13. Alex
Chapter 13
Alex
I decide to put my pride aside and march down to the building to rent-a-phone. Clara is worth it, and aside from not hearing from her all week, I wasn’t even sure she’d gotten my letter to begin with, so I had to be sure she was doing all right. Despite being seventeen years old, I still worry about her constantly.
It was almost 8:30 pm, which meant I only had about thirty minutes before I would be out of luck until next weekend.
Turns out the building was deceivingly simple in design, with several individual cubicles scattered across its expanse. Each phone booth is made of dark wood and adorned with intricate carvings and glass windows. It’s kind of impressive, except for the eerie echo of outdated technology.
I step inside the first open one I find and dial my sister’s number.
“Did you get my letter?” Clara gushes excitedly after the first ring. “I customized it so you would know who it was from.”
Well, I guess that answers that question.
“Clara, I—” I start, but she cuts me off, her words tumbling out in a rush.
“I’ve been dying to talk to you! I couldn’t wait for your call. Dad told me about the weird rules. No phones, but writing letters back and forth is kind of cool if you think about it.”
I lean against the wooden panel of the cubicle, feeling a mix of relief and confusion. “Actually, I haven’t received any letters from you or dad yet. That’s why I’m calling.” I was worried, but I choked down that last part. I didn’t want her to fret.
There’s a pause at the other end, then Clara’s voice comes back, tone calmer this time. “I sent one days ago. I thought for sure it would have reached you by now. As for dad, he's out of town on business; I can let him know you called.”
I was feeling both relieved and a little foolish. “Well, at least now I know it’s coming. What did you customize it with?” I ask with a smile.
Clara’s laugh tinkles through the receiver. “You’ll see. It’s a surprise. But tell me, how are you? How’s Altair?”
I hear her voice hitch on the last word, like this place is some exotic fantasy. And maybe in her mind it was, but for me so far, it’s been anything but.
“Altair is…different,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “It’s not what I expected.”
“Different how?” My sister presses, her curiosity palpable, even through the phone line. “It’s got to be even better than how dad described it,” she gushes.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “It’s hard to explain. Everything here feels…old. Like we’ve stepped back in time.” My mouth twists. “No phones, limited internet, just weird communal call boxes.”
She’s silent for a moment, and I can almost hear her mind working. “That sounds…interesting.”
“It definitely takes some getting used to,” I admit. I didn’t want to have to lie to her.
I hear Clara take a deep breath, and I can picture her fiddling with the charms on one of her necklaces, the way she always does when she’s about to say something important.
“Listen,” she says, her tone suddenly serious. “Actually, never mind, I’ll just let you read about it when you get my letter.”
My heart stutters. “No, tell me,” I demand, suddenly anxious.
“I know you don’t like it when I talk about her, but I can’t help myself. And I thought that if I wrote it down and gave it to you, you wouldn’t be able to brush it off…or change the subject.” Clara pauses.
My eyes close slowly, already knowing what she’s trying to bring up. Every time Clara mentions our mother, I feel the tension rising between us. She was the one divide we would always have between us.
“I’ve never tried to stop you from being in her life,” I remind her.
“I know, I know,” she says. “But you haven’t wanted to be part of hers for over three years now.” She hesitates before she speaks once more. “She asks about you, you know?”
A tight knot forms in my stomach, and I let out a bitter laugh at this new information.
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth. That you’re at Altair now. She seemed…proud, I think.”
Another equally bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “ Proud ?” Not likely.
“Alex, please,” Clara pleads. “She’s changed. She’s getting better.”
I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cool glass of the call box. The familiar ache of old wounds threaten to surface, but I push it down. This is absolutely not what I thought we’d be discussing right now.
“Clara…”
“Wait, hold on. Elle is coming over. And just for your information, a root canal would’ve been more fun than the amount of alone time I’ve spent with her recently.”
I nod in understanding, even though Clara can’t see me.
“No, you can’t talk to her,” I hear her say into the receiver followed by a muffled voice. She scoffs. “Because I’m the one she called.”
“Elle, I swear—” Clara’s voice fades as she presumably moves away from the phone. I hear a scuffle, then Elle’s voice comes through.
“Alex!” Her voice bursts through the receiver. “Hi, sweetie, how are you? How’s the university? Did you get my letter? Your father’s been worried sick about you. I have his hotel's contact details in case you want to give him a call later on. You know, just in case he doesn't pick up his cellphone. Clara’s being a phone hog, anyway.”
I glance at the small clock inside the cubicle, acutely aware of the minutes she’s wasting that I could have with my sister instead.
There’s more incoherent chatter at the other end, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Clara is desperately trying to snatch the phone away from Elle.
“Sorry, I have to make this quick,” she says. “My letter, did you get it?” she asks, sounding hopeful.
“I did,” I answer, and I have to pull the phone away from my ear to save my eardrum from shattering at her squeal. I swear I also hear a muffled groan from Clara.
“Did you open it?”
“Nope.”
Elle’s enthusiasm deflates audibly. “Oh… Well, okay.”
I close my eyes, willing myself patience. “Elle, I appreciate the gesture, but I’m not interested in reading whatever’s in that letter. I called to talk to Clara.”
“But—”
“Elle,” I cut her off, my voice firm. “Please put Clara back on the phone. I’m limited on time here.”
The clock in front of me showed less than five minutes until nine.
There’s a moment of silence, then a shuffling sound. I hear Elle’s muffled voice, sounding hurt. “She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
Clara’s voice comes back, clearer now. “Sorry about that. I swear she came out of nowhere.”
I let out a small chuckle, picturing the scene. “It’s fine. I should’ve known she’d be lurking nearby.”
My sister sighs heavily. “Yeah, well, she’s been extra…Elle-like lately. Ever since you left, she’s been all over the place. Writing you letters, baking cookies, wanting to hang out together, worrying about you non-stop.”
Wait. Hold up.
“She’s been baking cookies. And she didn’t burn the house down?”
“No, they’re surprisingly delicious,” she says, and I’m almost baffled. “Maybe I’ll send you a box. You know, so you can examine them and make sure she isn’t accidentally poisoning us.”
I snort, imagining Elle in an apron, flour smeared across her face as she triumphantly pulls a tray of burnt, slightly black cookies from the oven. It’s an amusing image, but one that also makes me uneasy.
“What do you take me as, a guinea pig for food poisoning?”
Clara laughs and it sounds nice, easy. Like how we’ve always been.
“Fine, but if I don’t receive a letter from you by the middle of this week, I’ll assume you’ve lost this address and I’ll be forced to take the proper actions.”
A smile lights up my face, what feels like a rare occurrence since I arrived. “Because every action…”
“Leads to a reaction,” she chimes in, finishing my train of thought. “And a whole tin of Elle’s questionable—but oddly delicious—cookies,” she quickly adds, and I can hear her grin through the phone.
I can’t help but laugh, the sound echoing in this sparse box. It feels good to be carefree for a second, to remember our inside jokes and shared moments. How we’ve always been.
“Did you want to—”
Before Clara can finish the sentence, the line goes dead. The dial tone hums in my ear, a stark reminder of the distance between us.
I stare at the phone for a moment, my smile fading.
Time’s up.
I sigh, placing the receiver back in its cradle. The quiet seems to amplify, pressing against my ears. Oppressive.
Altair isn’t home.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, closing my eyes. The conversation replays in my mind, Clara’s laughter, the easy banter. For a moment, I could almost believe I was back home, sprawled out on her bedroom floor, sharing an inside joke.
“Time’s up,” a gruff voice calls out, tapping a knuckle to the glass on the other side of my nose, making me jump.
“I’m going, I’m going,” I grumble as I step out of the booth and away from the singular link I had to Clara.
As I exit the building and make my way back to my dorm, I notice some students hauling a couple of canoes out of the water and setting them down near a small group of others for the night.
I see my bag, still suspended by that arrow in the middle of the water, and a surge of determination rushes over me. I told Bishop I was done being pushed around by the Legacies and I meant it.
I glance around to make sure no one’s watching, then quickly make my way down to the water’s edge. The canoes are just sitting there, practically begging to be borrowed. I hesitate for a moment, weighing the risks, but the sight of my bag in the distance steels my resolve.
With a deep breath, I grab the nearest canoe and drag it to the water as quietly as I can. The scraping sound seems deafening in the evening stillness, but no one appears to notice. I push off from the shore, wincing at the splash, and start paddling awkwardly toward my target.
My heart thumps as I push deeper into the water, paddling as quietly as I can toward my suspended bag. The arrow gleams in the moonlight, a taunting reminder of my humiliation. As I get closer, I realize retrieving the bag won’t be as simple as I’d hoped. It’s higher than I can reach from the canoe, and the arrow is lodged firmly in the wood.
I teeter precariously in the swaying canoe, my muscles straining as I try to reach up on my tiptoes. My fingertips graze my bag, just out of reach, taunting me with its tantalizing proximity. I grit my teeth and push myself even higher, willing every inch of my body to strain just a little more. But it’s still not enough and I feel my heart sink in defeat as I realize I can’t grasp it.
Frustration bubbles up inside me. Stupid Legacies.
Think. Think. Think .
Doubt builds inside of me as I tie back my hair, trying to keep it out of my face. I’ve come so far, but each step forward feels like two steps back. I can push through this, no matter how difficult it may seem.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I’m not giving up now. I scan the canoe, searching for anything that might help me reach higher. My eyes land on the paddle.
Carefully, I stand back up in the small boat, my legs shaking as I try to maintain my balance. I raise the paddle above my head, using the flat end to try to hook the strap of my bag. The first attempt misses, causing the canoe to rock dangerously, and I curse in response. I steady myself, taking another deep breath before trying again.
This time, I manage to catch the strap, and I have to bite back my cry of triumph. Yes! My heart leaps with excitement, but I force myself to stay focused. Slowly, carefully, I begin to pull the bag down.
Almost… Almost…
Just as I feel the weight of the bag start to shift, a sudden gust of wind rocks me. I lose my balance, arms pinwheeling wildly as I try to stay upright. The paddle slips from my grasp, hitting the water with a loud splash. My bag tumbles loose, falling into the base of the canoe in the same moment.
I shift to regain my footing, but my heart sinks as I watch the paddle drift away. I look down at my feet—at least I got my bag back, but now there’s another issue.
For a moment, all I hear is the gentle lapping of water against the canoe.
I stare intently at the distant shoreline, which feels impossibly far away. Swimming back isn’t an option. Without a paddle, I’m basically stranded out here. Panic floods through me. I crouch down, trying to make myself as small as possible.
I force myself to take deep, calming breaths. Panicking won’t help. I need to think logically, use what I have. My eyes fall on my bag. Maybe there’s something useful inside.
With trembling hands, I open the main compartment. My fingers brush against familiar items: a compact mirror, some snacks, a few pens and highlighters. Nothing that can serve as a makeshift paddle.
Dammit.
My eyes dart around the interior of the boat, searching for anything I can use as a temporary device to get back to shore. There’s nothing but my useless bag and the clothes on my back.
Wait. My clothes.
An idea starts to form in my mind. It’s crazy, but it might just work. I quickly shrug off my hoodie. If I can create some kind of sail, maybe I can use the evening breeze to my advantage.
I strip down to my shirt, laying my jacket on the bottom of the canoe. With unsteady hands, I start to tie the sleeves of my clothes to the gunwales, stretching the fabric taut between them. It’s not much, but it might catch enough wind to propel me slowly back to solid ground.
With the makeshift sail in place, I position myself carefully in the center of the canoe, gripping the sides tightly. I close my eyes, silently willing the wind to pick up.
“Please work,” I whisper to myself, to the wind, to the golden eagle perched atop Altair’s gate, to anyone who might be listening. For a moment, nothing happens. Then I feel a gentle push.
My eyes fly open. The canoe is moving! Slowly, achingly slowly, but definitely moving. Relief washes over me, and I collapse in a fit of hysterical giggles. It’s official, I’m losing my mind.
I adjust my position, angling the jacket to catch more of the breeze. The canoe’s pace picks up slightly, and I can see the distant shoreline growing closer. My pulse quickens with a mixture of hope and fear. I was doing it, this was working.
Suddenly, a gust of wind catches my improvised sail, causing the canoe to lurch violently. I grip the sides, my knuckles turning white as I struggle to maintain balance. Water splashes over the edge, soaking my clothes.
“Stay calm,” I mutter to myself, willing my racing heart to slow. “You’re almost there. You’re doing great.”
The wind dies down as quickly as it came, leaving me bobbing gently, stuck at a standstill once more. Shit. I squint, trying to make out any shapes in the dark sky. I was so close, maybe twenty feet from being back onto solid ground.
A voice cuts through the night. “Need a hand?”
“I…yes,” I stammer, relief and wariness warring within me. “Yes, please.”
The figure moves closer to the water’s edge, and I can make out more detail now. It’s Atlas, my professor. Thank you, eagle at the gate, for sending help!
“Use this to tie up,” he says as a thump sounds, a thick mess of rope spilling around my feet. I secure it to my canoe.
“Ready?” he calls out.
I nod, forgetting he probably can’t see me clearly in the darkness. “Yes,” I reply, gripping both sides of the canoe.
With a grunt, he begins to pull. The rope goes taut, and I feel the canoe lurch forward. I was more than ready to be out of the water.
As the bottom of the canoe scrapes against the rocky shore, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My legs are shaky as I stand, but Atlas is there, offering his hand to help me out.
“That’s quite the creative solution you figured out there,” he says, nodding as he admires my makeshift sail.
“Thanks,” I mumble, embarrassed by my predicament, but grateful for the rescue. And thankful it was him and not a certain group of rude, vindictive boys.
“What were you doing out there at this hour?” Atlas asks, his tone a mixture of concern and curiosity.
I hesitate, unsure how much to reveal. “I was getting this back,” I say, holding up my now retrieved belongings.
He arches an eyebrow. “I saw that the other day and was wondering whose it was.”
“It’s mine.” I confirm. “The Legacies wanted to welcome me to Altair.”
Atlas’s expression darkens slightly. “Yes, well, they’re not exactly known for their kindness. Or originality, for that matter.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “No, I suppose not.”
His gaze gentles. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that. The Legacies here, can be…a handful.”
An understatement if I ever heard one. I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, despite the tremor still running through my body from being in the water. “It’s fine. I got my stuff back, that’s what matters.”
Atlas nods, but doesn’t seem entirely convinced. But that’s fine because I’m not sure I was either.
“Well, as long as you’ve got your things back,” he says, and I dip my chin in agreement. He glances at the canoe, then back at me. “You go on, I’m sure you’ve had more than enough excitement for the night. I’ll put the canoe back where it belongs.”
“Thanks,” I say meekly, because he was right, I was feeling spent and the thought of having to tug a heavy canoe even a few feet felt like a chore. The adrenaline from my nighttime excursion was rapidly fading.
At least I had my bag back.
“Should I leave the hoodie?” I half-joke before untying it from the canoe.
“You can keep that. I’m not sure the other students would know what to do with such creativity when they take them back out.”
With a shrug, I toss the item into my satchel. “It’s their loss.” It’s not until after I close the flap that I notice something is missing.
My trusty notebook, filled with all my observations and discoveries about plants, has disappeared. It was the one thing I’d made sure to bring with me from home. Now it was gone.
Rage boils in my veins, causing my teeth to grind together. Those despicable Legacy boys took it from me. As if hanging my things high above the water wasn’t enough, they had to add insult to injury. And I know exactly who is responsible for this. The mere thought of his smug face fills me with a burning desire for revenge.
After my conversation with Clara had so abruptly ended, I was left feeling drained and emotionally spent. But now, with this latest development, I was even more upset. A part of me wanted to shut down and retreat into myself, but another part desperately craved resolution and closure. My mind was a storm of conflicting emotions, leaving me physically and mentally exhausted.
I knew what I had to do, but a part of me wondered if confronting Bishop would really solve anything. Yet my emotions were pushing me forward, unable to ignore the burning desire for justice. That was my notebook he’d taken.
As I approached the dormitory, the imposing building loomed before me, its many windows gleaming in the bleak night like judgmental eyes. Was I really doing this?
The image of my missing notebook flashed in my mind, and my resolve hardened. Yes, I was.
I yank the door open and storm inside, the cool air of the lobby a stark contrast to the heat of my anger. A few students milling about turn to stare, but I pay them no mind. My focus was singular: find Bishop.
I head up the stairs, taking them two at a time, my breath coming in short, angry bursts. I have no idea where his room is, only an estimation based on where I saw him from my own window. I did know one thing for certain, his room was in the east corner at the top of a spiral, so that’s the direction I head.
“Bishop!” I shout, my voice trembling with barely contained rage as I pound my fist on the only door in this part of the top floor.
A moment passes, then another. The silence that follows my outburst is deafening, broken only by the sound of my ragged breathing. Just as I was about to pound again, it swings open.
Bishop stands there; his eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “Well, well,” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe with infuriating casualness. “To what do I owe this pleasure Prescott? Did you come to try and sneak a peek at me shirtless again? Or were you hoping to catch me fully naked this time while you stare?”
His teasing words make my cheeks feel hot, but I doubt Bishop even notices. He has that infuriatingly self-satisfied look on his face that only makes me angrier. Besides, he was fully clothed tonight in a shirt and pants.
He knows full well why I've arrived, his gaze flickering down to my bag before leisurely sweeping up my body. With a snarl, I demand, “Where is it?”
He tilted his head, feigning confusion. “Where’s what?”
“My notebook!” I snap, taking a step closer.
A slow smile spreads across his face, “I think you’ve swallowed too much water. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
My blood boils, my vision blurring at the edges. “Don’t play dumb with me, Bishop. I know you took it. Where is my notebook?”
He shrugs, his nonchalant attitude grating on my already frayed nerves. “Look, I don’t have your precious little diary. Maybe you misplaced it. Or maybe…” His eyes glint with malice. “Maybe it’s at the bottom of the water with the rest of your stuff. I’m surprised you didn’t see it the other day.”
Something inside me snaps. Was he really making a joke about me nearly drowning?
Anger pulses through my veins, scalding and uncontrollable. “I know you took it. Give it back. Now.”
“No.”
“No?” I repeat, caught off guard.
“That’s right. I said no.” I stumble back as he advances, his imposing figure looming over me like a dark cloud. His eyes, a piercing shade of emerald, glint with pure danger as he closes in on me. I was once again trapped, with no escape from his overpowering presence.
I move back until I collide with the wall. His gaze shifts down, fixing on my face. A rush of fear and another emotion I can't quite name surge through me as I realize I'm trapped in this corner.
“Listen carefully, Prescott, because I’m only going to say this once,” he says, his voice low and menacing. “You don’t get to come barging up here, making demands like you own the place.”
My throat tightened like a cinched corset, my emotions swirling and striking like a storm. I pushed down the sudden ache that threatened to consume me, like a bitter pill that I refused to swallow.
“You mean like you did when you came to my room?”
He laughs, a harsh sound that sends chills down my spine. “Oh, Prescott. You really don’t get it, do you? This isn’t about some stupid notebook. This is about you learning your place.”
His words sting, but I refuse to let him see how much they affect me. I lift my chin defiantly, meeting his gaze with as much steel as I can muster. “And what place is that, exactly?”
His lips curled into a cruel smirk. “At the bottom, the pit , where you belong. You are nothing .”
“You’re delusional,” I say, trying to push past him, but Bishop is faster. He reaches out and grabs my wrist, stopping me from leaving.
The moment was charged, like the sun breaking through the thunderclouds of this dreary university. His grip felt like a jolt of electricity, my heart beats faster while my thoughts race in every direction.
“Am I?” he murmurs, tugging me back closer. “Or are you just in denial?"
His words hang in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. I try to pull away, but his grip on my wrist is solid like steel. The warmth of his hand seeps into my skin, and I hate how it makes me feel.
“Let go of me,” I hiss.
“If that’s what you want, then make me,” he taunts, his other hand jabbing a finger towards his temple. “Make me forget about you, Prescott. Relieve me of this burden. Leave Altair.”
My heart lurches in my chest as I struggle to keep my composure. Why did his words sound like a desperate plea? Was there something deeper behind his desire for me to leave?
I stare at him, my mind reeling. The anger that had been burning through me moments ago begins to cool, replaced by confusion and a strange sense of... anticipation? No, that can't be right.
“You’re wrong, Bishop,” I said, my voice steadier than I feel. “And if you think stealing my notebook will make me leave, then you’re even dumber than you look.”
“Careful,” he warns, his fingers digging into my skin. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
I flinch at the force of his grip, but I stand my ground. “This isn't a game. I just want what's rightfully mine.”
“Do you honestly believe you deserve anything?” he sneers.
“Maybe not,” I concede. “But it certainly caught your attention.” I retort, causing him to release my hand as if it burned.
A deep growl resonates from within his chest. “You're playing with fire. And you have no clue who you're up against. We went easy on you before.”
“Is that supposed to be a threat?” I retort, straightening my posture despite the intense glint in his eye that seems to revel in confrontation.
“It's a promise,” he declares sternly. “Now get out of my sight. You and your family make me sick.”
His door slams shut with a deafening force. The sound reverberates through the empty hallway, echoing off the walls.
I stumble back, rubbing my wrists where his fingers left angry marks. The mention of my family sent a fresh wave of anger coursing through me.
How dare he touch me like this? My teeth grind together, fighting the urge to pound on his door again. For my notebook, my family, this stupid school. Everything.
But I know that won’t get me anywhere. Bishop is as stubborn as he is infuriating, and pushing him further would only make things worse. I needed to be smart. Cunning. Stealthy.
Taking a deep breath, I turn and walk away, my mind racing. There has to be a way to get my stuff back, some leverage I can use against him. If Bishop thinks he can intimidate me into leaving, he’s sorely mistaken.
He may have backed me into a corner, but two could play at this game, and I’m determined to win.