by L V Chase
I’ll need to tell my mother.
My heart slows down. I reread the letter. I stall.
I fold the letter up again. I slowly open my door. My mother is on her second cigarette. The apartment reeks of stale smoke.
“You know…” She slowly turns toward me. “I don’t appreciate your constant criticisms. I’m trying my best, and all you can do is tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say. “I truly am. But I’m trying, too. And…maybe this will make it better.”
I walk over to her and hold out the letter for her.
Her eyes skim the first part of the letter. She rereads it again before snatching it from me. I watch her mouth form the words.
“No way,” she says, her eyes narrowing. She drops the letter on the table and takes another drag of her cigarette. “It has to be a mistake. Or a practical joke. Who did you tell about it? I bet it was that strange little girl down the block who walks her lizard.”
“It’s real,” I say.
“No,” she says firmly. “It’s a mistake. Or it must be the photos. Sex appeal always works. Nobody at this, this place…”
She stops, snatching the letter up again.
“Roman Academy?” she asks. “In Manhattan?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“You never mentioned that.”
“I mentioned it was Roman Academy before the interview.”
Her eyes are wide when she looks up at me. “Oh my god. This is perfect. This is amazing.”
I slowly pull the letter out of her grasp. I’m more than a little worried at her sudden change of heart. “Did you just get possessed or something?”
“You don’t understand, Cin,” she says, her fingertips tapping against her bottom lip. “There are so many rich kids who go here. Sons of millionaires. More than a few billionaires. I know—or knew—one of the girls who went there years ago. Trisha Foley. We weren’t exactly friends, but she grew up on the same street as me. And she snagged one rich motherfucker.”
Her voice sounds like she’s talking about da Vinci, Michelangelo, or her guru the one time she found religion.
“Come see, come see,” she says, grabbing her phone from the table.
She taps on the screen several times before shoving it into my hands. It’s showing an article from Hot Crux.
TRISHA VOSS: BALANCING A COOKING SHOW AND RAISING TWO KIDS
Trisha Voss looks like she belongs on a red carpet, but she’s in her home kitchen with her hands kneading a bowl of dough as she talks about her husband, Lawrence Voss, media mogul of Voss News Network, and their two children, Grayson and Aurora. While Grayson is the son of Lawrence Voss’ late wife, Trisha still professes her love for him, calling him her “own child through our deep love for each other.” Her daughter, Aurora, is nearly the exact same age as Grayson, which makes it easier for them to relate to each other. Trisha calls them, “two peas in her green pea casserole.”
I stop reading. The two children are the same age despite being from different mothers. Both fathered by the same guy? I’m not a genius, but I can count to nine. Sounds like Lawrence Voss was being father of the year by two-timing his first wife.
I scroll back to the top of the article, ready to hand my mother’s phone back to her, but I stop. At the top of the article is a photo of the family. Trisha looks almost exactly like what the interviewer said—a beautiful, thin blonde with flawless makeup and delicate features. Her daughter is a carbon copy except shorter and with a darker shade of blonde hair. The father, Lawrence, has a vaguely rectangular body shape, like someone who might have looked good years ago but hasn’t kept up enough with his personal trainer.
On the other hand, his son, Grayson, must have a personal trainer, a nutritionist, and a direct line to God.
I’m an artist. I see beauty all of the time. I see rundown houses, a leaf stuck under a windshield wiper, layers of cirrus clouds—and I see something worthy of commemorating with paint.
But Grayson is different. Beautiful, yes. He has a face that is perfectly symmetrical, the untamed dark hair, and the broad body. But it’s more than that. His glacial blue eyes break through the photo, stealing something straight out of me. The way his mouth slightly turns up tells me that he has a million secrets, and he never letting any of them go.
I could look at him forever. He’d be an amazing muse.
My mother makes a noise. I click out of the article and toss the phone back to her.
“I’m going to go pack,” I say, heading to my room.
My mother follows me, rambling about all of the makeup and clothes I’ll need, but I tune her out. Grayson’s eyes flash through my mind, stealing a shiver out of me.
4
Cin
The bus rattles underneath my feet as I walk toward the front of it. The driver glances at me and scrunches his nose.
“You don’t look like one of these prissy bitches,” he remarks.
I look down at myself. I’d started the day with a decent cardigan, but the heat punished me for my attempt to act middle-class. My camisole clings to my skin, and a stain shaped like a red apple stretches over my chest. It’s also highly unlikely that my cargo pants are couture.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say.
“I’m not criticizing your clothes,” he says. “The criticism is that you’re dumb enough to walk into a feeding frenzy.”
I give him a thumbs up as the doors jerk open. “Thanks, Bobby.”
He smirks at me. “Good luck, Cin.”
As I step off the bus, a man in a black suit steps forward. He looks like he can’t be older than thirty, but his stiff movements remind me of someone much older.
“Cinnamon Reeves?” the man asks.
“Uh, yes,” I say, pulling my suitcase in front of me.
“Good morning. My name’s Charles Boone. I’m here to take your bags and escort you to the rendezvous point. May I ask where the rest of your possessions are?”
“This is everything,” I say.
I have to give him credit. He doesn’t miss a beat.
“I’ll take that, then,” he says, reaching for my suitcase.
I grip it tighter. On my block, you’d be a fool to give up your possessions so easily. I know toddlers that could pull off this scam.
“Ma’am, you’ll be starting the tour right away. You don’t want to be carrying your bag,” he says, a muscle finally twitching above his lip.
I look down at my bag. Is there anything worth stealing? I don’t doubt that this man’s suit is worth more than everything in my suitcase and the suitcase combined.
I hand it over to him.
“Thank you, ma’am. Please follow me.”
When we cross the road, we’re greeted by a tall stone wall with an intricate iron gate door. He types a code into an electronic lock beside the gate door, and it swings inward. I’d seen photos of the school online, but as my gaze follows him, the view feels like it was taken out of a Hollywood set.
The campus is a lush field of grass with buildings surging out of it like redwoods. It’s stunning in its modern architecture with all of the smooth lines of concrete and glass, and several buildings curving inward toward the center of campus. As we pass by the center of campus, where a garden displays a dozen shades of red and gold, I realize that the buildings are built to create a circle around the garden. It reminds me of a zoo enclosure. One side of the garden, close to the tallest building, has a brick circular area carved out with a statue standing tall in the center. There are a few students hanging out there on a couple benches, but Charles stops and points in front of us before I can get a good look at them.
Four girls are gathered here at the edge of the garden. “That’s your tour group,” Charles says. “Please join them and wait for your guide. Your belongings will be in your room.”
He pivots and starts walking the same way that we came from. I turn back toward the girls. It must be a family because they’re all bleached blonde, t
hey’re all wearing similar preppy clothes, and I don’t need to be an orthopedic doctor to know their breasts are going to give them back issues in the future. I walk up to them, my hands feeling empty without my suitcase.
“Hey,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. “So, you’re all here for the scholarship tour?”
“Yes!” the one wearing a white dress exclaims. She loops her arms around me, giving me one of those loose, barely-there hugs. She pulls away. “Oh, my God, you are so cute. I’m Demi. These are my girls, Desiree, Dahlia, and Diana.”
Damn. Quadruple D’s, just like the size of their silicone tits. The scholarship must extend to richer families, or else I don’t know how they could have afforded the new cup size.
I bite my tongue before anything slips out. This isn’t the South Bronx, where those types of jabs are expected and shrugged off. These people will never say a bad word about you while they’re shoving a knife deeper into your back.
“Are you guys sisters?” I ask.
Demi bursts out laughing. The other three titter after her, a soft echo of their leader.
“Oh, no! But it’s adorable that you think so,” she says. “Dahlia and Desiree, we’ve been BFFs since middle school. Diana here, she met Dahlia while working at the mall.”
I glance at Diana again. Her arms are twisted together in front of her. Maybe she’s having second thoughts about this whole private school thing like I am. It was a lot easier to be enthusiastic about it before my mother decided it was the best thing since G-strings. If my mother ever thinks something is a good idea, I know it will end with my pride being shredded in a blender.
“So…” Demi trills. “You, uh, you haven’t told us your name yet.”
“It’s Cin,” I say.
“Sin?” she asks, her nose crinkling up. She lets out a short burst of laughter. The other girls echo her again. “Did your parents hate you when they named you?”
Yes, she did. She was also sixteen with a romantic idea of sugar and spice and everything nice.
“It actually starts with a C,” I say.
Diana raises her eyebrow. She must have figured out what my name is short for. A clear winner for the smartest of the DDDD’s. Sometimes the bar’s low.
“Hello!” a male voice sings out.
I turn around to see a man who is the embodiment of dazzle. He appears to be in his thirties, but his age could be hiding behind the pale blue hair styled to sweep over his eyes and the boundless energy shimmering through his limbs. His voice is tinged with a southern accent.
“Sorry I’m late y’all. I meant to get here early, but that sunrise—wasn’t she a beauty? Perfect shades of pink and orange. Any of you see it? I couldn’t pass it by. You never get a chance to see the same sunrise twice, you know.”
He smiles at all of us, abruptly stopping at me. His face lights up, and he grabs my hand.
“Oh, you are ravishing,” he gushes.
I give him an uncertain smile as words keep flooding out of him.
“Your eyelashes frame those warm eyes so spectacularly. And the little beauty mark underneath your eye just adds a perfect detail to your face. Has anyone ever drawn you? The two different shades of your hair—such a sharp contrast between a radiating color and a hostile color, but they also fade into each other like—"
Demi clears her throat. “What about me?”
He turns to her, dropping my hand. “You, of course, are a classic. Very Hollywood.”
His tone changed from the chipper attitude to something slightly innocuous, but Demi doesn’t notice. She beams proudly.
He takes a step back, gesturing to all of us with his hand. “Oh, I should introduce myself. I’m Ollie Monson, art teacher. You can call me Ollie or Mr. Monson. We wanted y’all here a half hour early so I have time to show off our beautiful campus before it gets dreadfully busy. But we’d better hurry. There are always some early birds back on campus and, as is customary, I want everyone’s full attention. Follow me, beautiful people.”
“Why is the scholarship only for the last year?” I ask as we start following him. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to test students for eligibility after middle school?”
Ollie glances over at me. “According to the people upstairs, they want students to have as long as possible to hone and prove their skills. They also assume most kids only want to be here for the last year when they apply to colleges.”
He sidles closer to me, bowing his head. The DDDD girls are eyeing a boy in the garden by the statue.
“We won’t make any comments about the economics of offering a scholarship for a single year,” he whispers to me “Or the fact that any special cases wouldn’t be around for too long. Know what I mean? We wouldn’t want to accuse anyone of putting appearances over intentions as a PR stunt. Us artists would never do that.”
I snort. Normally, I wouldn’t like someone like Ollie, who clearly enjoys attention, but he’s honest. I already suspected this was about public relations, and it sounds like he’s certain too. The rich do shit like this and expect everyone to be happy with the few crumbs given back to the community.
But if Ollie started in the same place as one of us scholarship kids, maybe there’ a chance to take advantage of this exploitation.
Ollie returns to the front of the group, turning around to face all of us. “Beautiful people, we are beginning our tour in the academic building, aka Culler Building. You’ll be spending most of your time here, so hopefully, it captivates you with its monotony.”
He makes a broad gesture toward the building before winking at me. My high school had a record number of perverts. There were rumors that all of the teachers who’d been caught committing sexual crimes in the state were sent to our school because nobody cared about our dumb, crime-ridden district. But after having been through enough to recognize a pervert in sheep’s clothing, Ollie doesn’t seem to be flirting with me. He’s just the patron saint of adoration. While my mother considered anything other than money to be ugly and undeserving, Ollie seems to find everything to be stunning.
This turns out to be more and more true as he shows us the campus.
The cherry blossoms? Beautiful.
The curve of the stairway going up to the second floor of the Culler Building? Beautiful.
The chemistry classroom with the alternating pitch black and red epoxy resin tops? Beautiful.
The curve of the stairway going back down to the first floor of the Culler Building? Still beautiful.
And absurdly, it all is beautiful. The whole campus is a spectacle.
“So, when Roman Academy decided to allow more than the most prestigious families to enroll, they decided they didn’t want to focus on academics,” Ollie says. “They wanted to include—do you see how that oak has a slightly crooked branch? I love it. I love that tree so much. It’s gorgeous during every season because of that branch. Anyway, they wanted to include a limited number of scholarships for visual art, music, performance art, and sports. That’s where all y’all come in. We have one art student, a singer, a pianist, a dancer, and an actress.”
“That’s me,” Demi beams, her hand pressed against her ample chest.
Wolf whistling breaks through her reverie. We all spin around to see a pack of five boys, all dressed in similar beige slacks and button-up shirts. The boy in a blue shirt makes a thrusting motion with his hips.
“I’d fuck the blonde one,” he calls out.
I roll my eyes, but the DDDD’s giggle as if he actually said something clever. Dahlia blows the boy a kiss. The DDDD’s wander over toward the group. Ollie raises an eyebrow at me before shrugging. At this point, I’m ready to walk back to the bus stop and beg Bobby to give me a free ride because I’m all out of change and patience. But I barely take two steps before Ollie cuts in front of me.
“It looks like one of the Silicon Valley quadruplets isn’t on board with the script,” he says.
I follow his gaze. Diana lingers behind the girls as they flirt with the boys.
Each of the girls seems to have picked a boy except Diana, who hangs back a few feet. The two boys without a girl drooling over them try to walk over to her, but she moves to the other side of the group. I’ve seen that flash of annoyance show up on boys in my own neighborhood—it never leads to anything good. I might not play along with these dumb scenarios, but I know not playing along can lead to worse things than a hurt ego.
Ollie’s phone rings. He glances down at it. “I have to take this. Just two minutes.”
He strides toward a set of benches as he answers his phone. His arms fling in the air as he talks to the person on the other side.
Just fucking great. He points out a potential problem to me before I can escape, then he bails. He’s more like my mother than I had originally thought.
“Hey, bean pole,” one of the boys calls out to Diana. “You should be grateful we let you come here. If you need a little more something for charity, I’ll let you ride me for free.”
His friend smacks his arm. “Come on, Riley. She’s tall enough for the adult rides. She looks kinky as fuck, too. Bet she dreams of getting spit-roasted.”
Diana’s face is a bright shade of red. I cross my arms over my chest. Ollie is sitting on one of the benches now. He’s not coming back anytime soon.
“What about it, bean pole?” the first boy asks, circling closer to her. He runs his hand over her arm, but she jerks it away. “Can you handle the adult rides? Cuz you look small enough to spin.”
Diana’s eyes are glossy. Her friends are gazing between her and the boy, saccharine smiles pasted on their faces.
It takes me three and a half long steps to reach them. I stop in front of the first boy.
“Why don’t you two fuck off?”
Everyone’s eyes flicker over to me. The first boy’s gaze falls over me, lingering on my hips and thighs. I restrain myself from trying to cover up or show discomfort.
“She’s not interested,” I say. “Take the hint and fuck off. Go back to sucking off your daddies and begging for allowances like good little boys.”
The silence that follows is unsettling. It feels like we’re all in kindergarten and I’d just said the Big Bad Word.