Chapter 2 #2
“Phones off,” the teacher says with the disinterest of standard practice. Then his voice perks up. “I see we have a new student today. Welcome. I’m Mr Van der Valk, and could you tell the class your name?”
“Damien Kade.”
A girl in the second row turns with a frown, then leans towards her companion, whispering something that makes them both giggle. The rest of the room pays no attention.
“In music, our ears are the second most important way we process these lessons, so the rules are no phones and no talking, unless I open the class to discussion.” He glances around at the other students with an expectant air. “And what’s the most important way we process music?”
The room stares back silently. Ophelia shifts, obviously knowing but clamping her lips tight around the answer.
Judging from the worn fabric of her uniform, she’s poor. Probably a typical scholarship know-it-all, although her current restraint shows more social awareness than most.
“Our brains,” Van der Valk says when nobody volunteers. “Our brains are the most important. So, no distractions.”
I nod until he turns away.
A minute later, choral music pours from the overhead speakers, the triumphant refrains of Handel’s Messiah. Ophelia opens the iPad, enlarging the screen until it could be seen from space, the score scrolling across the page, keeping time.
The class is silent; the Hallelujah Chorus’s repetition occasionally punctuated with Mr Van der Walk’s commentary.
When Ophelia’s face tilts, I get glimpses of that unsettling eye movement from before, irises stuttering as if her vision is drilling deeper than surface level. Like she could burrow into the dark heart of me.
I shiver, frowning at the goosebumps and raised hairs on my arms. Chills.
No one’s ever given me chills before.
Leaning close again, I whisper, “Would you—”
The music stops. “Quiet please, Damien,” Mr Van der Valk calls. “Don’t make me tell you again.”
“Sorry, it’s just… I don’t have the score, so I—”
“Ophelia? Could you please share your screen with Damien?” Then back to me. “Wait after class and I’ll get you sorted.”
The music resumes and when the screen angle doesn’t change, I adjust it, purposefully brushing my little finger against her wrist. She whips her hand away, jaw muscles bunching as she rubs away my touch.
Minutes later, I straighten and press my thigh against hers, enjoying the warmth of her skin through the thin wool of my trousers. When she moves, I chase her, keeping contact until I have her pinned against the wall, no escape.
And just like that, music’s suddenly my new favourite lesson.
Van der Valk gestures me forward when the bell rings. “It’ll take a lot of time and effort before you’re equal with the class, but in this one instance, I’ll let you study the crib notes.”
He passes across a pamphlet and takes me through the download instructions for the school portal. Ophelia packs her bag, leaving without a glance in my direction.
I expect her to walk past the street-facing window, heading for the bus stop or waiting for a car pickup. Instead, she veers towards the administration building, and my gaze follows her with increasing concern.
Is she actually reporting me?
“Thanks,” I blurt, and sprint from the class, just metres behind Ophelia when she stops at the school secretary’s counter, currently unstaffed. She briefly pulls out her phone, then shoves it back in her kilt pocket.
Lunging forward, I catch her wrist a second before she taps the bell.
Her gasp vibrates into my bones. She yanks her arm—a laughable effort—and punches me with her free hand.
I drag her around the corner, snug against the wall, and bend level, lips buzzing her ear. “Do what I think you’re about to, and I’ll hurt you for real.”
Her foot stamps onto mine. Brat. But she has so little leverage, I don’t even wince. Her wrist twists inside my clamping fingers, lower body wriggling against mine like a desperate rabbit.
“Careful or you’ll get me hard.”
She instantly falls still, face tilting upwards, and those dark lenses frustrate me. I want to read the fear in her eyes.
“What d’you think I’m about to do?” she asks, voice breathless.
“You tell me, sweetheart.”
Her chin juts. “My name is Ophelia.”
“Aw, that’ll look lovely on your gravestone because it looked like someone was about to squeal.”
There’s a long pause, then her body vibrates against my ribcage. Not trembling, laughing, and the first doubt seeds my mind.
“Do these corny threats work where you come from? Because…”
She pulls out her phone, swiping her finger across the screen, and a tinny echo spills into the air, muffled but legible.
‘I’ll hurt you for real.’
A scar itches across the back of my hip, the mark left by a belt buckle. Dunce. This is my fault for underestimating her. These impoverished scholarship kids fight for everything they get in life, nothing like the soft marshmallows whose parents pay tuition.
“Too late,” she says when I snatch the device from her hand. “Auto-backup. Your death threats to the disabled girl are already saved in the cloud.”
I shake my head, tempted to smash the device anyway, then reluctantly return it to her grasping hand. That’s just asking for more trouble.
“What’d you want?”
She stares incredulously through her cracked lens. Duh.
“Fine. Get me a quote and I’ll pay for the repair.” I tug at the fraying collar of her uniform blouse. “I’ll throw in a new uniform for free.”
“You’ll throw in a thousand bucks, and I’ll spend it on whatever the fuck I like,” she counters, lifting her chin again. “And these are specialist lenses, so I’ll need the cost of the low-vision optometrist appointment. You good for that?”
She’s openly taunting me, and instead of outrage, I chuckle with appreciation. Who the fuck is this girl?
Not the fragile wallflower I took her to be, that’s for sure.
“Don’t push your luck.”
“If you don’t agree, let go of my arm. I need to go fill out paperwork.”
She yanks back her elbow, wrist still caught in my grip, baring her teeth when she can’t get free. Despite the bravado, her pulse skitters under my thumb like a trapped bird.
“Fine,” I say, hearing another student ring the counter bell, leaving only seconds until we might be discovered. “Appointment and price of repair.”
I can’t risk another expulsion, especially not on the very first day. Dad would be ropeable and Chelsea would quickly forget my name.
“And…?” Hope edges into Ophelia’s voice, but her posture has relaxed. She knows the rest is a shot at the stars.
I release my grip and walk away, pausing at the doorway for one last look. “And if you truly want a grand on top, Snowflake… you’ll have to earn it.”
There’s a bounce in my step as I head for my car. I’ve had plenty of fragile girls before. They’re my favourite. Prowling their boundaries until they let me too close, then watching the snap in their eyes as they break.
But Ophelia…?
I’ve always been able to read people, play them, yet in five minutes flat, she completely overturned my first impression.
Despite my parting shot, she clearly won today’s battle, and for the first time in months, maybe years, something unfurls inside me.
Anticipation.
Like I’ve stumbled across a puzzle worth solving.
Reaching the carpark, I get in the driver’s seat and gun the engine when a couple of students pass too close for my liking.
Staying parked, I watch Ophelia make her careful way to the bus stop. She unfolds a cane and holds it across her body, a sign for the driver.
Her low vision presents a challenge. I use my looks even more than my dad’s money, and if her vision’s as compromised as the oversized sheet music suggests, I’ll have to work harder. A forage through my cologne collection is certainly in store.
All thoughts of Dad’s impending merger are pushed aside, and I consider how else I could impress her. Jewellery, maybe? The subtle clink of a heavy platinum chain.
This will take actual effort, but I’m up for a challenge.
And when I turn out of the driveway, I don’t turn towards my affluent hilltop suburb and home.
I join the flow of traffic behind Ophelia’s bus.