6. “Where Are You Now?” - Lost Frequencies ft. Calum Scott
“Where Are You Now?” - Lost Frequencies ft. Calum Scott
Heath
Walker fucking Halifax.
She’s been gone for two years and still has the ability to throw my entire day out of whack without even being present.
There’s a storm rolling in on the horizon, but it looks like it won’t last long. As I eat up the streets on my bike, memories chase me. I try to outrun them, but they keep following.
I hadn’t noticed Walker before the day Ms. Dankworth kept the six of us after class and accused us of cheating.
None of us knew each other before. We attended different private academies for primary school, but Sterling Hall Academy is the secondary school for families in the Hills who have something to prove to the world.
That bitch was a nasty English teacher. I remember she used to wear her hair short and frizzy. I still don’t know how she managed to get the job at Sterling Hall, but she didn’t retain it for long after we came along.
Ms. Dankworth gave us detention for a week and threatened to tank our grades.
I wasn’t too bothered. I had been cheating, of course, but I knew my dad could pull a couple of strings and get the whole thing overlooked.
He wouldn’t be happy about it, but it was better than letting the incident affect my grades.
Walker, on the other hand, looked like she might pass out. The girl is righteous to a fault, especially when it comes to things like school and studying. I had the strange inclination to both corrupt and comfort her.
While we were all sitting in detention later that day, Maeve walked into the room and announced that we were taking that bitch down. A spark came into Walker’s eyes then.
We plotted our revenge against Dankworth over the next five days while sitting in detention.
We all watched over Walker’s shoulder as she designed flyers in Canva using a photo of a woman Rhett found on the dark web.
We listed her unique skills and specialties as an escort on the page, and in bold numbers at the bottom, she added Ms. Dankworth’s phone number, which Lux had stolen from the school’s private database.
Then we distributed them. Pierce, at fourteen, called in a favor with his dad’s helicopter pilot, who agreed to drop them over the city.
I called the headmaster and pretended to be my dad, threatening to pull my support if my son and his friends received a bad grade for something they didn’t do.
The Lawrence family has made many notable donations to Sterling Hall over the years, so there was no question of whether it would get dropped or not.
Ms. Dankworth quit a week later.
She was our first victim, and we’ve been friends ever since.
I pull up to the security gate and punch in the code. The gates swing open, revealing a silver i7 in the driveway. He’s home, then. I steel my backbone.
I take my time with the bike, checking the tires and fluid levels. I briefly contemplate slitting a hole in his tire, but that would only keep him here longer. Plus, he wouldn’t have to look far to find someone to blame for it.
I hear them as soon as I approach the side door. They’re in the kitchen, voices raised, tempers high. My muscles stiffen as I place a hand on the knob. Whatever’s going on will get ugly. It always does.
The side door opens into a small back foyer area, where we keep shoes and coats. I toe off my trainers, still green from the golf course, and nudge them out of the way. Cami’s voice sounds from around the corner.
“—what you want from me!”
“I want you to try a little harder, for once in your fucking life.” Everyone, meet my dad, Robert Lawrence.
“I do try,” Cami screams. “Just not in the ways you value!”
“Those are the only ones that matter!” he says.
“And that’s coming from the guy who professes not to be a narcissist.”
“If you’d be even a little bit smarter, you would do something worthwhile with your life,” he says. The guy probably doesn’t even know what a narcissist is.
I walk far enough to be able to see into the kitchen. I have no interest in intervening, but I will if I need to. While I usually bear the brunt of our father’s disappointed outrage, my sisters each receive their fair share too.
Cami is standing with her back to the stark white counter, still in her tennis whites. Dad looms in front of her, also in his white polo and shorts, clenched fists at his sides.
“I’m sorry that my mediocre tennis skills weren’t impressive, Dad, but I have over a million followers on Instagram. If your tennis friends don’t like me, they’re in the minority.”
“Those stupid social media apps have no value whatsoever.” Spit flies from his mouth.
“Why don’t you tell Mark Zuckerburg that?” she says .
Before she can react, my father reaches up and slaps her across the cheek. That’s my cue.
I have his arms pinned to his sides two seconds later. “Run, Cami!”
Fortunately, she darts out of the kitchen. I may be younger and taller than my dad, but he’s an equal match for me in strength. Years of beating up on your kids will do that to you.
He lurches from my grasp. I know his next move, but I’m too slow to avoid it. He spins around and buries his fist in my stomach.
It knocks the wind out of me. I force myself to grab his arm and twist it to the side, even as I’m struggling to refill my lungs. “Don’t ever talk to her that way again,” I say, pausing for breath after each word.
He shoves away from me, hard. It knocks my hand off his arm. Once he’s free, he steps closer. “She’s my daughter, and I’ll speak to her any way I damn well please.”
“You’re a fucking sorry excuse for a human,” I say.
He laughs abruptly. “I am? I am?” He throws his head back and laughs again. The sound is nothing short of chilling.
“Fuck off, Dad.”
His laughter keeps rolling. “Where is it you’re headed anyway?”
I glower at him. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where this is going.
“Let me guess,” he continues, never needing anyone else when he’s perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation by himself. “You’re about to go to work . At least, I think that’s what they call it”—he feigns confusion—“even though we both know you haven’t worked a day in your life.”
My jaw is clenched so tightly it’s twitching.
“Am I right? You’re headed to that white trash excuse of a job, and you say I’m the sorry excuse?” He shakes his head and laughs again. “You work at a fucking surf shop, son. When are you going to grow up?”
“I’m an instructor.” I can’t stay silent forever, even if it’s the only way to shut him up.
“Right, right. I’m sorry,” he says. “An instructor. What kind of qualifications does an instructor need? Hmm?”
I have no intention of responding, but the answers still float through my head. Safety certification. Good surfing ability. Knowledge of advanced techniques. Communication skills. Love of the ocean.
He only gives me a few seconds to respond. When I don’t, he’s more than happy to pick up again. “Any ol’ Joe Blow can walk in off the street and become an instructor. You were supposed to be more than that! You were supposed to be special.”
I’ve heard it all before. I’m the son he suffered three daughters for, and I turned out to be an even bigger disappointment than all of them put together.
“If you had tried a little harder in school, you might actually have made something of yourself. But you were too busy showboating to do anything worth mentioning.”
By showboating, he means lacrosse. He’s never forgiven me for our team winning second place at the national championship during my last year at Sterling Hall. The only trophy worth winning is first place.
“Do you remember that I had to buy your way into Oxford? There’s an entire new wing at St. Hilda’s with my name on it because you couldn’t even sit the exams.”
“You’re the one that wanted me to go.” I shouldn’t engage, but the man is a fucking bully.
“Because I thought university would teach you to grow up! Instead you barely graduate, then come home and waste your degree by playing around in the ocean.”
My fist twitches, begging to embed itself in his mouth. But I deny it permission. There’s no point. He won’t change. Nothing will ever change.
I stare at him, knowing it drives him crazy when I don’t say anything. Then I turn and walk to my bedroom.
The guy isn’t worth it.