Chapter 2. In Which the Apocalypse Is My Mom Yelling at Me in Public #2
“In the last two hours, we’ve lost a keynote speaker spot at AASA’s National Conference on Education. The New York City mayor’s office also called. Our seats at his table for his annual campaign-fundraising dinner have gone to the”—she grinds her teeth—“Darlingtonshires instead.”
The Darlingtonshires. The family who owns Posh Prep. Prince List’s direct competitor.
“But you aren’t a normal kid,” Mom goes on, sinking back into her executive chair with the same heaviness as her tone.
Her black curls flounce against her shoulders, nearly vanishing into her black blazer.
“You’re the global face of tutoring. No amount of PR scrubbing can change this. So, we’re trying to help you.”
“Thank you—”
She holds up a finger, cutting me off. “Because we have as much stake in fixing your image at Prince List as you do. Not because your mistake isn’t deserving of a consequence. Understand?”
I glance out Mom’s office window again, toward the rows of shared workspaces where bodies whir past. Phones are up to ears. Fingers rapidly type.
Because of me.
Mom pinches the bridge of her nose so tightly that her French manicure must be close to drawing blood. “So, what’s the verdict?” she asks Dad. “What did you hear back from other programs?”
Dad clears his throat. “Caltech, no. Boston University, no. Stanford, no—”
“Can you skip to anything positive?”
Dad sends Mom a firm look. “Every other prospect was a no—except for the Bachelor’s Retreat for Advancement, Influence, and Notoriety.”
Mom’s raccoon eyes widen. She grips at her chest. “They want Rory?”
I haven’t seen her this excited since the Darlingtonshires’ official website crashed on the biggest enrollment date of the season last fall.
“What is it?” I ask curiously.
“That program on Bachelor Island in Washington,” Dad explains.
My heart drops to my toes.
Never mind. I’ve heard of brAIN plenty. I’ve just never heard it referred to by its full name before. In academic-competition circles, it’s only known as the brAIN Wars.
“You’re serious,” I say, glancing unsurely between them.
Mom tilts her head at my obvious lack of thrill. “brAIN is one of the most illustrious camps for students entering their final year of high school. Their Medal of Victory is exactly what you need.”
“But it’s been usurped by clout chasers,” I say.
“Oh, please. They’re just well-known, like you.”
Not true. I, Rory Prince, actually care about academics. Everyone else associated with brAIN solely cares about connections.
Even though brAIN recruits some of the smartest students in the country to represent various STEM disciplines, these students all conveniently descend from long-established, generational notoriety.
Some have families who impact whole economies.
Others sway laws. A few are royalty who attend schools like Institut Le Rosey—aka the School of Kings—renowned for alumni like the Rockefellers, King Albert II of Belgium, and Prince Rainier of Monaco.
Then there’s the long list of Hollywood kids who fight to attend. It’s the world’s strangest melting pot.
And the reason why they congregate there? The final contest at the end, where they compete for the Medal of Victory. That medal comes with admission into any Ivy League university of their choice.
And, more importantly to them, the never-ending clout.
They gain access to an elite network of past winners who’ve grown up to be experts in their fields.
They have their own club in Manhattan called the Genius Society, which is only accessible with that medal.
The parents of brAIN’s contestants do whatever it takes to get their kids into that position, and in ways most would never have the resources to pull off.
I’ve heard their kids will do anything to win once they’ve arrived. The intensity of the brAIN Wars is what gave it its nickname.
“Andrea Dawson from their admissions team was thrilled to hear from us,” Dad says, picking a microscopic piece of dust off his blazer.
He’s also gotten media training, although not as much as me.
“We went to Harvard together. But I understand your concern, Rory. It’s true that you aren’t brAIN’s typical clientele.
The kids there are smart, exceedingly so, but the camp cares more about sensationalism and photo opportunities than pure academics.
That’s why your mother and I ruled out sending you there in the past.”
Hope surges through me. “Right.”
“But she seemingly hasn’t seen the video. None of them have.”
“Really?” I say slowly. Doubtfully.
“I suppose that’s what happens when you live in a place as isolated as Bachelor Island. This might be the only lead you’ll get.”
“But—”
“I already filled out your paperwork. I got you an accelerated acceptance without your needing to take their tests. Being top of your class at Stuy satisfied them.”
“You did what? Without asking me?”
“You’ve been offered to represent physical science,” Dad continues as if I didn’t speak. “Which is an honor. Only one in fifty thousand are accepted.”
“Rory,” Mom snaps suddenly. “That face? Get rid of it.”
It’s only then that I realize I’m grimacing like I ate a whole lemon.
Unfortunately, Mom and Dad make a valid point. Winning brAIN’s Medal of Victory, even though it’s a total joke, could be powerful enough to redeem my image. To Prince List. Universities. The whole world. My parents. And I have to face it: My options are slim.
Maybe this is the only way.
I melt deeper into my chair, wishing there were any other choice. “I just would prefer to be somewhere that takes itself seriously.”
Mom rises out of her own chair. Her dark brow furrows. Even more intimidating. “Your attitude needs a reset. Bachelor Island is just the place. I heard they don’t allow their campers to have access to their phones. Isn’t that right?” She turns to Dad for support.
Instead of responding to her, Dad walks up behind me and clasps my shoulder, barely reminding me that I’m a living human being made of flesh and blood.
“You’ll be able to see the stars,” he says.
I look up at him. “What?”
“On the island. Unlike in the city. All you get here are the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling.” He lets out a laugh, but it’s weaker than the one he used to have years ago, which would fill up these rooms as loudly as his questionable fashion choices.
“Doesn’t that sound nice? Like when we’d go stargazing at Montauk Point Park? ”
My heart clenches. I still stay at Dad’s every other weekend, but I can’t remember the last time we watched the stars there. Now I just do homework at his kitchen table. Alone.
We’ve all had to make a lot of sacrifices to keep Prince List afloat.
The thought is enough to make me finally ask the question I’ve been holding back. “When does brAIN start?”
Dad pulls out his phone again. Four seconds later, my own buzzes in my pocket.
A forwarded email on my lock screen.
Booking Confirmation: JFK to PDX.
“Tomorrow evening,” Dad says. “Your flight takes off at five fifteen.”