Although, Vivienne, if I may be so bold as to offer my own suggestion, maybe you should consider Holland attending a traditional educational system in her senior year. For college applications, one year at a dignified high school could do wonders for her acceptance. The same cannot be said if you keep her confined to homeschooling alone, no matter how spectacular the tutor in question is.”

  Yeah, that’s not happening.

  The real reason I’m being homeschooled by my grandmother is neither out of motherly concern nor to get the best education possible. For me to attend any normal school would require Vivienne to play the part of the doting mother to the faculty, as well as her circle of friends. It’s easier to purport a role people don’t have the opportunity to actually see and witness its falsehood up close.

  I watch my mother mull on her lower lip, smiling over at our hosts every once in a while. I’m sure she’s trying to find in her repertoire of excuses one good enough to pacify them and then move right on along to the next subject matter. However, when she does speak, I almost believe I’m hallucinating with the words coming out of her mouth.

  “Thank you, dear friend, for bringing such a valid point to my attention. I have been overwhelmed of late, considering everything that I have gone through this past year, and I have to admit, I might have overlooked some crucial elements to help Holland enroll in a school worthy of our family name. I will look into it,” she responds, feigning concern. So convincing is her act, I almost believe it. I want to roll my eyes at her theatrics, but keep to my silent state instead.

  “Pembroke High is the best private school the state of New York has to offer. It’s ranked third in the country. The distinguished alumni are known to have opened many doors for all who attend there. My own children have prospered immensely while attending Pembroke and will benefit a great deal more from the connections they’ve made once they go out into the real world.”

  “I’m sure they will, Malcolm, and again, I will give this much thought.” My mother’s plastered grin seems to thin with Malcolm’s insistence on the topic.

  “I hope you do. It may be beneficial to you as well,” he remarks vaguely, and I’m failing to understand the undercurrent of their conversation. Still, no matter what the judge’s views are, my mother will not take me out of Brookhaven. I guess he doesn’t know my mother as well as he thinks, nor does he have as much influence on her as he believes.

  I take a closer look at the man sitting opposite me, and I realize now that I misread their relationship. I fail to see any authentic love between them. I can’t even see the affection one usually dotes on friends, even though Vivienne was adamant in saying they were. The analytical way he looks at my mother resembles a manner in which a man would use when conducting a business transaction—detached, yet civil and amicable enough to see the deal through. Maybe that’s why we’re truly here. He is a judge after all. Perhaps my mother thinks she can use his influence and knowledge of the law to get back the assets she lost this year.

  Of course! That must be it!

  Why didn’t I figure this out the minute the word judge came into play? It makes perfect sense; Vivienne West, the queen of manipulation, brought me along to garner sympathy for her plight. Playing the role of a widowed mother, looking after a sick teenager all on her own after such tragedy and devastation, is bound to thaw any man’s heart—even one as aloof as Judge Grayson’s seems to be. I should have realized that the root of all her scheming came down to restoring her lavish bank account.

  “Holland, you didn’t end up telling us which colleges you plan on applying to. What are you thinking of majoring in?”

  Once again my mother opens her mouth to answer for me, but this one I can answer just fine, “Music. I’d like to study theater production and songwriting, actually.”

  “Really?” Elle interjects, “that sounds incredible. My older brother actually plays the guitar, and I’ve always envied him. I don’t have a musical bone in my body.” She laughs.

  “Well, I dabble a bit on guitar, but I prefer to play the piano. It’s easier for me to write lyrics to it,” I explain enthusiastically, appreciating the
small reprieve to discuss something I am passionate about.

  “Maybe one day you could teach me?” Elle asks, her amber eyes glowing with excitement.

  “Maybe,” I respond with a nod, but I doubt I’ll see this sweet girl any time soon, if ever again.

  “When you say theater, I suppose your aim is Broadway?” I hear Judge Grayson ask.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve always felt that music makes the actual play come to life and enhances the feelings the story is trying to create. I’d love to be a part of that one day.”

  “Please call me Malcolm. We are amongst friends. So, which schools have grabbed your attention? Juilliard, I presume?”

  “It’s one of them, yes, sir. I mean, Malcolm,” I say dryly, the name sounding odd and stale on my tongue.

  “Yes, well, putting on shows is not the education I have in mind,” my mother abruptly interrupts. “It’s a frivolous idea that has no market value in the real world. Do you want to be another hungry artist? No. You’ll go to college to get a degree that has worth. I’m sure you can all agree with me on that. Eleanor, dear, what are you thinking of majoring in?” my mother asks, deflecting the attention from me back to Eleanor.

  “Arts, actually,” Elle replies with an all-knowing look. “Do you think I should reconsider as well, Vivienne? I hate to think that I’m setting myself up to starve by following my passion.”

  My mother starts to grow red, but Elle’s sarcastic smirk doesn’t show any signs of losing steam anytime soon.

  “Eleanor is still deliberating all options,” Malcolm counters, once again saving my mother from unnecessary embarrassment. “She has time to change her mind, as does Holland.”

  “I’m glad you agree. College should be an opportunity to increase your knowledge of the world and find a way to contribute to it accordingly. A major in a course with low prospects of a lucrative job can be very damaging for one’s future, so it needs to be practical,” my mother adds on, not once having the decency to look me in the face.