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I wasn’t even sure how to pronounce it, not that it mattered. The Vaulteneau estate was big enough for the both of us so I doubted I’d even have to interact with him. That made me feel better, even as I stared at the kid’s photo longer than was necessary.
My thoughts drifted to Filipe and Joan and our operation.
This Ciaran kid was probably some little snitching bitch. His wholesome appearance surely meant he was some sort of goody-two-shoes.
Fucking fuck. My peace and quiet was about to end. The Zoey situation wouldn’t be impacted, but our moving shipments out of LAX might get disrupted.
“Time for me to head out, amigo.” Filipe said after a few minutes. He smirked because I was still studying Ciaran’s photo. “I’ll catch your act tomorrow.”
After he left, I tuned out the hockey game as I sat alone in a massive estate wondering just how different my life would be here shortly.
My life was about to change.
Like I said, my dad had a thing for beautiful women. That had never affected me until now.
3
CIARAN
The next day, after being sequestered for three hours to take my AP World History exam, Raj found me in the hallway. Hundreds of students spilled out of classrooms, talking, gossiping, complaining.
With little effect, teachers admonished everyone to lower their voices. I scanned over the tops of students’ heads to see if Mr. Jones was in the hallway. He was at the very end of the corridor, speaking to another student. I hoped he wasn’t mad at me for not being able to come over last night. I’d apologized again this morning over text but he hadn’t replied back.
“How’d you think it went, Ciaran?” Raj asked about the test in a stressed-out voice as I opened my locker and threw my books inside.
I looked down at my best friend. Raj barely came to my shoulders, and his rich, curly brown hair was frizzy, no doubt from absently grabbing at the roots as he answered questions. A fresh sheen of sweat coated his face and his large, brown eyes behind his round glasses radiated a mixture of pride and dread.
“I feel good about ninety percent of it,” I said. “A few questions stumped me. You?”
Raj, an MIT hopeful, took tests very seriously. Raj did well and knew it, but there was a negative side of him that doubted his own success. In middle school, I’d once made a joke about skipping an exam and he didn’t speak to me for a week.
Our mothers had been showgirls together and we practically grew up together, playing backstage in the makeup room while they got ready for each performance. While Raj disemboweled electronics to discover how to build a robot, I would surround myself with books, dictionaries, and an old laptop. My first short story attempt was about a prima ballerina imprisoned by a giant robot in a haunted theater. Clearly, Raj’s early influence was foundational, if illogical, not that my stories were any better these days. I was in something of a writer’s block.
I hadn’t yet told Raj, or anyone, about my mom’s marriage. It was too fresh, too raw, and the world felt a little unstable at the moment. The deli didn’t open until ten each morning, and Mom was still asleep when I left for school.
It would have been cruel to wake her just to ask if last night’s conversation was a product of a fevered dream. My fervent hope was that she’d come to her senses and confess the whole thing was an elaborate joke.
Of course, I knew it wasn’t a joke. Mom wouldn’t do that to me. If anything, one of the things I remember most about last night—other than beings surprised out of my wits—was that she was excited that we’d be able to afford to send me to college now. All that remained was for me to send out early applications this summer.
That was something, right?
Now, however, as Raj and I walked to the lunchroom, it dawned on me that I would be leaving everything behind to move to Malibu. This morning, as I trudged to school, I checked the distance. Malibu was three hundred miles away. As I watched Raj’s animated face as he described his experience with the exam as if I hadn’t just taken the same test, sorrow burrowed deep in my chest.
I didn’t want to leave my best friend. Raj was more like my brother than a friend. Anger spread and I felt hot all over.
“What’s wrong?” Raj interjected once we’d entered the lunch line. He’d been intricately detailing his response to one of the questions but stopped mid-sentence as he debated between mashed potatoes or fries.
The cafeteria bustled with frenetic, pizza-scented energy. The girl’s softball team chanted at their table—they’d just won first place in a statewide tournament. Teachers milled about, acting like chaperones as they separated making-out couples. Theater kids were reenacting a scene from their musical while a hundred side conversations filled the large cafeteria.
“Nothing.” I paid for my lunch—vegetarian lasagna—and we sat in our normal corner table.
We were the weird kids.
Kinzy, with her bright green hair, was another literature freak, though she was more into early gothic tales and had, a few times, hinted she was dating the ghost of Lord Byron, an English Romantic era poet who died in 1824. We decided it was best not to question her about this. Her parents owned a new age shop and a nude bar off the Strip, both of which were popular with tourists.
Rowen, an accomplished percussionist and self-described band geek, was focused on his YouTube channel, which had over twenty-thousand subscribers, earning him close to three grand a month in ad revenue. He lived with his grandparents, both of whom had lost most of their hearing, so playing the drums at home was never a source of contention.
Rowen and I dated for half a minute in our freshman year, but realized we were better off as friends. He kept his black hair cropped short more for convenience than style. Out of all my friends, Rowen was the most elusive, but when he smiled, it transformed him from a scowler into a bright light you couldn’t take your eyes off him. He was either in between boyfriends or dating a college football player. Rowen was coy about these things.
