Deadly First Day, page 2
part #1 of Embassy Academy Series
That’s when I notice Mrs. Cavendish-Holt standing in the open doorway, looking like Charlize Theron in a form-fitting cream dress and nude heels. She’s flanked by her glossy blond offspring. Charlotte and Callahan.
My stepsiblings.
Gulp.
“Adrienne, welcome to our home,” Mrs. Cavendish-Holt says with a simpering smile. She tosses her hair behind her shoulder, her large wedding ring catching my eye in the fading light. “We do hope you’ll feel comfortable here.”
“Yes, thanks, Mrs. Cavendish-Holt.” I say the name slowly; it’s a mouthful.
“Please, call me Leslie.”
Yeah, there’s no way calling her that will be less than 100% awkward.
“If you don’t mind, is there somewhere I can…?” I ask, gripping the large cardboard box in both hands.
“Oh, yes. Callahan. Help Adrienne with her things, will you?”
Callahan jogs over and takes the box from my hands. Glancing inside, his head pops up. “What is all this?”
I shrink back at his sardonic expression. “I like to bake,” I whisper.
“I guess so,” he says. His eyes flick over me, and I’m extremely aware that my soft, squishy love handles and curvy hips do not go with the trim, fit figures of my father’s new family. My face flushes even brighter.
“I’ll put this stuff in the kitchen,” Callahan says, and loafs inside.
I fidget with my hands as I follow them in.
Mrs. Cavendish-Holt gives me a barely there hug with limp arms before turning to her daughter. “Charlotte, darling, will you show Adrienne to her room?”
Hearing her call Charlotte a pet name somehow makes me more comfortable. Like these people aren’t completely different from my mom and me after all.
Charlotte rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. “Come on.” She turns on her heels—their purple soles indicating that they’re by the famous designer Emily Allison—and leads me through a sleek kitchen to a set of wide gleaming wood stairs. The stairwell almost feels like mine at home. Photos of Mrs. Cavendish-Holt with two small children smile at me from wooden frames. As we ascend the stairs, the two children grow from toddlers to elementary-aged children. And then, around the time they’re nine and ten, there it is: a wedding photo. In it, the senator looks blissfully happy as he clutches Mrs. Cavendish-Holt in one arm, and Charlotte and Callahan in the other. They look ecstatic, all four of them in their fine dress clothes, standing in front of an extravagant, five-tiered wedding cake dotted with pale pink calla lilies piped in elegant buttercream. I was there—Mom refused to go—but they didn’t hang any of the photos with me in them.
Next come photos of the four of them on vacation at a ski resort. The Grand Canyon. A sparkling sandy beach.
A twinge of jealousy plucks at my heart. The senator took his wife and stepchildren on what look to be fun, adventurous vacations, but he’s never spent more than an hour or two with me at a stretch, mostly over awkward birthday dinners in too-nice restaurants, where I felt incredibly out of place.
Swallowing, I shove down the resentment that rises in my throat and hurry to catch up to Charlotte, dragging my suitcase roughly up the remaining steps.
Charlotte leads me along the plush carpet to an open doorway at the end of the hall. “My room is across the way. Stay out unless I’m in there. I don’t like people touching my things. Here’s your room.” She waves me into a large bedroom with windows overlooking the street.
She flicks on a bamboo lamp with a shade made from rice paper, and I gasp. The wallpaper is a pale robin’s egg blue with tropical branches and flowers that trail along the ceiling. “Mom went through a chinoiserie motif phase a few years ago, and this room is the only one she hasn’t redecorated since.” She shrugs.
I step farther inside, spotting a wide, tall, pink-canopied bed with carved, dark wood spindles, and smother a delighted squeal. My face must betray my enthusiasm, because Charlotte smirks.
I make a circle turn, taking in the rest of the room, and see the closet. “Can I hang up my stuff in there?” Moving toward it, I gingerly slide open the door to find it packed with designer gowns.
Spoiled brat.
“Sorry about that,” Charlotte says, running her fingers along the luxurious frocks. “My closet’s full so I use this one for overflow space. If I were you, I wouldn’t bother unpacking anyway. We leave for Brat Academy Sunday morning.”
“Brat Academy?”
“That’s what we call it, since everyone who goes there is an embassy brat. Their parents are constantly traveling in and out of the country for work, so everyone boards at the school.”
I bite my lip, hesitant to ask. “So, they’re not actually brats?”
She laughs. “No, they are.”
“Why do we have to stay there when you have a home here in the city?”
Charlotte flips her smooth blond hair over her shoulder. “Daddy thinks it sets a bad example if we’re allowed to stay at home. You know, we’d be getting special treatment, and since he’s supposedly a man of the people…” She trails off, her meaning clear. He can’t cater to middle-class Americans who are tired of the status quo while allowing his children to live outside the rules, even at an elite boarding school.
I unzip my suitcase and dig around inside for my phone charger.
Charlotte nudges the case with her slippered foot. “It’s a good thing we wear uniforms at school. If some of the girls saw you in those clothes, they’d murder you.”
I blanch. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
Charlotte cocks an eyebrow at me as if to say, “Really?”
I want to defend my wardrobe, explain that the dresses were my grandmother’s, that they’re authentic 70s chic, but I doubt Charlotte would care. She probably doesn’t own anything that’s more than a year old. My fingers rise to the brooch on my lapel. It was one of my grandmother’s favorites, and she wore it all the time. A small brass flower with a faux garnet in the center.
“You should keep the brooch,” Charlotte says, making me spin toward her in surprise. “It’ll add some pop to your uniform. They’re pretty strict at school, but they let us personalize our clothes with socks, jewelry, and shoes. That brooch will be perfect.” She walks toward the door. “Come on, loser, let’s go see if the cook stashed some dessert in the kitchen for us.”
I jog after her, pleased that she liked my grandmother’s brooch, at least. But her comments about the girls at the academy haven’t eased my anxiety, which has morphed into dread.
Charlotte was right. The family’s cook left a batch of apple hand pies in a tin in the walk-in pantry. The golden, flaky pastries are flecked with cinnamon sugar. Charlotte grabs two and waits while I do the same, then leads me to the long eat-in counter. She sits on one of the scrolled-metal barstools and nibbles on her first pie. She manages to eat without getting even a hint of pastry on her pristinely made-up face.
I, on the other hand, already have a pile of crumbs in my lap. “These are delicious,” I say after a large, satisfyingly crunchy bite. “I bet I could make these.”
“Oh, right. I forgot you bake.”
“How did you know that?”
Charlotte points at the large cardboard box that sits at the other end of the counter. My wooden rolling pin sticks out the top. “That box you had Cal lug in here was a dead giveaway.”
“Oh, yeah. It didn’t feel right leaving my tools and supplies at home.”
Charlotte slides off the stool and picks her way to the box to peer inside. She plucks out my macaron recipe book. “You can make these? Our cook says they’re tricky to get right.”
I nod, embarrassed.
“That’s amazing. Macarons are my favorite. You’ll have to make me some pistachio ones sometime, with white chocolate ganache.”
I look up at her and smile. “I think I could do that.”
“Excellent.”
“What’s excellent?” Mrs. Cavendish-Holt’s heels click over the tile floor as she approaches us. She’s got a bulky black garment bag draped over one arm.
“Adrienne can make macarons,” Charlotte says, tamping down the enthusiasm that warmed her voice a moment ago.
Mrs. Cavendish-Holt’s eyes flicker over me, landing on the hand pie in my fingers. “That’s nice. No more sweets after those, all right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Charlotte catches my eye and winks as she slides her extra hand pie behind her back.
“I’ve come to fetch you so we can make sure your new school uniforms fit. Come with me.”
We follow her back upstairs.
“Try these on. If they need adjustments, we can have them tailored before you leave on Sunday.”
I don’t know what having garments tailored in a day would cost, but I don’t ask. It’s clear the Cavendish-Holt household doesn’t quibble about clothing expenses. Mrs. Cavendish-Holt’s cream-colored sheath reeks of expense. My eyes fall to the dress I’m wearing, and for the first time I notice how shabby it looks. The lace at the cuffs has yellowed some, and there’s pilling across my stomach. Suddenly I feel so out of place in this house, even more than I did before.
Mrs. Cavendish-Holt unzips the garment bag and lays out what must be two weeks’ worth of school uniforms in rich navy, crimson, and crisp white.
My eyes are wide as I take in all of the clothes. A scarlet jacket is soft under my fingertips, and the buttons are cold and smooth.
“Go ahead and try them on. We’ll wait.”
I pick up a shirt, skirt, and jacket and look around the room, hoping to find somewhere with some semblance of privacy to change.
“How cute. She’s shy,” Charlotte says.
“Charlotte,” her mother scolds, but Charlotte’s amusement doesn’t leave her face.
I spot an antique, carved wooden screen in the corner and scoot behind it. The shirt and skirt fit me perfectly, but the jacket is a little snug. Even so, I feel smarter simply by wearing them.
I step out from behind the screen and wait while Mrs. Cavendish-Holt and Charlotte look me over. My stepmom circles around me, lips pursed. “That jacket will have to be let out,” she says, finally, coming to a stop in front of me. “You look very nice, dear.”
“Don’t forget this,” Charlotte says, waltzing behind the screen and retrieving my brooch from my dress. Stepping up to me, she pins it to my lapel. “Perfect.”
My stomach is in pretzel knots that are never going to come out. After spending a day with the senator’s family, which included an excruciatingly embarrassing trip to the tailor’s to have my uniform jacket let out, followed by a dinner of veal, which I managed to choke down despite my qualms about how those poor baby cows are treated, it’s Sunday. We’re leaving for dreaded boarding school, where I’ll be surrounded by about a hundred more rich, condescending kids who don’t think they’re better than me; they know it.
“How do I look?” I ask, standing tentatively in the doorway to Charlotte’s room. It’s an inviting space with pearl gray walls and pale tiffany blue accents. It all looks so… tidy. Except for her closet, which is hemorrhaging designer clothing, despite the three large, totally stuffed suitcases standing by the door.
Charlotte turns from her gilt rectangular mirror, where she’s applying mascara, and peruses my appearance. Her eyes flit over my vintage band tee and chevron skirt without comment, but her mouth puckers in disgust at the dingy brown canvas crossover bag that I have slung over my shoulder. “What is that?” She snags it and holds it up between her pinched thumb and forefinger. “You cannot carry this at school.” Dropping it without concern for the pens and phone that spill out, she shoves open her closet and eyes a row of designer bags, tapping a finger to her pursed lips. Finally, she selects a navy leather saddle bag with a silver spade design over the clasp and hands it to me. “You can have this. I don’t use it.”
The leather is supple under my fingers. It’s an Emily Allison design, and it must have cost thousands of dollars. “I can’t take this,” I stammer, holding it out to her. “I’ll ruin it.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Charlotte says, crossing her arms. “You can take it; I gave it to you. Besides, I won’t be seen at school with a girl who’s using that thing.” She nudges my crossover bag with the toe of her patent leather heels. “If I were you, I’d toss it straight into the garbage.”
I frown down at the lump of brown canvas, my eyes running over the “Keep Calm and Bake On” patch my best friend gave me after we binge-watched the first season of our favorite baking show. It does look pretty worn out. Kneeling, I unpin the patch and slide it into the new bag.
Charlotte finishes applying her mascara with a flourish. “Let’s go. Daddy can’t come with us because the Zambian ambassador requested a last-minute meeting. He said to get you to the academy early so we can stop by the headmistress’ office before we move into the dorms.”
My eyes go wide and my pulse jumps. “He’s not coming? And why do I need to see the headmistress before school?”
Charlotte laughs at my fearful expression. “My mom has an appointment this morning, but she’ll meet us for lunch. Besides, it’s my third year there, so I’ll show you around. And you’re not in trouble. The headmistress probably has some saccharine speech prepared about the grand legacy of our school and how we’re glad to have you, and blah blah blah.” She skips out of the room, sliding her leather satchel over her shoulder. “Come on, I want you to meet Mikhail.”
“Who’s Mikhail?” I call as I rush to follow her, averting my eyes to avoid the smiling faces in the vacation photos.
“He’s my driver slash bodyguard.”
“You have a bodyguard?”
Charlotte glances at me over her shoulder. “Some guy got in my face and almost broke one of my toes. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“He almost broke your toe?”
“Honestly, since you’re living with us, you’ll have to get used to the extra attention. Just don’t let randos get too close to you, and you’ll be fine.”
I splutter, unable to form a coherent response.
Charlotte is still talking, unaware that I’m too wound up to focus on what she’s saying.
“Anyway, Daddy thinks having Mikhail around is a good idea. He’s been trailing me for a couple of weeks now. Wait until you see him.”
The eagerness in her voice makes me curious why she’d be so excited about a driver/bodyguard who shadows her every move. Images of tall and morose middle-aged men with ear pieces sticking out of their coat collars swim through my head, making me slow my steps. Does the senator really think Charlotte—and by extension me—is in danger?
“Why don’t we ride with Callahan? He has a car, right?”
“No. He already left. And besides, just because we’re only eleven months apart, doesn’t mean we’re besties.” She pushes out the front door and struts over to a shiny black sedan, where a tall guy in a form-fitting suit is standing, a half smile on his face.
My eyes nearly pop out of my head. Mikhail is nothing like I pictured. He’s gorgeous—tall and muscled. Underneath the neatly trimmed beard he’s sporting, I’m guessing he’s only a few years older than we are. His eyes are kind, even though I’m definitely staring.
“Adrienne, meet Mikhail Sokolov. Mikhail, my stepsister, Adrienne.”
“Nice to meet you.” Mikhail extends a broad hand to go with his deep, Russian-accented lilt.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, making it impossible to speak, so I simply stick out my hand and take his, shaking quickly before dropping it.
“How cute. She’s blushing. She must think you’re hot, Mikhail.” Charlotte teases as she waits for him to open the door so she can slide into the back seat.
The bodyguard’s expression is unreadable.
“Are you coming?” Charlotte calls to me.
I skirt around the bodyguard, not daring to look at his face, and slide into the back seat beside my stepsister.
3
I thought I’d miss my car, but I could get used to this. Mikhail is an excellent driver. I enjoy the view as we drive past the mansions in the heart of the city. It’s so different from home.
I catch sight of the White House up ahead and stare as we pass by.
Charlotte bites back an amused smirk, texting on her phone.
“We’ll be there in two minutes,” Mikhail says, and his eyes flicker over the rearview mirror before he focuses on the road.
Up ahead, there’s a tall, gray brick wall with a wrought iron gate. Luxurious and sedate cars are driving slowly in and out, each with a special license plate signifying their diplomatic status.
It hits me. I’m going to be attending classes with kids from all over the world. These are people my age, but they’ve actually traveled outside their country. They’ve seen much more of the globe than I’ve ever even hoped to see. My big dream is Paul Hollywood starting an American version of the Great British Bake Off so I can compete and, maybe, potentially, get one of his infamously elusive handshakes in recognition of a baking job well done.
But my classmates’ parents are famous politicians. Well, in their own countries, at least. I don’t know who the ambassador from France is, but I bet he and his kids are used to being treated a certain way.
Reaching up, I finger my brooch. Surely it won’t be too obvious that I’m basically a country bumpkin in comparison, right?
“Hello? Adrienne?”
I snap myself out of my head, pushing away my spiraling thoughts, and turn to Charlotte.
“We’re here,” she says, gesturing with one hand for me to pay attention.
Mikhail is already out of the car and opening Charlotte’s door.
I scramble to gather my new crossover bag, but freeze. Should I wait for Mikhail to come open my door, too? Or should I do it myself? Ugh. Twelve hours with the other half and I’m already questioning everything I’m used to. I’ve got to get it together. I push my door open and shove my way out, just as Mikhail is rounding the back of the vehicle toward me.
“Oh, sorry. Should I have waited?”
Mikhail’s smile is gentle as he looks down at me. “Whatever you prefer, Miss Lewis.”
