CHAPTER 2 #2
She looks at me from the tops of her eyes, two small beads flecked with green.
I never shared her confidence that I’d be accepted to Grandmaster University or her obsession with the campus.
For Hillaire, becoming a student means everything.
It’s the only thing she works toward, studies for, and trains for.
The rules say she can’t apply until she’s eighteen, but if things go wrong while I’m there, I’ll crush her dream because there’s no way Dad will let her apply.
“Harrison might be an outsider now,” I say. “But by next summer, he’ll be family. It’s true we’ll see Viv less, but that’s the shitty part about growing up. Childhood always ends with leaving home.”
The words echo back at me, reminding me I’m in the same boat.
When I leave for Grandmaster, I’ll be leaving my childhood behind, too.
I twist the neck of the wine bottle between my fingers, each turn like a countdown.
The sky has darkened, clouds tinged with smoky yellow, and the smell of rain hangs heavier in the air.
Hillaire’s nostrils pinch with frustration. “You’re not making any sense, Loredana.”
“Which part doesn’t make sense?”
“You’re telling me I should accept Vivian abandoning me over a man, but if that’s what you believe, why did you cry for months after Charlotte did the same to you?”
I shoot her a hard look, reminding her I don’t talk about Charlotte anymore. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because Vivian didn’t cut you off overnight. She didn’t disappear without a goodbye or even an explanation.”
“Well, she will once she gets married,” Hillaire says.
She pulls her lucky gold coin from her pocket and clutches it as if grounding herself.
The features of her left hand are deceptively lifelike, despite being a robotic replacement for the one she lost in an accident two years ago.
“Besides, it’s not just about Vivian abandoning me,” she continues.
“Harrison isn’t right for her. He’s not a leader, and she shouldn’t follow him.
You should find out if he has a mistress at Grandmaster before Vivian marries him. ”
I turn sharply, the wine bottle clanging against the railing. The look in Hillaire’s eyes is confident yet mechanical, almost like a Pinkie, and it sends a ripple of discomfort through me. “What the hell, Hilly? Why would you even say that?”
“Because I look at what’s there, not what I want to see. You should warn Vivian about Harrison. She listens to you.”
“I’m not warning Vivian about anything.” I step closer in challenge. “I like Harry. I always have. If you really hate him so much, you should tell her yourself.”
“You’re right.” Hillaire nods and pockets the coin. “I’ll tell her now.”
“Wait.” I grip her arm. “Tonight’s my last dinner at home, and I don’t want to spend it refereeing a shit-flinging match between you and—”
“Too late for that,” Vivian says darkly.
She’s standing between the open terrace doors, holding a cigarette in a pearl-studded holder.
In the dim light, it’s hard to tell her apart from Mom.
They share the same high cheekbones, bee-stung lips, and curly black hair that’s both wild and soft all at once.
The main difference is their breasts. Mom’s are small, while Vivian’s are so large that all her clothes need to be specially tailored.
“Were you lying this whole time, then?” Vivian asks Hillaire, her hurt showing in the soft lines of her face. “When Harry and I started dating last year, you told me you liked him.”
“I barely knew him.”
“Oh, and now you think you know him better than I do?”
Hillaire shakes her head, as if there’s no point in trying to convince her. “Date him for a few more years. Then you’ll see what I see.”
“And what’s that?”
“Harrison is a coward.” Hillaire stands with an air of authority, despite being a head shorter than Vivian. “If you marry him, you’ll regret it. But by then, it won’t be easy to leave. And because you don’t listen to anyone but yourself, it’ll be no one’s fault but your—”
“Oh, shut up already, Hillaire.” Vivian clenches her cigarette holder as if she might snap it in half.
“You want to know the real reason I don’t like spending time with you anymore?
Because you’re self-righteous and condescending, and even though I always supported you, you never supported me.
” She walks toward us, the hem of her satin evening gown catching on the heel of her T-strap shoes.
“I’ve done my best to put up with your shit over the past year, but now I’m done.
After I get married, I don’t want to see you anymore.
And I don’t want you at my wedding, either. ”
Hillaire lifts one shoulder into a shrug. “I’ll just go to the next one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your marriage to Harrison won’t last, so there’s bound to be others.”
Vivian lets out a bitter laugh, then seizes a handful of Hillaire’s hair. “You bitch.”
Hillaire straightens, tight as a bolt, and warns, “Let me go.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll make you.”
Vivian clicks her tongue. “Go ahead and tr—”
Hillaire spins, her leg whipping up, and kicks her.
Vivian jolts backward, her T-strap heel snapping under the force before slamming straight into me.
The air rushes out of my lungs. I reach for something solid, but my hands pass through empty air as the patio lurches toward me.
Then I hit the stone, taking the full impact of the fall, while Vivian lands heavily on top of me.
“Loredana!” Hillaire rushes to my side. “Are you hurt?”
“Get off me, Viv,” I groan.
I roll out from under her and sit up, a sharp sting flaring in my right hand. Within seconds, it spreads like fire. When I look, I see the skin has been scraped clean off my palm. Bright green blood wells from the wound, darkening where it mixes with dirt and leaves.
Vivian winces, as if she feels the pain herself. “I’m sorry, Lore. I didn’t mean—”
“We’ve only got an hour left,” I cut in, pushing to my feet. “If you two want to piss it away, fine. But after that, everything changes.”
Hillaire crosses her arms, looking confused, while Vivian’s eyebrows knit together in realization.
In less than a day, I’ll be at Grandmaster for nine months, and when I return, Vivian and Harrison will be married.
Things will never be the same again, not like they are now, not like they’ve been for our entire lives.
“You’re right, Lore,” Vivian says at last, lifting the torn hem of her gown. Her face hardens again as she looks at Hillaire. “One-hour truce?”
Hillaire checks her watch and frowns. “Make it until tomorrow. I need to be in bed by ten.”
“Fine.”
Vivian snatches her emerald hair comb from the ground just as the dinner bell chimes through the open doors. We all pause, exchange grim looks, then shuffle inside to take our seats. At the table, I roll up my sleeve to keep blood from staining the fabric.
Hillaire’s hair sticks up where it was pulled, and Vivian’s evening gown is torn, with her lipstick smudged, but neither of them is injured. A Pinkie delivers warm, wet cloths and a tube of regenerative gel, which usually heals injuries like mine within forty-eight hours.
By the time I finish treating the scrape, Mom and Dad enter the dining hall, hand in hand, with all traces of worry gone from their faces.
Dad’s hair is styled, his silk ascot perfectly arranged, and he’s holding a glass of scotch.
Mom wears a beaded gown with a draped silhouette that flows around her ankles like a cloud.
Her long black hair is twisted into structured, glossy waves, and her makeup does a good job of covering the bruising from her recent facelift.
“Girls.” Mom’s mouth drops at the state of us. “What have you done to each other?”
“Loredana told me to tell Vivian how I feel,” Hillaire replies. “So I did.”
“Told?” Dad sets down his scotch. “Or showed?”
He turns on me, head cocked, as if expecting a detailed rundown, but I stay silent.
“All right, then. We’ll talk about this when Loredana’s gone,” Mom says, trading a disappointed look with Dad. “And don’t think I’ll forget.”
Mom takes one chair at the end of the table, while Dad settles at the other, his chin bowed low. “For this meal, and for all that we possess, we thank the Civilized World,” he says.
Two Pinkies bring out the first course. I lean back, nauseated by the sound of chewing around me.
After watching the executions, the thought of food turns my stomach.
Instead, I keep my eyes lowered and spread another layer of numbing regenerative gel over my hand.
The somber gazes of Mom and my sisters chip away at my resolve, and for a moment, I wish the gel could numb the rest of me, too.
“Is this a family dinner or a funeral for the cow?” Dad finally asks, nudging the Beef Wellington with his fork. “Should I be giving a eulogy?”
Hillaire sets down her glass of sparkling water and frowns. “Jokes are hardly appropriate right now, Father.”
“No good joke was ever appropriate.”
Across the table, Vivian and I share a small smile, grateful that Dad is trying to lighten the mood.
Halfway through the first course, a Pinkie wearing white evening gloves enters the room. The robot leans over Dad and whispers something in his ear that wipes the humor from his face. Mom rises from her chair, moves to his side, and fidgets with her drop earring as she listens.
I can’t hear much, but when the word prohibition slips from the robot’s mouth, I realize they’re talking about Bliss, the deadly drug Dad’s been fighting to eradicate from our streets throughout his political career.
Dad listens for a moment longer, his fingers twisting in his napkin, then pushes his chair back with a screech of wood. “Oh, hell.”
“What’s going on?” Vivian asks.
“Those bastards.”
“Who?” Hillaire asks, watching the Pinkie as if she might corner the robot in the hallway after dinner and squeeze answers out of it.