:: C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N | BE MY MIRROR, MY SWORD AND SHIELD ::
I knew the minute that I opened my locker on Thursday morning that the day was going to be a disaster. A clear, sticky film covered my lock, but I ignored it, frowning as I opened the door. I could hear the drop-drop of liquid falling onto the metal floor.
There was a folded up note sitting in a puddle of syrup that had been pushed through the slats in my door, and I unfolded it, wincing when I read the message: "Happy Sweet Seventeen!"
Oh, it was "sweet" all right. Biting back a scream, I gingerly picked up one of my books, only to realize that it was coated in a sticky syrup. The other book had received the same treatment. Luckily, I'd learned my lesson from last year and no longer kept anything but the necessary items in my locker overnight. But I'd forgotten to bring my Calculus and history textbooks home.
What the Inheritors lacked in subtlety, they made up for in vindictiveness. It wasn't even my sixteenth birthday, and yet, they'd found a way to repeat the prank from last year. I barely had enough money to keep myself fed — I couldn't afford to buy new textbooks to replace the ruined ones!
"Here." A wad of paper towel was thrust in my face just as the bell signifying the beginning of class rang. She was frowning at me, her colourful hair twisted into a sloppy topknot with loose tendrils framing her pale face.
"Um, thanks," I said taking the paper from Davina to wipe down my books.
"Don't do that."
Bewildered, I glanced up at her again. "But I need to get this stuff off before it dries."
"Elliot, your books are screwed. But—" reaching into her bag, she pulling out a permanent marker, a bottle of Liquid Paper and a sheet of labels "—it's fixable."
Wrinkling my nose, I pulled my sticky fingers away from cover of my Calculus textbook. Davina wrenched it away from me before standing up and marching towards a section of lockers by one of the trophy cases. I knew what she was going to do even before she pulled a key out of her pocket and unlocked a locker. "Davina, don't—"
She scowled at me. "Shut up, Elliot. The bitch may think that she can screw you over, but sometimes you have to fight back. So stop being a dumb ass."
Davina's logic was straightforward, and I didn't protest as she set Meg's history and Calculus textbooks on the floor. Turning to the log where the names of the previous owners had been filled in, she smirked. "She's too arrogant to even bother to put her name in. Apparently that shit's for lesser mortals. Add yours, Elliot."
Using the marker, I carefully filled in my name and the school year. "Why are you helping me?" I asked, wiping my locker down with dampened paper towel as her nimble fingers pulled the label with Meg's assigned textbook number off of the inside cover of her textbook. "You hate me."
"What's your textbook number?" She lifted her eyebrows as if daring me to ask the question again.
"09-27. So why are you helping me?"
She didn't answer until we'd "fixed" both of my textbooks and relabelled the ruined books as Meg's. "As much as you annoy the hell out of me, Elliot, I don't hate you." She glanced at me, her bright hazel eyes filled with agony and loathing. "But I hate them."
I looked down at my "new" textbook and let an awkward silence fill the space between us. Davina and I were not friends, but I'd figured out that the bitterness and hatred that she wore like a shiny suit of armour was a defence mechanism. Like me, she was terrified of letting people get too close.
"What are we gong to do with the ruined books?" I asked after a long period of silence.
She eyed them briefly before answering. "Toss them. That's something Meg would do, and it might keep her from realizing that you switched the books."
"For a little while."
Davina smiled bitterly. "Haven't you figured it out yet, Elliot? We're just surviving on borrowed time." She stood up, brushed off the dusty knees of her pants, and straightened her baggy Arctic Monkeys t-shirt. "Gale was trying to find you on Facebook so you could be friends with our group. They all seemed to like you."
"I'm not on Facebook," I answered, something warm settling in my stomach at the knowledge that I wasn't alone as I thought.
Grudging respect flashed across her face before she turned and walked away. "Smart girl."
I think she would have been pissed to learn that she'd unintentionally repeated the words of an Inheritor.
***
On a whim, I searched Kian on Facebook. Despite his death, his account hadn't been touched, but there were many sympathetic messages on his timeline. I wondered why they had even bothered. Kian was dead, gone, and his timeline would never be extended. He would never post another picture or update his status or post that he was in a relationship with a girl. But Facebook didn't know that; it would continue to send notifications to Kian's friends on the day it was his birthday — a birthday that he'd never have — and message his email address to ask why he wasn't posting.
I realized how stupid I was being. The affect that Kian's death had on Scire didn't need to be measured by how many of his Facebook friends noticed.
I scrolled past the sympathy messages to the other posts and pictures dated before Kian's death. His last post — two days before he died — was a picture of Scire's basketball team He had replied to a comment from a stranger named Greg Harlen.
hey daniels, the first comment said. wondering if ur still hung up on becoming a varsity blue at u of t heard that they had had their eye on u u should forget the blues and come to mcgill
It was a message that had probably taken Greg Harlen to a minute to write, but it piqued my interest for a few reasons. I'd always known that Kian had big dreams—his journal had definitely hinted at them—but I hadn't anticipated just how big.
University of Toronto.
That was pretty huge.
Although I guessed that Greg Harlen—judging by his fondness for text speak and hatred of punctuation—didn't put much stock in proper grammar, his use of "had" caught my eye. U of T had had their eye on Kian. As in, they didn't have their eye on him when Greg sent the message.
But it was Kian's reply that fascinated me the most: Nah, I'm still planning to be a V Blue.
Eight words and it didn't even come close to explaining why Kian had been found dead two days later.
I rifled through my bag until I found Kian's journal. I hadn't touched it since reading about his parents — too ashamed of myself to even look at it — but I had to know.
I skimmed over his entries until I found the last one.
March 16
I lost it. I've kind of known for a few months now, but I'm absolutely sure now. And I hate that the years of pushing and fighting and planning have come to nothing. I'm nothing. I'm not extraordinary. I'm not brilliant. I'm not even good enough to get a full ride into U of T.
Sure, they accepted me with all the bells and big envelopes and "we're so glad to fucking have you," but I'm too poor to pay for it, but not poor enough to get even the shittiest financial scholarship.
They said that I was being considered for an academic scholarship, but I messed that up. I put too much into sports, and now I have nothing.
I'm just Kian. Not the have not who proved everyone wrong.
I let the book fall to the floor. The entry was proof might have been the reason why Kian had committed suicide, but it didn't make any sense.
I'd heard enough stories about Kian to know that he didn't give up that easily. Because when the going got tough, the tough — people like Kian — got going. The idea that he'd wanted to die because he didn't get into Yale just didn't fit with who I thought Kian was. He was the boy who'd stubbornly remained on the basketball team even when the Inheritors had made it very clear that they hadn't wanted him.
As far as I knew, giving up was never an option for him.
I pulled on the ends of my hair in frustration. I'd hoped that by stealing his journal that I'd get a clearer picture of who he was and why he'd wanted to die. But I was more confused than ever, and I knew that I was still missing a vital piece of information.
I owed it to Kian to find out what had happened, and maybe people wouldn't think that uncovering the truth that he'd taken such care to hide was sufficient payment, but it was the only way that I could afford to pay him back.
I flipped open my laptop. I knew the consequences — my mom hated it when I called her while she was working, but I didn't really care as I opened FaceTime. I needed to hear what she thought about the whole Kian situation. If anyone knew journalism, it was Laura Elliot. There was a one in a million chance that she'd answer, and I could only hoped that her internet signal was strong, wherever she was.
"Reed." My mother's pretty honey-coloured eyes narrowed. She was sitting in a plain, nondescript room with a generic painting on the white wall and a tiny kitchenette in the corner. Her bags were dumped beside the narrow bed covered in tangled sheets. "Did you get my email?"
"Yes." My smile felt wooden on my face. She was supposed to at least pretend that she was happy to get a call from me. "You're in Turkey, right?"
"Istanbul," she said while I could hear her rapidly clicking keys. "They moved me out of the main conflicts."
"How bad is it?"
She glanced dismissively at me, her attention focused on her other computer. "Worse than anything you've ever seen."
The brush-off stung worse than a thousand wasp bites. It hurt so, so much. "I'm doing an article."
"Interesting," she replied absently. "So am I."
"Mine's a feature on Kian Daniels' suicide." I wasn't sure why I was still trying to push my mom into a conversation. It was as productive as beating a dead cat. "What's yours about?"
She knocked over the water bottle on her desktop.
"What do you mean he committed suicide?" she demanded.
"He-he ... the funeral was a few weeks ago."
She ducked behind her desk to pick up the bottle, the water swishing uncontrollably as she set it down. "I have to go, Reed."
"Mom—"
"Happy Birthday," she said hurriedly. "But someone's calling me. I have to go."
My eyes watered as I stared at the black screen. Using my fingers, I wiped away the liquid. "Allergies," I told myself. "That's all."
Chewing my lip, I dialled his number on my cell phone. The hope that my mom would help me with my article had flown out the window the minute she'd answered the FaceTime call. He was my last resort.
This time my call didn't go to voicemail, and he picked up almost immediately. "Reed."
"Liam."
"Is something wrong?"
"No."
"Reed," he said exasperatedly. "You have to give me more than that. Do we need to work on our history project?"
"Did Kian lose his scholarship to U of T?"
Silence.
"I'm not the right person to tell you that," he answered eventually, his voice wary and guarded.
"Then who is the 'right' person?" I asked. "Who, Liam? Because I need to know."
"We'll talk tomorrow," he snapped before hanging up.
I thought about phoning him again before deciding that he wasn't worth the effort.
***
"So you think the reason that he's dead is because he lost the scholarship."
"No," I said through a mouthful of turkey sandwich. "I think it's one of the reasons he's dead. Not the reason why he wanted to die."
"And how did you find this out?" Jules asked, picking at his cinnamon bun.
"I told you," I said uneasily. "Facebook."
He gave me a flat look. "Reed. Stop trying to lie. You're terrible at it."
"I—" My mouth opened, but nothing came out. "I just ... kind of figured it out, okay?" I didn't like to lie — it felt too much like something an Inheritor would do — but I didn't have a way that I could explain how I'd stolen Kian's journal to make my article better without sounding like a terrible person. Jules was my best friend, but I knew that even he wouldn't understand.
I just had to.
Not because I wanted to show Meg that I could deliver a piece better than she could ever hope to write, but because I felt like Kian and I were meant to be more than people who passed each other in the hallway. We were too similar to be strangers. We were both have nots; comrades in the war of rich versus poor. Brothers-in-arms who fought together, and l would pay what I owed to the boy who had saved me.
My appetite had disappeared, so I dumped the rest of my lunch in my backpack. I noticed then that Jules had fallen silent across from me as I heard the chair to my left scrape across the floor. I stiffened, shifting subtly away from Liam. It wasn't just a physical move, it was an emotional one, too. I had to protect myself, no matter what, and there was just something about Liam that set me on edge and disarmed me at the same time.
To put it simply he was dangerous.
"You wanted answers," said Liam. He didn't bother to acknowledge Jules. And it pissed me off because I thought that Liam was better than that.
"I still do." I snapped.
His eyebrows crept up his forehead at my tone. "What's your problem?"
I sneered, standing up and pulling Jules out of his chair. "Forget it. I'll figure it out myself." As we walked away, Jules grunted, "I know Sinclair's a dick, but you didn't have to do that."
"You're my best friend. He's not going to treat you like shit." I nudged my shoulder into his side. "I'd take a wedgie for you remember?"
He shoved me gently. "And I'd take one for you."
We were halfway across the cafeteria when Liam caught up with us. "Reed! What the hell?"
"You're making a scene," I hissed, feeling the weight of several pairs of hostile Inheritor eyes latch onto us. "Leave us alone."
"I'll make sure you find out what happened." He fisted his hands in his dark hair, pacing in front of me while I blushed; murmurs sweeping through the cafeteria. It felt like we were the stars of some prime-time soap opera, and I didn't relish the feeling at all. "But you have to promise that it stays out of your article."
The reason Kian wanted to die was more important than my feature. "Fine. But I find out everything."
Liam nodded and grinned at me. It was a fragile smile, the kind that easily disappeared. "Are we good?"
"I'll meet you after school," I said stiffly because I didn't want him smiling at me like that.
His weak smile faltered. "What did I do, Reed?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit," he snapped harshly. "You always shut down like this when I do one little thing wrong."
I reached out, cradling his jaw between my hands as I jerked his face towards Jules. The action made me feel like my stomach had decided to nosedive to my feet, but I clenched my teeth and ignored what I didn't want to feel. "See this person beside me? I know you think that I don't have any friends, but that just shows how much you know."
He didn't follow us after that.
As we pushed through the double doors that led out into the hallway, Meg stepped in front of me. "Not again," I muttered unhappily.
Her nostrils flared and I couldn't help but think of a trumpet, and a small, vindictive part of me wondered why someone as rich as her hadn't gotten a nose job. "I know that just because Liam tolerates you that you think you can get away with anything."
My eyes dropped to the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Jules tugged on my arm, and I moved closer to him, feeling like we were mice and she was a cat who toyed with us, pushing us into the corner until our backs were against the wall.
"Yes you do, Reed." Her voice turned sickly sweet. "You may think that he likes you, but you couldn't be more wrong."
Anger shot through me because despite the other crap that I'd suffered at the Inheritors' hands, I always felt like Meg was the root of my problems. She was the reason so many things had gone wrong in my life. She was the reason I hated being touched, the reason I could only write crap, the reason I'd spent my high school career acting as a fancy carpet that stretched out for everyone to step on.
"Lee and I have something special," she smirked, and I wanted to slap her stupid painted-on red mouth for lying. Because from what I'd seen, he didn't treat her any differently than everyone else. "But I don't expect you to understand. It's not like anyone's ever liked you."
A dull ache shot through my chest, painful, not unbearable, but unwanted nonetheless — like me it seemed. With difficulty, I straightened. "I'm not sure why you think I care about Liam, but I don't. He has information about Kian that I need. That's all."
Jules and I pushed past her, but it still felt like something giant and obstructive had made its home on my chest. We'd barely passed the water-only vending machine when I realized that I'd forgotten my bag under my chair, and I turned around to get it, not at all looking forward to walking back into a cafeteria full of Inheritors.
Liam was standing by the doors, Meg hanging onto his arm as she talked his ear off. I backed away, taking in his unusually bright eyes and pinched mouth. My backpack was clutched in his white-knuckled hands.
***