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MAYELLA VANCE KNEW FROM HER VERY first day at Arrowsmith, when she had only been five, that she did not quite fit in with her new classmates.
Most of them were English, for starters. If not English, then European. Meanwhile, her accent stuck out harsh and American and she had no idea what a 'bollocks' was or why her classmates got scolded by the teacher for exclaiming the word loudly.
They all seemed to know each other too. Young Julian Glasier, hair grown out into his green eyes, would throw his crayons at little Helena Chapman, whose red hair had not dulled with time, as vengeance for things she'd done over the summer break when their families met up at some remote vacation spot. And small Freya Arsov would roll her little eyes and mutter something under her breath in Russian, a habit which drove their poor teacher mad because she was never sure whether the young girl was secretly saying 'bollocks' like everyone else.
Not only this, but from a young age, Mayella was tall. She'd always been tall and had hated it for a long time. Her mother was a petit woman, who had migrated from Japan to the States as a child and had built a business for herself as a top tier fashion designer in Los Angeles, and while Mayella had inherited almost all her looks, the straight jet black hair and narrow eyes, she'd gotten her father's height. She towered over all the boys and was a giant compared to the girls. It did not help that her first and only friend for a long time was the size of a pixie. In height or in looks, none of her classmates matched her.
She stuck out like a sore thumb, in her head.
During her first term at Arrowsmith, years ago, she'd overheard a girl refer to her, in the most disgusted of tones, during lunch, as 'new money'.
She had no idea what that meant so she asked Freya, who had proved herself to be as good at knowing things as she was at infuriating their teacher. Freya's little brows had drawn together and she'd once again muttered a Russian curse before catapulting her silverware at the girl's head.
As the years passed and she grew with Arrowsmith, in height, yes, but also in mind. Mayella learnt what the term 'new money' meant. She'd discovered that some of her classmates would always look down on her, whether it was because of her appearance, ethnicity, social status or wealth. It did not matter how much money her mother made or how many celebrities wore her designs. It did not matter that saying a word against Maye resulted in Freya's unholy wrath. It didn't matter. She was never going to be perfect in their eyes.
But god, did she try to be.
Perfection became an obsession.
She had a faint memory of being very young, sitting in her mother's studio, which, at the time, was smaller than it was today. Reiko Vance was kneeling before a mannequin wearing a gown of silk. She was stitching something at the hem and muttering, wholly to herself, "Perfect. It must be perfect."
No one had ever told Mayella she needed to be perfect. But it was something she needed nonetheless, an insatiable desire, a terrible dream that she could always picture but never ever grasp.
She did whatever she could to get there. However, as she grew and learnt, she realised that some things about her could not be changed and must be accepted. So, she accepted her height and her Japanese looks.
But perfect was a difficult ideal to shake and some habits die hard.
She had to be on-time for all things. She had to submit all of her assignments as soon as possible. She had to join this club. She had to avoid this boy. She had to do this and this and that, all to be a tiny sliver of perfection.
And it worked.
She became her teacher's favourite. She wasn't the smartest, not the top of the class, not pure intellect like Juliet or burning wit like Freya. But she was the best at being perfect, the one the teachers would recommend to other students to look to for an example. And she scraped on ahead with her scraps of perfection.
Until last week.
When Mr. Desmond had asked to speak with her after class, she'd thought it was to give her an extra assignment, or commend her good work on something she'd done last year. Nothing had prepared her for the news he'd dropped.
"Miss Vance, I don't know what to say or how to say this but I must say it," he'd delivered in that English accent which she'd envied so much over the years, "it appears you've failed all of your subjects from last term's exams."
She'd felt the sky fall on top of her head when those words left his mouth. Her? Failing?
She'd stuttered to ask him if he was sure.
But, of course, he was. He was a dean of the institute. He would know.
Raina had passed as he'd continued the conversation, suggesting study tips and clubs she should join in an attempt to improve from last term's blunder. All Maye could think as she passed was how embarrassing it all was.
She was Mayella Vance. She was perfect.
But had she really ever believed that? Had anyone ever believed that?
Her dreams were full of jeering faces and flying silverware.
She woke with a headache and was thankful, because it provided a reprieve from her taunting thoughts. But she supposed that her search for a reprieve last night was what had gotten her into that awful situation.
"Maye?" Freya's voice floated past her ears, crisp and English-accented, as usual, but softened to a degree by worry.
"What time is it?" She groggily asked, unwilling to open her eyes yet, afraid that whatever light her room held might just kill her.
"It's two," Freya replied.
Mayella's eyes flew open. "In the morning? Or in the evening?"
She got her answer from the sunlight spilling across her comforter, and she was right, it did almost kill her to look at that light. Still, she rasped, "I一 I can't miss classes, Freya!"
She heard the frown in her friend's voice. "It's a tad bit late for that, Maye."
"Why aren't you in class?" Mayella asked, turning her head to where Freya stood beside her dresser. She wasn't even dressed in uniform, hair damp around her shoulders and a white silk robe hugging her frame.
"I didn't have any important classes today," said Freya with a graceful shrug of her shoulders.
Mayella could always tell when Freya was lying. Freya thought she could fool everybody but Maye always knew her lies. What was difficult with Freya was not to sense her lies, however, it was to know her truths, and Mayella had no way of learning those.
This truth, she could guess though. "You skipped because of me?"
Freya rolled her eyes, her only sign of defeat.
"Not only you," she said, coming to sit on the edge of Mayella's bed.
Maye became aware of the mess of her bed. Whoever had tucked her under the covers last night had messed up her sheets and that annoyed Maye for some reason. It was probably Amelie.
"Did any of the others skip too?" Mayella inquired, but she would've heard Amelie's footsteps or sensed Raina's brooding.
"No," Freya shook her head. "You know what? Don't worry about it. Don't think too much of that pretty head of yours will go一," Freya made a swirling motion with her finger.
"You should've gone to class. You're too nice to me," Mayella said, after a moment. Her head was a blurry mess but she was coherent enough to remember Freya's defence of her in the past and could align it with her care of her in the present.
Her friend frowned. "Sure," she said, sarcastically.
Mayella only shook her head. And found that it hurt to do that.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd gotten drunk enough for a hangover of such proportion, certainly not in Beverly Hills this summer. Even while Freya hadn't drunken at all, Mayella still felt obligated to be sober enough to make sure that her friend did not drive them into a post on the way to their apartment.
Freya stood and reached onto her bedside table, handing her a glass of water. "Drink that."
Mayella accepted it and obeyed.
"If you need me, yell," said Freya, turning to leave. "I'm going to get dressed. The others will be done with classes anytime soon."
Mayella wanted to plead for her not to abandon her with her thoughts, but she was already gone.
Theodore Altringham's company has been fun as they danced. She had been so lost in the thrill of the champagne at that point, and even more lost in the music, as it distracted her from the ever-present gnawing reality of her situation. For a while, it was as if she hadn't cared about a single thing. Until she did.
But by then, her back was against a wall and his hands slithering up her dress. And they would've gone higher, despite her struggling, despite her complaints.
Mayella was familiar with the feeling of being stuck in a corner, unable to get out. Except then, with Theodore's mouth latching onto hers, the feeling multiplied tenfold.
Next thing she knew, the champagne bottle was swinging in her grip, colliding with the top of his head.
The shattering sound it made still rang in her ears.
A door opened downstairs, disrupting the memory. Mayella straightened in her bed and made to get up, blinking past the dizzying hangover as she did.
"Hello?" rang Amelie's voice. Then, her footsteps on the stairs. Mayella was by her dresser, making for the door, when Amelie stuck her head in.
"Hey," she smiled, scanning Maye from head to toe.
Amelie's short blonde hair was pulled back with a white tie into a little ponytail at the back of her head, some tendrils breaking loose to curl around her face. Her white school shirt sat unadorned by the blazer or the tie, the silver raven of Ebony House glinting at her breast, and was tucked into a long, slim-fitting pair of maroon trousers, rather than the usual plaid skirt most girls chose to wear with their uniform. The pants were an option available to all girls and weren't uncommon on Amelie.
"Let me guess, you didn't feel like shaving your legs," Maye said, eyeing her attire.
"They're comfortable too, you know," commented Amelie, slender and tall frame leaning against Maye's doorway. Her brown eyes softened. "How are you?"
Maybe deposited herself into the little stool she had at her dresser. "Fine."
Amelie's gaze glued onto her meaningfully.
"I have a headache," admitted Mayella, with a rueful sigh.
"Can I get you anything? Coffee? Painkillers?"
"You should've woken me for class," Mayella replied. She knew that they were doing what they thought was best for her by letting her sleep till two, but Mayella couldn't ignore the taunting apprehension that pulled at her. You've failed all of your subjects.
Amelie's brows drew together and she leaned closer to Maye, resting a slender hand with yellow painted nails atop her dresser. "Maye," she started gently, "you don't have to beat up yourself over this. Everyone fails things from time to time."
She didn't recall confessing to them and her cheeks flames hot when she realised Amelie was aware of her misgivings.
"I'm not beating myself up," lied Mayella, because she couldn't admit the truth to Amelie Perrin of all people.
She was quite sure she and Amelie would not be friends if it weren't for Freya. On her good days, Mayella could laugh with Amelie and ignore the overbearing optimism the girl exuded. Today, however, was not one of her good days.
Amelie leaned away from Maye's desk to cross her arms, eyes kind. "So you just partied a little too hard last night?"
The shattering of glass. Theodore's voice, shouting, calling her a slut.
Mayella cut her gaze sharply to Amelie, curling her lips back in a snarl, ignoring the throb behind her eyes. "It's none of your business," she snapped. "Just because Freya tells you all her secrets doesn't mean you're Ebony House's official secret keeper, Amelie."
Amelie's face fell and she took a step back.
"I didn't ask for your counsel," added Mayella, already feeling bad. But she wanted Amelie to leave because all she was thinking about was how far she'd fallen.
"I'm sorry then," said Amelie, softly, brows drawn in confusion at Maye's hostility.
Mayella herself was confused.
"Just go," she said, casting her eyes away, only looking up when Amelie's hesitant footsteps broke away. She looked up to meet her reflection's eyes. They were her father's eyes and her mother's eyes. Yet, Mayella didn't recognise them.
A brief conversation in the hall brushed against her ears, the exchange icy as Amelie bumped into Freya. Then, Freya appeared in her room.
Mayella blinked life back into her eyes.
"You good?" asked her oldest friend. She'd changed into her uniform and dried her hair.
Mayella smiled softly. She could always see through Freya's lies but Freya could never see through hers. "Mhm," answered Maye.
"Great," beamed her friend. "You should shower, eat something." Freya's light eyes scanned her. "I'll be back later. Detention."
"Detention?" Mayella rose a brow.
Freya's smile didn't slip but Maye knew she was lying when she said, "I bad-mouthed my Chem teacher last week. No big deal."
Before Mayella could call out her lie, Freya's feet were turned toward the door as she repeated, "Shower. Eat."
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MATTHEW WAS LEAVING CYAN HALL, showered and dressed in his school uniform, just as students were being let out of their day's classes. Freya had told him as he left her room that they held detention in the library. He was on his way there when he spotted Anakin's figure loping toward him.
Matthew cut across the yard, breaking from the paths where most students dwelled, ignoring the curious stares and whispers as he'd passed.
By now, everyone had heard about the events of the party. He was thankful Cyan Hall had been empty. He didn't know how to face either Karsyn or Julian Glasier, who he was sure had been Freya's boyfriend in the past, from the way they'd stared at each other in the hall last night. Matthew had been reckless going after them yesterday, but in the end, it had given him answers.
He entered a narrow strip of shadow behind one of the teaching buildings where they wouldn't be seen and heard Anakin's footsteps in the grass not too long after.
His third in command's face was livid.
"A fight, Matthew?" Anakin's green eyes were wide in disbelief. "What do you think Kirova would've done if you'd gotten yourself kicked out of Arrowsmith because of a fight?"
"Call me a defective pawn and kill me probably," answered Matthew with a shrug.
"You think?" Anakin asked.
It was not often he lost his temper. In fact, this was the angriest Matthew had ever seen him, so he excused the tone of voice he took as Anakin spoke to him, knowing Anakin had as much of a stake in Kirova's bidding as he did. Possibly more.
"I didn't get kicked out though," Matthew responded, calmly.
Anakin didn't relax. His eyes were still wide, cast with fear and a hate so deep. Matthew understood that hate. Anakin had been similarly messy last night when he'd come to inform him about the lawyer.
"I didn't get kicked out," he repeated. "And, I got on Freya Arsov's good side."
Anakin calmed, only slightly, to look up at him questioningly.
"I beat up some prick who had attacked her friend."
Matthew didn't tell him about what he'd learnt about her in the hall. He didn't think he was ready to see Anakin's mind tear her apart yet in cold calculation.
He did tell him about the overheard phone conversation though. "I overheard her say this on the phone. What does this mean?" He tried his best to repeat what he'd heard Freya say, sure he'd heard Kirova's name, but Russian wasn't his greatest language.
Anakin chewed his lower lip, concentrating.
"You're sure it was 'ad' and not anything else?" Anakin asked.
Matthew nodded.
Anakin let go of his lower lip to translate, "She said, "Tell Kirova that I will bring him hell.'"
"Are you sure?" Matthew asked, stunned.
Anakin merely gave him a heavy look. Of course, he was sure. Any mistake in translation would be Matthew's fault, not Anakin's, whose first language happened to be Russian.
"Alright," he said, running a hand through his hair, the stitches stretching as he did. "What do we do with this information?" He asked his Third.
"Tell Grayson. Let him ask about her covertly in the Dark World, see if we can find any link between her and Kirova before we do anything else," Anakin advised. His Third worked his jaw, then said, almost unwillingly, "Also, I think we should see if we can get the truth from her ourselves."
"Kirova would've told us the truth if he wanted us to know," Matthew countered, feeling already guilty for what Anakin had suggested. It was a similar feeling to the one he'd felt as she'd smiled at him before he'd left Ebony House, like a punch in the chest.
"Exactly. Kirova doesn't want us to know." Anakin's eyes flashed. "It seems Freya has a bone to pick with him, and it's a big enough bone that he feels threatened. He sent us to her but didn't tell us why because he knows we also have a bone to pick with him."
Matthew's head spun, trying to see what Anakin was showing him.
"This could be a trap," Matthew breathed, once he understood. "It feels too easy."
Anakin huffed a laugh. "What about this is easy, Matthew?"
He knew he was right. A recovering addict teenage girl threatening one of the world's most dangerous criminals. A reluctant gang leader who happened to be reluctantly working for that criminal.
But Anakin hadn't been around while he and Freya interacted. It was easy. As easy as breathing.
"Okay. You tell Grayson," Matthew said, shaking his head. "I have to go to detention. Let's hope it's not practice for prison." Matthew gave a rough laugh.
Anakin smiled, it wasn't a real smile, more of an instinctual one, before nodding.
Matthew trekked from behind the building, returning on his path to the library.
Kirova was playing a game, he knew it. He just didn't know who he was playing. And didn't dare hope that the crime lord was playing himself.
Freya was waiting for him near the side entrance to the library, distinctive by her loose pale hair. She stood, shoulder leaning against the library's wall that faced another bricked wall of some other building, creating a narrow hall of sorts. Indeed, the building beside the library extended to the end of the hall in an L, blocking them from a side.
Her heels scraped on cobblestone as she took a step toward him.
"We're ten minutes late," she said, by way of greeting. "But the teacher in charge of detention is Mrs. Rosehill and she's cool so she wouldn't care."
Matthew quirked a brow at her as she held open the wood and glass door for him. "How do you know so much about detention?"
Her smile didn't drop, in fact, it grew to be mischievous. "Two years ago, I spent most of my time here."
Two years ago. Four hundred and forty-one days, she'd said in the hall, voice cracking.
"What's supposed to be punishing about spending time in a library?" Matthew inquired, threading behind her as she wove through shelves of books.
"I wondered the same thing, but I'm not complaining," came Freya's reply. Her fingers skimmed the worn edge of a book as they passed.
"Do you remember the library at my house?" Matthew asked, turning a corner. The school itself was grand, vast, more opulent than other schools, and its library was no different. Matthew would've gotten lost had he not have Freya guiding him.
"Mhm," she replied, "Atalanta used to let me borrow books from there."
"I really think she might like you more than me." Matthew shook his head. "She never let me touch her books, saying I'd get paint on them."
"Paint?" Freya asked, slowing her steps as they approached the silent centre of the library where an elderly woman with large-framed glasses sat behind a desk, a month's worth of reading material scattered before her.
Matthew was stopped from answering when the woman passed her gaze over him and Freya, then inquired, "Names?"
"I'm insulted you even have to ask, Mrs. Rosehill," Freya said with a winning grin.
Mrs. Rosehill's lips twitched upward, charmed.
Freya gestured to him. "This is my friend, Matthew al Nassar. You'll find his name right under mine written in the headmistress's hand. I'm going to go out on a limb here too and guess that it's written down rather angrily."
Miss Rosehill flipped open a book labelled "Detention" and ran a finger down the page, eyes lighting up behind her glasses as she caught his name exactly where Freya had said it would be, written exactly how she'd guessed it to be, in his aunt's hand, slanted and spiked.
"You know the rules," Rosehill told them, looking up.
Freya flashed her winning grin once again. "I do!"
Then, she walked away from Rosehill, past the empty desks that sat before her, back into the maze of bookshelves, leaving Matthew to follow, shooting the elderly woman a glance over his shoulder as he went. She'd already gone back to her reading, unbothered.
"What was that?" Matthew whispered once he and Freya were significantly far from Rosehill, between towering shelves of books.
"I told you, she's cool. So long as you don't leave the library, she doesn't care," Freya replied, fingers pulling at a book.
Matthew eyed her. "You seem happy to be in detention."
She turned to him, lashes fluttering as she grinned. "I am."
Matthew peered down at her curiously as she pulled books out of the shelves to eye their covers before pushing them back.
"Yes?" She inquired, eyes not on him but on the books.
"We should play a game," he suggested.
Her fingers stopped skimming. She turned to him wholly now, hand still resting idly on a shelf. "A game?" Her pale eyes twinkled upon him though.
"To get to know each other," Matthew said, ignoring the gnawing guilt that knocked at the door to his thoughts.
"Like, twenty questions?" Freya rose a brow.
"Sure."
Freya chuckled. "The rules?" She asked like someone already planning to break them.
"There are none," Matthew answered. "I'm not very fond of rules."
She dropped to sit on the ground unceremoniously, stockinged legs crossing on the tiled floor, eyes dragging him down too.
He sat across from her, back against the shelf.
"No rules, huh? I guess we just have to trust each other to tell the truth." Freya was smiling as she spoke.
Matthew tilted his head at her, this strange girl whose secrets he was prodding at. "I suppose so."
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hi guys!!
hope you liked this chapter. hope you love and appreciate mayella's character as much as I do.