SONG: Arctic Monkeys - Do I Wanna Know?
Warning: racism
💐
D E R E K M A T T H E W S
15th September, sky blushing with bewitched warm colours, the Head of my aunt's Seraphim steps out of a regal, black Range Rover, two dark Cadillac Escalades behind. He bestows a warm-hearted smile, unwinding his arms, irresistibly elated.
I couldn't help embracing him. "I can't believe I did it," I mumble into his shoulder, indulging in amazing incredulity, waiting to wake up.
He pats my back. "I can. Well done, musuko."
I swallow a forming lump, my brows furrowing. I'm not used to acknowledgements and praises. I never felt I deserved it, thanks to dear old Dad. Truth be told, I'm proud of myself too. Three months of perseverance finished. Rehab was so swift, flashed by within a split second. No calls to get out. No excuses for not trying. Merely worked on the goal to be better. Promise fulfilled.
"Ready to go home?"
"God, yes." He laughs. "I miss the chefs' cooking."
Soon, Saint Maximilian Kolbe — an illustrious opal-white — evanesced. A distant smudge subsequent a series of streets.
"Tell me everything," Lin inquires, the Cadillac Escalades following after us.
Surprisingly, rehab significantly helped. Therapy and group sessions. Voluntarily changed my diet. Required clinical check-ups in terms of my kidney. Daily exercise of cardio and callisthenics — resulted in an improved physique. I became a whole new person. A better version of myself. Fragments of the old subconscious me are there, lurking in the back of my mind, sealed and unsealed in a box, yet that essence is like a different universe, a different reality.
We enter a hustling motorway. Our faces are bedazzled by sunrise, shining through the grey breeches. I gaze at the flashing-by cars and premises. "I'm just ... worried if I'll relapse. I can avoid it and still fuck up."
The first week in rehab: I grabbed a hold of a few unprescribed tablets on the receptionist's counter, gobbled it like a starving man. Instead of fulfilment, it left me falling in guilt. It's pathetic — finding bliss in toxicity, a trait merely for the weak. I realised how awfully exhausted I was of this endless, despondent abyss. The nurses found out and imposed stricter guidelines. My therapist encouraged the nurses to ease the restrictions a month after she realised I was getting better — the routine I established was evident enough.
Lin opens the flap, veiling his eyes. "You succeeded three months alone in Saint Maximilian Kolbe. Took matters into your own hands and worked hard. I'm glad. But if you think you can still ruin things, it's clear you have more work to do. And remember — when you avoid something, you commit it, and you do it faster when fear is tied. The mind is made that way. Fear is an illusion, son. You are under no obligation to be the same person you were a day ago. You got nothing to be afraid of. All you have to do is focus on what you want, never on what you don't want, and you'll be alright. Take responsibility for your actions. Don't blame your decisions or 'mistakes' on anyone or anything but yourself."
Lin doesn't believe in mistakes. To him, mistakes are decisions that we choose to make — often bad. We rephrase them as 'mistakes' for composure. The weak do that. Ignorance is bliss, after all.
"Doubts, limiting beliefs, are weaknesses." He peers at me. "Weaknesses are not optional for you. You and Tanner must always be strong. You know how to pick yourself up when you fall?"
"What you think, you become," I answer.
He nods. "Be aware of your thoughts."
He's not my guardian. During crises like this, he consults with Grandma or Aunt Marlene about the consequences. Aunt Marlene only takes Lin's advice. His conferring wisdom is so soothing, so comprehensible and rational. I feel bad for him, feel bad for causing another drastic situation that nobody knows how to handle. Lin isn't used to troublesome kids, isn't used to kids that need professional and medical care. It's mind-blowing that he has several, continuous chances to permanently leave, yet chooses to stay.
My home is secreted in the mysterious outskirts of Edgewater. We swerve into a vacant road lost amongst another round of fields, fields and fields, guarded by the first set of heavy gates, sandwiched between colossal, limestone fences that are half the height of pine trees and branded with the sign:
PRIVATE PROPERTY
£200,000 PENALTY FOR TRESPASSING
These fields can hold a town. It is empty and standardised for a reason, for confusion. You see, twenty minutes from the first wing, this road divides into seven other lanes, all equal in width and length. The third route to the right is the correct path, which takes thirty minutes to reach my home, and that section is also guarded by the second wing of gates. The house is indistinguishable on the horizon — partially because it is distant, partially because the thick trees of the lawns are useful concealments.
We rarely have intruders — our fine is adequate enough to turn heads. If we do, the Azrael are brutal problem-solvers. My parents were a powerful couple. They were on too many radars, hence Mother created the Azrael as our private security force. Dad was of a new name. Mother was of an old name — she knew how to straightforwardly handle tensions. She was the Allmother of the Matthews Family, our first voice, and passed her prestigious title to Dad after she died.
Alongside the Matthews Industry's Tower, the Tate Manor is one of the most impenetrable and expensive edifices in the world, including the land — worth over twenty billion in every currency. It is an Everston estate, owned by one of my ancestors, Tate Hugo Everston who died in 1974. It is a replica of Wilfred Septimus Everston's mansion in America, the Wilfred Estate.
It is an extravagant, four-storey, white-walled, architectural structure. High and mighty, the elegant spires are blue-grey with a domed rotunda in the centre and have symmetrical, curvature windows on each floor — hundreds of them, large enough to absorb a heavy load of sunlight to smoulder the inside. The front yard consists of ludicrous beds of gardens encasing opulent bushes, naked proud trees and petite fountains.
Lin half-circles the largest fountain in the centre. My butler opens the car door, smiling. "Mr Matthews," he greets as I step out of the car. Slender. Warm, loving ambers. Frenzied white hair. "A pleasure to have you back."
"Gareth." I surprise him with a tender hug.
Despite my offer to carry the luggage, Gareth insisted not to. The Staff — huddling the grand, mahogany doors — applaud and cheer, congratulating and welcoming me home.
Suddenly, barks pierce my ears. I grin. Enthusiastically bounding down the stairs, full of excitement and gratification, are my Dobermans. Atlas and Duke. Dad gifted them to me. Atlas's collar is pure gold, Duke's is pure silver, both engraved with the letter M at the front.
I crouch. "Boys—!"
They tackle me to the floor, whining, licking my face, brushing their heads against me, encircling me as if they don't know whether to show affection or run around in exhilaration. Dad's home! Dad's home! They visited me in rehab, although I miss hearing them sneaking into my room at night and waking up to them beneath my covers. A dog's only job is to be the best companion, to provide comfort. And if I die after them, I hope heaven exists so I can see these two sprinting to me from afar.
"Give him space to breathe," Lin laughs. Duke, the bossy one, steps back and barks at Atlas as if telling him to calm down.
"Are you hungry, Sir?" asks Gareth.
"Yes." I straighten. "Is my aunt here or ...?"
Lin fights with a smile, exchanging a witty look with Gareth and the rest of the Staff. Remaining quiet, Lin leads me to one of the living rooms. A few maids giggle. Don't tell me Aunt Marlene organised a surprise party. As elaborate and sophisticated as her celebrations are, she tends to make them cheesy.
We promenade on a four-hundred-year-old Iranian rug that a deceased relative of mine acquired at an auction in 1856.
The Tate Manor is an arcade of enduring history, prospered since the sixteenth century. Some hallways — the ones that have not been renovated — creaked choruses, as rays of the chandeliers illuminated our faces like brushstrokes.
Nonetheless, each hallway is delineated of frames, old and new, paintings and photographs — one is a black-and-white picture of Grace Beatrice Everston: on a harbour, a towel enclothed her cowering body, her smile forced and frail, her eyes traumatised. She survived the Titanic. Her husband, on the other hand, heroically died in the wreckage. Weeks before it occurred, she dreamed of it.
My Lord was scorned, she said in her diary, which I read thirteen times. Stories are engrossing, particularly if they are by your ancestors. He graciously apprised me. I should have listened.
Lin opens the entrance to a strident burst and rain of confetti.
Jackson is hiding behind the door, teeth-grinning like a maniac, his greys shimmering with contentment. I step forward and he smacks my shoulder blade — a little too hard. "Finally, you're back!"
People leap out from their hiding spots. The vast parlour is inundated by cheers, whistles, whoops, claps and laughter from the Staff, my family, friends and their parents. I couldn't stop an appreciative smile, heat crawling into my cheeks.
Aunt Marlene steps forward from the small congregation, swinging out her arms, speed-walking. Arms around me, she instantly leans back with crossed brows. "You ... transformed."
Chuckling, I hug her. She levels with my nose. With a flood of uprising tears, she embraces me so tightly as if frightened I'm a reverie. We both look alike: black hair, blue eyes, eyebrows that often slant to seriousness, fair skin, pale lips that struggle to be genuine. She pecks my forehead. "I'm so proud of you."
I would've shed a tear, but I hate being vulnerable before a crowd.
Sandra Lieselotte Sterling, my grandmother, is on a sofa.
She comes from an opulent German family, however not as wealthy as her divorced name, nor as my father's name. In her early seventies—never let her age deceive you. Despite her cane needed to walk, her strength is adamant, her character assertive and strict. One of the most courageous individuals in humanity, to be certain. Tall, slender as grace, naturally-fair hair of a debonair bob, eyes feline akin to her daughters, son and grandsons.
She used to be a model in her twenties and is one of the first and few women to serve in the Army during the Second World War.
I kneel in front of her. Her scarred smile wrinkles the corners of her blue eyes, her shrivelled hands encasing my rough ones. She tilts her chin in a firm, brief analysis. "You have changed," she says on her tongue.
"Fasting," I respond in my first language.
She's strictly religious, and titters at our little inside joke. Before I was in rehab, she paid me a visit and confirmed the summer was my walk in the desert. "For that, God has blessed you greatly, as He would to His favourites. Well done. Not many can do that."
I stand and avert to Tanner. He grins and hugs me.
"I can't lie, I got bored."
"I didn't. Bit nice to have you gone. You're a dick."
I scowl. "Wow. Thanks."
He pats my shoulder. "I'm just kidding, bro. Well, not about the last one."
Our chefs made my favourite meals — vegetarian lasagne, skillet cod with lemon and capers, pork tenderloin with three-berry salsa, turkey club roulades —, prepared as an imposing buffet. My friends and I lounge on the sofas. Naila is cross-legged, next to Theo whose legs are propped-up on the table.
Jackson swings an arm around Ines leaning onto him. He has a septum piercing like his girlfriend, four more piercings on both ears, and lastly, his tongue. Since sixteen, his body is a neat canvas of tattoos, complementing his lean, skinny frame. He'd go to countries where the age tolerance is low to get them. His neck is now inked with spiders.
"So, you miss us?"
Aunt Marlene restricted my friends to visit over the summer. I'm glad she did. I used my time wisely. No distractions.
Atlas rests on his heel, patiently waiting as my brother breaks a piece of pork tenderloin to feed it to him, to which the Doberman gulps in one go. Duke's head on my lap, I stroked his ears. "Of course. I miss a parrot."
Theo snorts, amused, and Jackson narrows his eyes at my obvious sarcasm.
"I have to deal with this parrot every day," says Jasmine.
I theatrically pat my chest. "My condolences." My hand rub my boy's back, Tanner flopping down beside me. "Did anything happen while I was gone?"
"Remember my party in June?" Ines is Chinese; hair silky and dark, skin soft and dewy. "The neighbours snitched. It got too loud, so the police came."
"That's ridiculous."
"Right? It's not like I'm throwing a party every day. My neighbours can't even be nice for once."
Theo leans forward, grabbing his smoothie. Mexican. Pansexual. Round-shaped face, buzz cut, squared jaw-line, and dark-haired with the standard, right eyebrow slit. "You really don't remember anything?"
"Bits and pieces like—" I glance at Jasmine. "—our stripper talk."
Tanner stops munching, looking at me like I'm a Cyclops. "Pardon?" he says, mouth full, at the same time Theo utters, "Bruh."
"He wants to be a stripper," explains Jasmine.
"I don't mind," I correct.
"He thinks he'll be good at it."
Tanner snorts. "That's the funniest shit I ever heard." He's mixed-race. His father's side are Kenyan, though immigrated and grew up in France. His mother is Dominican. He has rich, dark, flawless skin, a lean body, broad shoulders, downturned dark eyes, and a low-fade-cut hairstyle.
"Destiny talked to me," I add.
"So that's why she was crying," says Naila. She has vitiligo — a condition where pale patches appear on your skin, caused by a lack of melanin. She's insecure about her appearance; made Jasmine, Ines, the boys and I protective as she gets insulted and called a cow by Edgewater Independent students.
Theo puts his glass on the table. "She was faking it."
"I know. I mean, it's Destiny we're talking about."
"Manipulative bitch she is," seethes Ines.
"What, she's still pestering you?" asks Jackson.
"Yes," I say, tone frustrated. "I tell her to fuck off so many times but she keeps talking to me as if I give a damn."
"She's embarrassing herself," simplifies Jasmine.
"What I don't remember is how I got to the hospital?"
Naila stuffs a marshmallow in her mouth. "April found you on the street half-conscious."
"Levesque?"
"No, the month," said Tanner sarcastically. "Obviously, you idiot."
On a street ... Out in the open. I flicker to my aunt. Did people see it? A flash of two blurred figures hovers above me. My fingers brush my tingling lips.
Jackson nudges his white-framed glasses up his nose. "Anyway, you know Lone Oak High?" It's a state school, not so distant from ours. "Two students were reported missing."
"Fourteen-year-old girls," adds Naila.
I look at Theo. "That's your sister's age."
"They were Valentina's friends," he counters.
"There were four primary students reported missing last week," enlightens Jasmine. "Five, seven, eight, and ten years old."
"And surprise, surprise, the fucking news isn't talking about," grumbles Theo.
"The news rarely mentions missing cases. Have you noticed that? You only see it as posters on the streets."
"Because, Jasmine," says Tanner, "the lifestyles of the rich and famous stick to the news' criteria. It's worthless, I know. Everything should be viewed equally. But that's life."
Society is absorbed in the opium of the masses. As a result, people are unaware of how the world is structured. My father used to love his fame until he realised fame is a joke until Mother's life was threatened. She nearly died in a car crash.
Jackson protectively looks at his girlfriend. "Be careful when you go out at night."
"Jacks—"
"Be careful." He averts to the rest of the girls. "It's a small number of cases, but enough to get people terrified to the point they don't want to step out. You girls stick together at all times, okay? Take a knife or some shit."
"That'll get us in jail."
"So?"
"It's better to be safe than sorry," I agree.
Theo stares at his firm fingers. "My sister's age," he murmurs, frightened as if this existing reality properly dawned on him. "She knew them. They were her friends."
***
Aunt Marlene advised me to stay at home for a refreshment. 18th September, Atlas barks, and Duke and I glance at her leaning against the door frame, dressed in a loose sweater, jeans and trainers that beautifully match her fierce, feline eyes. "Excited for school?"
"Are you delusional?"
"School is fun."
"You are delusional."
"This is your last year, Derek."
I have to see the annoying faces of everyone in Edgewater Independent for another eight months or so. Great.
She steps inside, stroking the back of Atlas's ears, leaning down and pecking his forehead. Duke trots to receive the same affection. "Did you talk to Luke yesterday over the phone?"
Silent, I check my bag for the second time. Gareth informed me last night. The second he knocked on my door and mentioned the wretched name, he knew otherwise and told the asshole I was sleeping. Even dead, Luke wouldn't be bothered to come to my funeral. Instead of revisiting, he fucking calls the Manor.
"Derek, he definitely wanted to be here," she argues softly. "But you know how it is—" She stops, realising I don't care, sighing. "It's almost your birthday, darling. Luke called yesterday to advise you to reflect on your goals. The day after you turn eighteen, he'll give you the papers to sign."
"That quickly?"
"He doesn't mind giving you what you want."
"Depending on what it is," I note.
"Depending on what it is," she agrees.
My biggest goal right now is to overcome my addictions. If I physically come across a bottle, blunt or a drug, I hope I can easily avoid it. Once I'm finished with school, I want to take over Dad's company.
He was one of the youngest self-made billionaires in the world. His compassion earned him a Nobel Prize as his business, The Matthews Industry, helped incalculable souls. It established millions of potable water systems in low-economically developed countries. It built eco-free transport networks. Assisted the injured when a crisis prevails.
Visualising myself sitting at the head chair in imperative meetings, the floor-to-ceiling window behind, overlooking the entire city, and helping millions of lives is so exhilarating to think about.
Aunt Marlene took over Dad's company seventeen years ago. She's worth four-hundred-and-forty billion, making her the richest person in the world — well, according to Forbes. Of course, I can name a couple of women unfortunately richer than my aunt, but the world doesn't need to know that.
Still, a title like that makes me proud. My aunt is Marlene Everston, the richest person on Earth.
I smirk. "You and Lin, huh? You two fucked while I was gone? Tanner said he heard screams—"
"Behave well," she cuts off quickly.
My smile widens at her blush.
Lin and Aunt Marlene were crushing on each other for years like pathetic, little high schoolers. It can be endearing, though mostly annoying.
The problem was that my grandfather arranged a marriage for Aunt Marlene with another Family.
The Italians. During their marriage, Lin fell in love with her.
I was nine when she divorced Alessandro Acierno.
Lin Takada and Marlene Everston are perfect for each other. So complimentary.
The entrance hall is half-full of Security, the rest of the guards crowding the front yard, chitchatting. Gareth is standing by the opened, mahogany doors, in a lavish suit and checking his watch. Grandma must be sleeping.
"I heard screams?" Tanner is leaning against a Persian desk. Distinguishing Aunt Marlene's receding blush, he slyly smirks. "Oh. You mean that."
Tanner and I met in Year 1. We practically grew up together.
He is closer to Lin than his own father.
Lin practically raised us, and so Tanner came out as bisexual to him first after he kissed a guy at a party in Year 9. He was fourteen.
The second person he came out to was me, then Aunt Marlene, and lastly our friends.
You see, his parents are not open-minded. They are the type to inflexibly believe sexuality is a choice, when in fact it is natural and has existed since the beginning of humankind.
On top of that, his father and my mother knew each other.
They both went to Edgewater Independent and were running to be elected as MP of Buckinghamshire. Mother and Dad hated him. Why? Raphael Tremblay believes the less the state interferes with the public, the better society will be. He is a lazy man. My parents were the complete opposite.
Tanner eventually came out. Franchesca and Raphael instantly threw their only child out of their house like a bag of shit. They didn't listen to Tanner's confession, 'I'm bisexual, not homosexual.'
Tanner was out in the cold, fourteen, and shivering. He went to the Matthews Tower and stayed in the lobby, patiently waiting for Aunt Marlene to finish. He fell asleep on the sofa and woke up to Lin patting him awake.
'Tanner?' he said.
'Hmm?' Tanner fluttered his eyes open. 'Oh. Hi.'
'Hi,' replied Aunt Marlene. 'What are you doing here all alone, Tan?'
'It's the middle of the night, musuko,' added Lin, concern etched to his face. Hamilton and the rest of the Security were outside with the prepared cars.
'I ... uh ...' He swallowed a miserable sob. 'My parents.'
Lin glimpsed at the bag of clothes and exchanged comprehension with Aunt Marlene.
'I see,' said Aunt Marlene. 'Lin.'
'I'll call Gareth,' is all he said and stalked off.
Aunt Marlene held out a hand. 'Come on, dear. You're shivering. Let's take you to the Manor.'
'I'm sorry,' whispered Tanner. 'I didn't want to disturb you or anything. I just didn't know who to go to—'
'No, no. It's completely fine.' She smiled. 'You're practically family, after all.'
Aunt Marlene somehow managed to adopt Tanner, under my father's name. The news of her decision triggered the Tremblays. They find it intolerable to believe that the wealthiest businesswomen, a rival of theirs, wanted a "disgusting creature" — their words — to live a luxurious life. Out of jealousy, they held a court case. We effortlessly won.
As a Family, we had to remove Tanner's original full name: Tanner Jordan Tremblay. Now, it is Tanner Lemont Chasse Matthews. Lemont is an Everston name, Chasse is new.
It rocked the papers. 'The adopted son of Samuel and Alexandra Matthews', 'New prince on the horizon!', which progressed to constant updates of Tanner Matthews this and Tanner Matthews that, and the Matthews Brothers this and the Matthews Brothers that. Yada yada.
He generated a benevolent reputation: a young man wanting fundamental equality and rights. In fact, he went to a couple of interviews on news channels and late night talk shows to discuss the issues imposed on his communities. In simple words, the people adore him, the people's favourite, just like Dad.
Tanner moving into the Tate Manor was the best fate. A harmonious gift. Truly. I felt lonely in this colossal structure, a humbling experience. Luke and I are barely close, the dogs are sweet comfort, but it is better to have someone humane, and around your age, to talk to.
Nothing is better than living with your best friend or a brother.
I catch a couple of men smiling at each other. "They betted."
"They did," confirms Tanner.
Aunt Marlene crosses her arms. "Were you that bored, gentlemen?"
Fitzroy Hamilton, the Assistant Head of Security, a Scottish boxer, replies in a thick accent, "Lord Matthews started it, Madame."
"Of course he did. Him and his games. At any rate, I don't want another complaint from the Staff—"
"We'll be fine, Ma," assures Tanner.
She narrows her eyes. "You two alone are troublesome. I don't want the lights to fall, or the windows to break! Misbehave, you will clean the entire Manor. Understand, boys?"
"Yes," I say. She made us clean the house before. Without the Staff's help. It took a week to accomplish the punishment. "Now go. Your hooker is waiting for you."
Hamilton and his men snort, instantly hushed by a sharp glare from their boss. My brother and I kiss Aunt Marlene's cheeks goodbye and get in a Rolls Royce. The sky is tarnished with soft light as we whip through the deserted, private lands of the outskirts to the motorway, four Cadillac Escalades full of Security bounding after. The fields transmogrified into municipal complexes as we elapse WELCOME TO EDGEWATER CITY.
Edgewater was founded by my mother's side centuries ago, by Carlyle Flavius Everston. My ancestors ensured Edgewater is a wonderful, relatable place to live. There are several construction sites, so much traffic. When Dad moved here, when his empire was strengthening more than the Everstons's, he had a plan to build more households to tackle homelessness in the city — Aunt Marlene administered his aim.
Mother was Edgewater's first female mayor.
Pigeons rest on the heads and shoulders of ornate, historical, influential statues such as St Josephine Bakhita. I suggested to my family to place statues of people of colour everywhere. I didn't think they'd listen. I was twelve. But Aunt Marlene and Uncle Thomas understood — we cannot let the coloured past be forgotten. They deserve to be remembered with reverence.
From the outside, the school building is a fused theme of exquisite old and modern. Vaulted roofs and towers, red-brick walls, squared windows, modish, marble interior, cement pathways, a car park crammed with expensive cars like Bentleys and Porsches, and massive, neatly-trimmed yards besprinkled with vigorous trees. To the left are the basketball and football courts, dormitories and a limestone building of the indoor opulent pool. To the right are the aluminium gates and the roads of Edgewater City.
Edgewater Independent. A massive private school. Five hundred students. It was my mother's idea, and Dad included it in his Industry. Tax the rich more.
This place is something else. Full of self-entitled pricks. The school's uniform is grey. A-level students can wear anything as long as it's professional. I can depict who's in Sixth Form from the coloured clothes standing out in the sea of bland-themed attires. Friday, however, is a getaway day — Sixth Formers can wear anything casual as it's the end of a school week.
I cuss under my breath, glaring at the horde of press molesting the gates. Look at them. They act like they have seen a person before. It's ridiculous. I comprehend the frenzy correlating my father, but we are nothing more than his sons. Dad actually did something. Tanner, too, but me? I haven't done anything than solely raising awareness of situations like the Middle Eastern wars and routinely end up in arguments with neoliberal thinkers.
Over the summer, I deleted my social media, which instigated questions that lasted for weeks, and even now I heard screams regarding it. Altogether on Instagram and whatnot, Tanner has over three hundred million followers. I have twenty million. I don't use social media that much, never saw the point in it despite globalisation. Currently, Tanner is considering terminating his for a dopamine detox. It truly does erase a mind fog.
As the car cautiously glides, fourteen men and women jump out of the Cadillac Escalades. They spread out their arms, shouting at the press to stand back. Some carefully latched the reporters that tried to bound to the Rolls Royce.
My brother and I step out, attacked by screams and demands. Men, including the chauffeur, surround us as we approach the gates. Students in the car park and front yard stopped to inspect. I had my fair share with the press — usually ended in outbursts that caused headlines to give a bad title to the Matthews name.
I'm feeling nice today, so I graciously smiled. Some stepped back in shock, clearly expecting something else that will boost their earnings.
The school gates closed. Entering the building, whispers rise. Mouths dropped, double-takes, astonishments, as I saunter the corridors. Bodie Banks is sitting on a bench with his friends. Since my return, I promised myself to end his offers. Deliberating it is desolating.
"I'll see you later," I tell Tanner in French.
He pats my back and disappears among the students. Zavian Malik notices me approaching and nudges Bodie's shoulders. The drug dealer looks up.
Bodie is a year above us, retaking the academic terms as he failed his exams. I was his tour guide when he first joined the school. Ironically, he never had unprescribed drugs in his life. He sells it for the money. Recently, I noticed he's distant. Whenever he sees me, for some reason his gaze hardens into coals as if he wants to see me burn alive. Yet our conversations vibrate with different energy, almost as if he couldn't decide.
Zavian holds out a palm. "Derek."
I smack his palm in a handshake. Treyvon Mensah and I exchange a greeting nod. He genuinely inquires, "Are you okay?"
"I am better than before."
He smiles, relieved at the confession. "You look different. In a good way."
"Happier," notes Zavian.
"I am," I half-heartedly agree, twisting the silver ring on my index finger.
I am unsure if it is a facade or not. I feel more relaxed and balanced in my head like a burden has been lifted off my shoulders. At the same time, I feel like I do not deserve it — the calm before the storm.
I avert to Bodie. "Can we talk?"
He hesitantly rises, distancing to secure a space, the nattering environs subduing our conversation. He folds his arms, slanting on the wall. "I'm guessing you want a package? I'm going to get some orders tomorrow. All are acid."
"Bodie, I am not interested in that stuff anymore."
He examines my appearance. Do I really look different? Perhaps it is just the muscle. "I hope you're not lying. I saw that video, Derek. I got worried and went to the Tower and asked for you. They told me you're on holiday for the whole summer. Never knew you have family all over Europe." At the fourth to last word, calm disgust flickers in his hooded eyes.
"I was not on holiday," I say without hesitation. He is good at keeping secrets. "I was in rehab."
"Shit," he murmurs, subsequent to an astonishing moment.
"I had too much molly and drank too much. I ended up in the hospital, got revived—"
"You died?"
"I had an organ transplant, too. My liver got fucked."
He closes his eyes, rubbing the corners. "I told you to take it easy, man." He heaves sharply. "You're okay now?"
"Better than before."
"Good. I'm honestly thinking of stopping, too." Curiosity and surprise pikes. "Stuff I get," he mutters distantly, "not good, right? It could get me killed one day. I can find some other way to get cash, you know?"
Remorse floods my chest. "The Tower has not responded to you?"
"We're still on the waiting list."
Right. A waiting list for loans and assistance.
"I will talk to them."
"No, it's okay."
"I will talk to them." I withdraw my wallet, pulling out cash. "Take this."
He eyes it, immediately shaking his head. "No, bro. No order, no cash."
"Just take it. I want you to have it."
"I—" I slap the cash onto his palm. He stares at the offer, giving up. I can be as stubborn as him. His lips sheepishly press into a firm, graceful line. "Thanks."
Unlike most middle and upper-class students, Bodie was offered a scholarship to study at Edgewater Independent due to his talent in writing. He comes from a working-class background. Out of intimidation, he tried to hide his identity through expensive clothes. Questionable clothes. From everything Bodie told me — his parents, the financial issues — it baffles me how he can afford Louis Vitton and Gucci. Each blindness he sells costs a hundred quid. Right now, his attire is bland and worn-out.
He gave up on trying to look good, as if those designer clothes are infected.
The first bell reverberates.
"If there is anything you need, I will help." First by consulting with someone at the Industry. The Industry has traffic responding to calls and emails. I am their boss's son, their boss's nephew. If I step in and tell them to do something about it, they will.
Bodie's fingers graze the ten-pound notes. "To be honest, Derek, I find it hard to believe those big folks are ethical."
"Big folks?" I echo. "Like who, the Industry?"
"No," he says. "Rich people. The world will always believe the rich man over the poor man. They're let off too easily, too unfairly. You ... I hope you're as good as you seem. Tanner, too. You two are better than most. You got my burner phones?"
"Tanner got rid of them."
He stashes the cash in his ragged coat, rapidly scanning our environs. "Can we meet up somewhere else then? There is something you should know, and I can't tell you about it here. How about Roy's place tomorrow—?"
Camila De La Cruz and Hunar Dash accidentally bump into him. Camila opens her mouth to apologise, yet the second she realises it is Bodie, her face murderously darkens.
"What are you looking at, scum?"
"Fuck off, Dash," I spite.
As if realising I am here, she whips to me in a flinch, the murderous expression diminishing into fear. She paralyses in a trance, whisking from Bodie and to me, again and again, for her breathing to become ragged. But Hunar, the fucker he is, does not notice. He glares at me, wanting to punch. Camila manages to break out of her episode and drags him away.
She cannot get away, said Tanner. None of them can.
"I cannot leave my house," I tell Bodie when they are gone. "My Aunt doesn't trust me that much after what happened. For now, at least. I can borrow one of your burner phones—"
"N-nevermind," he stutters. He looked like he saw a ghost.
My heart drops, recognising that relatable face anywhere. "Bodie, do not give a fuck about them." When he looks at me, that woe deepens. His eyes are red like he saw a crime. "There is nothing to be nervous about."
"I'm not nervous."
"You are." The majority of the time, it is around me. I wonder if it is because of what happened, what he saved me from, but looking at him now, I know that is not the reason.
He glances to his right one more time and hurries away. Baffled, I peer at Camila De La Cruz standing by her locker, whispering, and hissing to her friends: Aashvi Varma and Destiny Byrne.
April Levesque is there, awkwardly standing next to my ex, her arms crossed.
The stimuli tingle my lips again.
I was drunk and high and committed a reckless act that probably scared her.
She is not like them, said Tanner. I promise you. She is the best.
Then why is she with them? I asked in a shout.
Let me tell her, said Tanner.
No.
Tanner told me she is not talking to Camila and Destiny. She is still friends with Aasvhi. The four of them used to be close as sisters. We all noticed their distancing. They do not sit next to each other at classes anymore. Currently, I would catch April with Jasmine, Ines or Naila here and then, or sometimes with random students in our Year.
She is friendly with everyone. The people's princess.
At the same time, she is hated for reasons known and unknown.
💐
Q: Thoughts of Derek?