107 P.M.—The Button Manor #4
This seemed to both shock and please the audience.
Fola hadn’t played chess professionally in years, not since her last world championship, when she defeated a whole lineup of middle-aged male Grandmasters at only thirteen years old—as was reported in the framed newspaper clipping mounted to the wall behind them, showing a younger Fola looking proud as she held up her trophy.
Fola was a rare double-prodigy, with her gift for math taking precedence over her gift for strategy-based board games.
“Just to clarify, you have plans to compete in the World Chess Championship again?” the same journalist asked, with her notepad raised high and a ballpoint pen scribbling onto it. Other journalists quickly followed suit.
“No, I don’t have plans to compete,” Fola said. “I have plans to win.”
“That’s my daughter, never settling for second best,” Mr. Button said with a chuckle, the deep lines in his face gaining prominence the more he smiled.
There was light, delighted laughter, followed by applause again.
As the journalists gained confidence, the questions became more probing.
“Bilal, you made history at the Summer Olympics last year when you became the youngest American to win a gold medal in fencing. You must have had so many eyes on you this past year, people wanting to know what you might do next …,” a journalist began.
The room tensed as everyone waited with bated breath for the question that had been all over the news and on the minds of both sports fanatics and non–sports lovers for the last day or so.
Romeo imagined the people in here had a whole truckload of questions about it; he knew he did.
Bilal didn’t really live at the Button Manor anymore, opting to stay closer to his training center and gym in Brooklyn, so Romeo mostly heard about Bilal’s life from third parties. Even though they texted sometimes, Bilal wasn’t the kind of person to confide in anyone about anything personal.
Romeo’d found out about his brother’s injury from an article someone had linked on social media two nights ago, with the headline: the unbearable weight of gold.
It was accompanied by a photograph of Bilal from last year’s Olympics after he’d scored his winning point and consequently become the youngest recipient of a fencing gold medal in the nation’s Olympic history.
It had been a pretty big deal at the time, and still was.
Bilal had even gotten a medal from the president and everything.
Romeo had read a bunch of the comments underneath the post. It was mostly people wondering what had happened and how bad the injury was and whether Bilal would ever fence to his gold standard again.
Romeo honestly felt very sorry for his brother.
It couldn’t be easy being under that much scrutiny all the time.
The journalist continued. “Obviously the past few weeks have been very … difficult for you. I was wondering how you stay positive after both your wins and your setbacks?” the journalist asked.
Bilal seemed to visibly relax, as though he had also been anticipating the worst. He also wouldn’t be surprised if they’d all had to have their questions screened beforehand by Claire.
Many things about this conference felt tightly controlled, like they were all in a petri dish being carefully observed.
Bilal gave an answer that sounded as if it had come directly from a preprepared media sheet, and then the spotlight moved away from him and onto Perdita, who was asked to talk about what art piece she would be working on next.
While Perdita gave her own carefully constructed answer, Romeo found his growling stomach distracting him further. He glanced up at the clock impatiently. How has it only been twenty minutes? He hoped this conference would end soon so that he could have lunch.
The next question was for Octavius.
“How has boarding school life been treating you, Octavius? I’m sure your fellow students must be so enamored to be attending high school with such an impressive and well-known figure as yourself,” a journalist said brightly.
Unlike with Fola, the schmoozing seemed to work on Octavius, who grinned in response.
“Honestly, I get the impression that they don’t really give a crap,” Octavius said with a shrug, immediately triggering a cacophony of surprised laughter.
Romeo noticed Claire’s pursed lips and could see Fola quietly sigh.
Their father’s expression did not change much; he was as still and as stony as ever, though Romeo did notice the subtle flaring of his nostrils and a twitching in his left eye, which couldn’t be a good sign.
“What I mean to say is … everyone treats me normal there. I suppose it’s because I attend school with a lot of other impressive people.
Princes … princesses, children of diplomats, and the like …
It’s humbling. It reminds me to focus on my work and my music, rather than on accolades and recognition.
” Octavius seemed to remember his media training.
“A very noble answer,” the journalist said. “And could you tell us more about that decision to attend boarding school in the first place? And so abruptly too, instead of continuing on with the same homeschooling process as your other siblings—private tutors, the famous Button Metho—”
“Sorry, just one question allowed per speaker,” Claire interjected with a tight smile, and then turned to the rest of the crowd. “We’ll be taking one last question now, thank you,” she said as a flurry of hands shot up in the air.
Claire scanned the crowd, choosing a mousy-looking woman who was standing at the edge of the room and whose face was mostly obscured by her overgrown bangs. “Please keep your question short and to the point, Ms….”
“Shivani Bachchan.”
“Right, Ms. Bachchan, go ahead, and remember—as briefly as possible,” Claire said with a nod.
“I’ll be very brief,” Shivani Bachchan said with a steely expression.
Claire gave the journalist a thumbs-up and stepped back, her shoulders relaxing as she held her clipboard up to her chest.
“My question is for Mr. Button,” Ms. Bachchan began, staring directly at Romeo’s father, who looked up at her now, giving her his full attention.
In the split second’s pause, Romeo noticed Ms. Bachchan’s trembling hands as well as the thing she was holding in them.
It seemed to be a large poster that had thick Sharpie scrawled across it.
Before he could make an attempt at reading the words on the paper, Miss Bachchan was speaking again.
“Mr. Button, I was just wondering how you manage to sleep at night,” Ms. Bachchan said in a neutral tone. It was so neutral that the question almost flew over Romeo’s head entirely.
The room fell silent as her words lingered uncomfortably in the air.
Once again, his father’s expression remained mostly unchanged, except for his brows, which had furrowed ever so slightly.
“Well, that’s a first. I’ve never been asked about my sleeping habits before,” Mr. Button said, his tone light, as if trying to control the temperament of the room despite the ominous nature of the question.
He was somewhat successful in his efforts as the whispered confusion that had begun to rise in the room slowly dissipated and was replaced by quiet laughter.
Despite this, Romeo could see Claire at the edge of the room looking very displeased and holding what appeared to be a walkie-talkie up to her lips as if in anticipation.
“Apologies for the confusion, Mr. Button. I wasn’t asking about your sleeping habits.
Let me rephrase,” Ms. Bachchan said, her voice laced with a new emotion.
Something darker, more vicious. Romeo could see her hands had stopped shaking.
“What I meant was, is it difficult to sleep at night, knowing you’re a murderer? ”