Page 19 of The Bargain

What’s fifteen minutes in the grand scheme of my life? Nothing.

“Mr Pearson.” I silently blow out the lungful of smoke I dragged in right before answering, watching it dissipate in the cold night air. “How are you?”

Even though I’m perched cross-legged on top of my desk in my old grey sweats smoking a cigarette out of the window, I try my best to sound like a Spearcrest kid instead of—well, me.

My way of encouraging Pearson to keep paying my school fees, I suppose.

“Very well, Elias, yes—very well, thank you. I trust you’re having a good start to the year?”

Made several hundred pounds pawning a priceless heirloom for a petty sixteen-year-old and blackmailed an international socialite into dating me for clout.

“You know it, sir.”

“And your classes, all going well?” His voice has a pointed, almost dubious inflection to it. “I was told the school wants to put you forward for some physics scholarships?”

He’s dubious because he can’t wrap his head around me being good at anything academic, let alone physics. Like intelligence is the gift fairy godmothers only ever grant princes and princesses.

“I’m not sure, sir,” I answer cautiously.

I still don’t know whether it’s better for optics if I’m smart or not. All I know is that Mr Pearson likes me scrappy, elastic, and grateful.

“I’m just glad for being here. Good teachers.”

“Yes, yes.” Mr Pearson sounds pleased. Comforted, he’s finally able to spit out what he called me to ask. “I was wondering if you read the email Maria forwarded. The article…”

The Sentinel is running a piece on Mr Pearson, and Mr Pearson wants a couple of quotes from me. I nod, gazing out at the campus under its veil of rain. Night’s already fallen, casting the grounds in shadows. The grand Spearcrest spires puncture the dark purple clouds like needles.

“Of course, sir,” I say. The cigarette I’m holding has burned all the way down, and I let it sear my fingers before crumbling and falling off the window’s ledge. “I don’t mind speaking to the journalist.”

“Yes, yes, excellent. She’ll want to know a little about your journey, how your life’s changed since your adoption, that kind of thing.”

But there’s no need for the instructions. I’ve been doing this since I was sixteen, since the day I was adopted. Interviews, articles, photographs. The evergreen monkey always prepared to be displayed. I was interviewed the day I started at Spearcrest, wearing a uniform that fit for the first time in my life. I’ll be interviewed on results day, undoubtedly, when I’ll have to pass the credit for my good results to Mr Pearson.

How long will it continue?

Will I be interviewed on my first day at university? Graduation? My first job? My wedding day?

“Yes, sir,” I answer dully, through my clenched-shut jaws.

No, I think. Fuck that.

Since Desdemona doesn’t answer my text, and since she won’t come to me, then I go to her. I find her in the only place where she’s guaranteed to be every other evening.

The tennis courts.

Trust Spearcrest to have the fanciest courts imaginable. Sky-blue floors, white lines, floodlights, stands. The school crest emblazoned on the sides of the umpire’s chair. Even the air smells clean and crisp, the faint scent of fresh paint mixing with the smell of the pine trees and cedars that luckily hide my approach.

I stop right on the edge of the court, under the shelter of the cedar branches that are fanning out above the fence, and watch Desdemona with the curiosity of a child watching a predator in a nature documentary.

She races up and down, trading shots with her partner—a lithe, hawkish girl in the same kit—whacking the green ball with all her might. Her arms and legs are taut with muscle and gleaming with sweat. Translucent beads of it whip free from the end of her ponytail every time she makes a sharp turn. And when she scores a point, she spins and laughter bursts from her chest, triumphant, unguarded, almost childish. Her friend rolls her eyes but smirks, and the two resume playing.

At the end of the rally, Desdemona catches the ball and tosses it to her friend, grinning. She turns towards her equipment bag—Ralph Lauren, of course—which sits right next to me. Her ponytail traces a golden arch around her head as she turns, half a halo. Funny how young she looks to me, for the first time, agile and joyful in a way that’s completely antithetical to everything I’ve ever thought about her.

And then she spots me.

The spell shatters like smashed porcelain. The smile disappears. Her whole posture changes: her body, an elastic, living thing a mere second ago, becomes instantly rigid, back stiff, shoulders squared.

Her friend, drawing closer, glances between us, dark eyes glinting with curiosity.