Deadly First Day, page 7
part #1 of Embassy Academy Series
The rest of the students file in, and pretty much all of them are staring at my stepbrother, who is sitting hunched over with his forehead on the tabletop. His frown deepens. His eyes are on the floor, but the tightness around his mouth indicates that he can sense the heat of all the watchful eyes.
I wish I knew what to say to stop them from scrutinizing him like this, but nothing comes. I can only hope our professor arrives and redirects their focus.
It doesn’t happen soon enough.
A heavy silence hangs in the air, pulling the tension tight like a hair tie stretched to its limit.
I lick my lips, opening my mouth to speak, anything to snap everyone out of this.
Callahan stands up abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor. “What is everyone staring at?” he huffs, hurt and anger radiating off him in waves. “Tell Professor Martin I went to the health center,” he grumbles in my general direction, and then stomps out of the room, elbowing the woman as she enters.
“Where are you going?” she calls in irritation, but gets no answer. She stands in the doorway, watching him for a moment, before setting her laptop down on the desk. She opens it and focuses on her screen.
I lean toward Dali. “Why is Callahan so upset? What am I missing?”
Her eyes flutter furtively as she looks at me. “You mean you didn’t know?”
My shoulders rise around my ears as I shake my head.
“Cal and Na dated all last year. He was totally in love with her, but she broke up with him over the summer. Nobody knows why, even Charlotte. He took it really hard, posting stuff on her social media, asking her to talk to him. It was pretty sad.”
My gut clenches. They were dating? And he was trying to get her back? What if Callahan tried to talk to Na, but she refused? I picture him in my mind’s eye, following her haughty form into the bathroom. See her slicked back pony tail swishing over her shoulder blades. Callahan reaching out for her, begging her to look at him. Talk to him. She refuses. His visage contorts in frustration. He swings out at her, stabbing her in the neck—
I force my eyes open. What would he have stabbed her with? I didn’t see any sign of a weapon at the scene. And could Callahan, the quiet, gangly boy I’ve just started getting to know really be a murderer? My gut tells me this picture isn’t right, somehow.
I glance up to see Dali staring at me, waiting for my reaction to her hushed revelation.
“Wow… so that’s why everyone’s looking at him like that. Huh.” It sounds false, even to my ears, but Dali nods gravely.
Guilt washes over me for imagining Callahan doing something so violent. I force the thoughts to heel, and turn to the front of the room, where Professor Martin has already begun lecturing.
Sliding my fingers over my new tablet, I start typing, trying to get down all of the notes before the professor moves on. I’m not quick enough. A hiss of frustration passes my lips as she begins a new point before I’m finished typing the previous one.
“She uploads her presentations onto the school’s portal website at the end of each school day. If you missed something, you can get it later.”
I bow my head in silent thanks to Dali and relax my fingers. I’m glad Charlotte sent her my way.
I peruse the other students in class. They’re all focused on the lecture now that Callahan is gone. For a minute, I’m not an exhibit in a circus, being stared at with curious revulsion.
I feel terrible for Callahan. I do, but for the first time since I got here, everyone’s attention is on someone other than me. They aren’t looking at my department store shoes. My cheeks, flushed with embarrassment. I’m invisible to these people, and it’s a huge relief.
The rest of the week goes by in an overwhelming blur. I’ve kept tabs on the headlines regarding the murder, and so far the senator’s team has managed to keep my name out of the news. Who knows who he had to bribe to manage it. I am gathering that the police don’t have a lot of clues, which worries me. If I’m their only living tie to the crime, it’s only a matter of time before they want to talk to me again, and I don’t have anything new to tell them.
On top of that, I’m stressed about my schoolwork. I have so much to do over the weekend that I don’t think it’s actually possible to get all of it done in time. My father is paying an obscene amount of money for me to be here at the academy, and I’m determined to be worthy of it, even if I’d rather be back in familiar, comfortable Wood View.
Still, I’m settling into a rhythm. At meals, I sit with Charlotte, Callahan, Asif, and Dali, and slowly the speculative looks die off. Everyone seems to have moved on from staring at Callahan and me.
Mikhail is so adept at acting as our shadow through the halls that I almost forget he’s always right there, ready to protect us if something goes wrong.
By Friday morning, I’m really looking forward to breakfast. True to his word, Ricardo didn’t eat all of the blancmanges. Instead, he’s brought me one each morning for the past two days, and today he should have two left: one for him and one for me. A smile creeps up to my face at the memory of Wednesday morning, when he strutted into the eatery with a cute, perfectly formed blancmange on a plate, a sparkling slice of candied orange peel crowning the little mold. He set it on the table in front of me with a flourish, before taking his usual spot at a table across the room with his friends. He’s so dramatic, sometimes.
“What’s that all about?” Charlotte had asked, a hint of accusation in her voice.
“I, nothing.”
Her arched eyebrow said enough.
I ate my blancmange in silence, trying not to let her see my pleased smile.
My cheeks warm at the memory, despite Charlotte’s obvious censure of Ricardo’s attentions. She snorts in derision, making my eyes fly upward.
Sure enough, Ricardo is walking into the eatery bearing a plate with one more creamy dessert on it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Charlotte snaps, drumming her fingers on the table. She scowls as he walks over and places the plate in front of me with a silly bow.
“Your breakfast, chouchou,” Ricardo says, oozing carefree confidence.
Charlotte rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out, but it doesn’t bother Ricardo. He chuckles, and then ambles over to his usual table.
Once he’s gone, Charlotte leans over her omelet toward me. “I thought I told you to stay away from him. He’s nothing but a shameless flirt.”
“I remember.”
“Good. It’s bad enough with Cal…” She trails off, giving herself a mental shake and focusing on her breakfast. She stabs a bite and chews emphatically.
Callahan must have had enough of the staring, because he hasn’t bothered to show up for breakfast this morning.
“I’m worried about him,” she whispers.
I nod, not sure what to say. Instead, I focus on my dessert, determined to savor this last one. I don’t know when I’ll be able to get into the kitchen to make something else.
“Can I taste it?” Dali asks.
I sit back, gesturing with my hand for her to help herself.
She wipes her spoon on her napkin thoroughly before taking a small bite of the creamy dessert. “Mmm, that’s delicious.”
Charlotte’s eyebrows furrow. “Why does he keep bringing you those things?” With a single finger, she scoots my plate toward her to get a closer look at the petite mold.
I haven’t told her that I snuck into the kitchen and used some of the school’s ingredients to make these, because I’m not sure how she’ll react. She’s got a pretty rigid sense of duty, this one. I’ve seen it in the studied way she pays attention in class, her meticulous notes. She’ll probably be livid I took something that wasn’t mine.
I should tell her. I should.
“Well, out with it,” she says, her palms flat on the table as she looks at me.
“He may have caught me in the kitchen late Tuesday night… making these.”
“What?”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I cooked. It’s something I do sometimes.” My voice grows fainter as Charlotte looms over me, but to my surprise, she doesn’t reprimand me.
Instead, she leans back in her chair, smiling. “You snuck down to the kitchen? I didn’t think you had it in you. Well done.”
Emboldened, I add, “I may have also used ingredients from the school’s pantry.”
She bucks in surprise. “You can’t keep doing that. Why didn’t you ask Mikhail to take you to the store?” But she’s shaking her head in amusement.
I relax into my chair. “It was pretty late.”
She gives a decisive nod. “We’ll go tomorrow. Mikhail won’t mind. Then you can make me those macarons I asked for. And while we’re out, we can get you a dress for the convention. I’ll ask him right now.” She’s waving him over before I can protest.
Mikhail agrees to take us as soon as Charlotte asks, his response almost eager. He lingers for a beat before returning to his usual spot near the door. I’m not surprised. I’m pretty sure Mikhail has a crush on my stepsister, not that she’d notice.
“Doesn’t one of your parents have to sign us off campus? Will they do that, considering everything?”
Charlotte scoffs. “We’re not under lock-down. And even if we were, there are ways to get off campus unnoticed.”
“What, like secret tunnels?”
She scoffs at this. “Oh, yes. Secret tunnels, and hidden societies that rule the world from the shadows. You watch too much television.”
Dali’s eyes are sparkling in amusement at my naiveté.
“Sorry,” I grumble, taking another slow bite of my breakfast.
I guess that’s settled.
10
I have never been this trussed up in my life. We’re standing behind a giant blue curtain, waiting for Senator Allegra Moss to introduce my father, Senator Holt as her chosen running mate.
Earlier this afternoon, Mrs. Cavendish-Holt checked Charlotte, Callahan, and me out of classes after lunch for what she called “prep time.” I had no idea what she meant, but I had ample time to guess as the headmistress’ assistant walked us through the new, more stringent checkout protocols. Whatever “prep time” involved, it had to be better than being openly leered at by everyone at school.
“Prep time” ended up involving hair, makeup, and nail appointments at a cushy salon downtown. And I was right; being away from all of those prying eyes was a huge relief.
Now, I stand in a low-lit backstage area, willing myself not to itch my nose. I’ve got so much makeup on my face and neck I feel like Mrs. Doubtfire in a buttercream mask. I lost count of the products the lady at the salon applied, and when I saw myself in the mirror, I gasped. My freckles were completely covered by the thick layer of foundation, and the blush she’d added was at least two shades too bright, making me look like a raggedy Ann doll. “Stage makeup,” the girl called it. I reach up to touch my hair, which has been sprayed and moussed and gelled into rock-hard submission.
I run my hands over the bodice of my dress, enjoying the feel of the crisp, rusty orange taffeta. When Charlotte took me shopping for it, she said the senator had given us a clothing allotment for the campaign. Part of me wanted to refuse the money, since I’d gone without it for the first seventeen years of my life. But the thought of standing next to Charlotte and Callahan at a campaign event, wearing one of my vintage frocks changed my mind. Maybe the senator’s offer wasn’t pity money, but back pay. Thinking of it that way made it easier to accept.
I have to admit that the dress looks really good on me. In it, I don’t feel embarrassed to stand next to the rest of the family.
On the other side of the curtain, Senator Moss, who my father calls Allegra, but I would never have the guts to call anything other than the formal Senator Moss, is pumping up the crowd with emphatic statements about the party’s platform and their responsibility to keep the U.S. on the right track.
I roll my eyes, but stop when I catch sight of Charlotte’s face. She’s listening intently, nodding her head in agreement. She’s either hard-core into politics, or she’s an excellent actress.
“It’s almost time,” my father says, turning toward us. He can barely contain a grin, making his green eyes stand out vividly against his warm brown skin. “Remember, big smiles, and don’t say anything unless Allegra asks you directly. We’ll go out, I’ll give my speech, and then we’re done. Charlotte, switch places with Cal.”
Cal’s shoulders slump where he’s standing next to me. He almost looks as if he’d rather fade into the shadowed corner than step out onto the brightly lit stage. I try to catch his eye, but he won’t look at me.
Charlotte huffs, but stands aside so Cal can shuffle into place next to Mrs. Cavendish-Holt, who looks presidential herself in an eggplant-colored pant suit that has been tailored to perfection.
The curtain flutters as Senator Moss continues to wind up the crowd by listing the senator’s many accomplishments. My stomach jolts with nerves at the sight of the massive audience. There must be thousands of people. I reach up to itch my nose, but Charlotte swats my hand away.
“Don’t touch your face,” she warns.
I bite my lip, willing the nauseated feeling to recede. This is exactly why I never try out for anything that involves being in front of people. I cannot handle this. When’s Senator Moss going to announce us so we can go out, wave like the senator’s campaign manager taught us, and get out of here?
“I’m pleased to announce my running mate and vice presidential candidate, Senator Terrance Holt.”
The senator and his wife go through the opening in the curtain and Callahan follows at a stroll, but I can’t move. I am not going out there.
“Come on,” Charlotte urges, grabbing my hand and practically dragging me onto the stage.
Lights flash in my eyes, making it impossible to see the crowd. I blink furiously and the spots clear from my vision. My eyes widen at the sheer number of people in this building. Bile rises in my throat. It was better when I was seeing spots.
Senator Moss strides across the stage and gives my father a hearty handshake, both of them beaming as they approach the podium.
The photographers in the corral at the foot of the stage are snapping away, but I try not to look at them. Instead, I plaster what Charlotte called a “campaign smile” on my face and let my gaze blur into the distance.
Smile.
Wave.
Don’t lock my knees.
Senator Holt gives a mercifully short speech, and shakes hands with Senator Moss again.
In what can only be a rehearsed move, my father steps back toward the podium and speaks into the microphone. “In all the excitement, I almost forgot.” He looks down the row at me.
Oh no oh no oh no.
“As most of you know, I’m a proud stepfather to Callahan and Charlotte, but I’ve recently been blessed by a visit from my biological daughter as well, Adrienne Lewis. Wave to everyone, Adrienne.”
I comply, identifying way too much with a ventriloquist dummy. The senator has never given me more than the dregs of his attention, but now he’s introducing me in front of all these people, and on television?
Oh, geez. I had managed to push the notion that I’d be on television out of my head until this moment. My stomach jerks again.
And then come the balloons.
Thousands of red, white, and blue balloons come showering down from a net near the ceiling, bouncing off our heads and shoulders and giving us some cover from the watchful eyes of the enthusiastic crowd.
I have never loved balloons so much in my life.
When we step behind the curtain, I lean over, putting my hands on my knees and taking deep breaths.
Charlotte comes over and rubs my back forcefully. It’s not soothing, exactly, but I appreciate the attempt. “Buck up, loser. It’s time to mingle.” When I force my eyes up to hers, she gives me a mischievous smile.
A pair of large, shiny black shoes enters my vision, and I know without looking up that it’s Mikhail. Despite his brevity, Mikhail’s presence is calming.
I straighten. “Okay, I’m ready. Callahan?” But when I turn toward where he was standing, my stepbrother is already gone.
We take the stairs at the side of the stage to an area that is cordoned off. Only VIPs and members of the press are allowed past this point. Mikhail leads us through the rope and down a brightly lit hall into a reception room lined with tables of hors d'oeuvres and champagne flutes.
“I’m famished,” Charlotte says as she marches over to the snack table. “Quick, load up your plate before Mom sees you.” She piles a pristine white porcelain plate with yummy bite-sized eats.
Truth be told, I’m hungry too. The green smoothies Mrs. Cavendish-Holt bought us for dinner did little to fill my stomach. As a self-proclaimed nutritionist, you’d think she’d know that growing teenagers need real food. I follow Charlotte’s lead and take a hefty portion of snacks, eyeing the dessert spread as we move to one of the high tables that circle the room.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m still starving. People keep coming up to congratulate us on our dad’s nomination, which is sweet and all, but I’m so worried about being mid-bite when someone asks me a question, I haven’t had the courage to actually eat any of my food.
“I’m so glad you could visit your dad, Adrienne.”
“Nice to meet you, Adrienne.”
“How are you liking D.C.?”
I answer as politely and shortly as I can, with an unwavering smile.
No one engages Charlotte, and the way everyone keeps overlooking her makes me feel bad. I know what it’s like to be ignored.
“You know Charlotte?” I ask the woman before me. She’s a judge, I think, but at this point I’ve met so many people I’ll never be able to keep them straight.
“Yes. Nice to see you, Charlotte.” The woman smiles before excusing herself and melting into the crowd.
I turn to my stepsister. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize. Your sheen of novelty will wear off eventually,” she says, looking at me before returning her focus to the crumbs on her plate. There’s a sad undertone to her words, as if she’s speaking from experience. I want to ask her about it, but not here. “I’m ready for dessert. Aren’t you?”
