Everything We Couldn’t Say (Castle Hill Academy #2)

Prologue Orion, Age 15

Prologue

I tell my piano the things I used to tell you.

—Frédéric Chopin

Castle Hill Academy filled the window of my father’s limo, looming like a huge, angular monstrosity. Futuristic and ultra-modern, like something out of an episode of Black Mirror.

“I know it’s far from home,” Mum said, “but you’ll love it here. Just like your brothers did.”

I kept a smile plastered on my face, thinking, This place will try to break me like a nightmare.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Father said. Rockwell Mercer was the walking definition of impressive—big, imposing, dressed in a gray Brioni suit with diamond cufflinks at the sleeves.

His dark eyes regarded me from across the seat.

“And it ought to be.” British accent was still touched with Nigerian. “We funnel enough money into it.”

Many Castle Hill Academy students hailed from wealthy families and gave generously to the school; mine and four others gave the most. We were known as the Big Five, and our endowment had funded renovations that made my last school in London, Alistair Morton Prep, look like a motorway hotel.

“Turn the fan up a bit, would you, darling?” Mum asked, gathering her ash-blond hair off her neck. Celeste Mercer looked every bit as impressive as Father in her pink Chanel suit and A-line skirt, though she’d never cared for Rhode Island humidity in late August.

“Yes, Mum.” I hit the power button on the AC and switched to a brash Cockney accent. My palms were already sweaty but not from the heat. “It’s a bit close ’ere, innit?”

Father frowned. “Best behavior, Orion. You need to start on the right foot. Morton Prep will seem like child’s play compared to the next four years.”

He sounded like a judge handing down a prison sentence. My stomach tightened, and I just managed to hold on to my smile. “Well, Father, given that I was a child during my time at Mort—”

“You did a good deal of playing around,” he snapped. “The antics you got away with won’t be tolerated at Castle Hill.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. Translated from Father’s lofty Queen’s English, antics meant workarounds: the daily dodges and weaves I used to hide my struggle with ADHD.

Father downplayed my condition, treating it more like a personality quirk than an actual diagnosis.

Getting by in school was exhausting. The few times I’d asked for help, I was told, “Take your meds and try harder.”

What a crock. The meds made my heart feel like it’d been possessed by a jackhammer, and then I was so depressed and tired the next day, I could hardly move, so I’d secretly stopped taking them.

And if I tried any harder at work, my brain would leak out of my ears.

But talking about “troubles” wasn’t something we Mercers did, so I kept that to myself.

Gravel crunched under its tires as the limo skirted the school’s front doors and glided down the curve of the circular driveway to the back of the building. From my previous trips to Castle Hill when my brothers were students, I knew this entrance was reserved for faculty and visitors.

“There they are,” Father said.

Dr. Vincent Sterling, the Academy’s president, seemed to have gathered his entire staff to greet us—at least fifteen people.

I shook my head. “No red carpet or paparazzi? I’d dock a million pounds from next year’s endowment for this egregious slight. The audacity.”

Mum laughed, and even Father gave a reluctant grin as our driver opened his door.

“Mr. Mercer,” Dr. Sterling said. “Welcome back.”

He was a tall man, with dark hair going silver along the sides, dressed in an impeccable suit.

He shook my father’s hand as if he were greeting royalty.

I was surprised he didn’t bow. Rockwell Mercer was CEO of Mercer Chemicals, one of the largest manufacturers in the world.

The entire UK and half of the US used Mercer products to clean their ovens and wash their clothes.

Father had created the business from nothing.

My brothers graduated early from CHA and were well into their tenure at Cambridge, both being groomed to enter the family business. I would follow in their footsteps.

No one asked me if this track was what I wanted—not even me—but working in the family business was safe. Or would be, once I was done with essays, tests, exams…

I stared up at the behemoth of a school.

Four more years. And then another four at Cambridge. God help me.

“This must be Orion,” Dr. Sterling said, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Delighted to meet you, young man. Your brothers were exemplary students during their time here. I gather we can expect great things of you as well?”

I widened my charming smile, the one that ought to be trademarked.

A grin that got me through excruciating years at Morton Prep, wooing teachers and headmasters.

They all marveled at how smart I was but lamented how I never applied myself.

Not even a diagnosis of ADHD could explain a brilliant mind that struggled with the basics.

Hence the arsenal of workarounds—tricks to keep teachers fooled or distracted with a patented smile…

“Orion?”

I blinked. The welcome committee was waiting for an answer.

“Oh, my brothers are the brains of the family,” I said. “I’m just here for the food.”

Dr. Sterling laughed, and his staff joined after a beat, a little too loudly.

“He’s quite the wit, is he?” Sterling said to Father.

“Indeed.” Father gave me a pointed look above a thin smile, laying a heavy hand on my shoulder. “But he has big shoes to fill. Big shoes. I presume arrangements have been made?”

Understanding passed between the two men.

“Yes, of course,” Dr. Sterling said. “This is Mr. Jameson, one of our best test proctors.” He gestured at an older, white-haired gentleman. “He’ll be presiding over Orion’s exams. Privately.”

Mum and Father exchanged approving glances.

I gazed at Jameson, my one and only accommodation for the disorder diagnosed when I was ten years old.

***

I crouched behind one of Mum’s gigantic vases, listening hard. My brothers and I were forbidden to even breathe on these antiques, but from this hiding spot, I could hear the adults in the sitting room.

“I’ve finished my evaluation of your son,” Dr. Billings said. “I have to say, Orion is an extraordinarily intelligent child, with an even more extraordinary gift for the piano. And his reading comprehension is incredible.”

“Yes,” Mum said. “He reads seven or eight books a month, at least. He’s far beyond his brothers’ level when they were in Year Five.”

“But his test scores are abysmal,” Father said. “And dear God, his penmanship.”

“Orion has classic attention deficit hyperactivity disorder,” the doctor said. “ADHD. I’ve seen cases like it many times. He’s a bright boy, but he can’t sit still during the exams, yes? That would account for his wonderful aptitude, but poor test results.”

I frowned. I could sit for exams no problem. It was the words that wouldn’t sit still.

I loved to read, but I didn’t understand a story until I’d read the whole thing. A book was a puzzle that only made sense when I had put all the pieces together, and then it came together in my mind like a tapestry. Or a film.

Short chapters in textbooks were hard. When teachers asked me to stand up and give a summary, I completely fell apart.

Even math problems were hard if I had to explain my work.

Writing was the worst. I couldn’t make the thoughts in my head into words on the page.

But I could draw the images. I could draw really well, actually.

And music…

Music made sense in a way that nothing else did.

It was air and water. It was light and breath and my own heartbeat.

When I played piano, my hands worked perfectly, as if they heard the music coming from somewhere else and channeled it through me.

The notes on the page didn’t have holes in them.

They made patterns that I understood without even trying.

And when I looked at the black and white keys, I saw sounds and melodies and could play them right out.

It was as if the piano and I were not two separate things but connected somehow, and I never wanted to be apart…

“I’ll prescribe him some medication,” Dr. Billings was saying. “You should see improvement in his schoolwork immediately.”

The leather couch creaked, and then Father spoke. “I don’t need to tell you that discretion is paramount here.”

“Of course, but I assure you, ADHD is quite common.”

“Not in this house,” Father muttered.

“We just don’t want to make a fuss,” Mum said. “If it’s quite common, let’s not make more of it than we ought.”

Dr. Billings cleared his throat. “Well, it would be good if you spoke with your son about the challenges he’s been having. How he’s been feeling—”

“I’m sure your medication will do the trick,” Mum said.

“Indeed,” Father said.

A pause followed, and I could feel the doctor’s confusion. He didn’t understand that my parents didn’t discuss challenges or feelings. Not in this household. I’d never heard my parents so much as raise their voices to each other.

“We don’t rock the boat,” they liked to say.

When my brothers and I got mad or sad, we were meant to keep it to ourselves.

Displays of intense emotions were messy.

Distasteful. Growing up, we were like boats floating on the surface of Loch Ness, desperately trying not to plunge into the depths where feelings lived like monsters.

But sometimes, even when the boat was still afloat, my feelings came bursting up from down below.

When that happened, I went to the piano. But even that wasn’t allowed. While Mum and Father said I was a gifted player, they insisted my talent was just a hobby.

“Must you bang like the devil?” Father complained when I played angry.

“That’s pretty but so gloomy, Orion,” Mum would say when I created something sad. “Play something cheerful!”