Chapter 8
Jase
Have you ever felt lonely?
Always.
—J
“So, after that little drama, you really have to tell me what happened between you and Zoe,” Skye demands in a tone that has no patience for an objection.
I object anyway. “Nothing happened between us.”
Skye snorts indignantly. “Come on, Jase, I wasn’t born yesterday. No one just runs out of class on the first day unless something completely tragic happened. How and when did you break her heart?” She sighs theatrically and clutches at her chest.
Furious, I grind my teeth. “Why do you just assume that I broke her heart?”
As if Zoe ran off without a word because I hurt her fucking feelings, either now or then. Skye’s eyes widen in surprise, and I immediately wish I could take my words back. “Does that mean that she broke your heart?”
Fuck.
“I don’t have one,” I remind her tonelessly, although the muscle in my chest twitches in protest, insisting that it does, in fact, exist.
“Of course not. You’re the only person in the world who doesn’t have one. Self-deception is dangerous, Jase.” She gets up and musses my hair.
I make a face involuntarily and refrain from answering, because I don’t know what to say.
“Will I see you at lunch? I want to talk to Francesca for a minute.” Skye raises her eyebrows questioningly as she walks backward toward our teacher.
Francesca ended the lesson just a few minutes ago.
Most of the class is still there getting their things together, though I notice the girl with the auburn hair who lives in the room next to Zoe has already left. Probably to find out if she’s okay.
“Sure.”
“Okay, see you soon. But then you have to tell me everything.” She grins with satisfaction and turns on her heel.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I grumble indignantly, but either she didn’t hear me or she’s ignoring me. More likely the latter.
I get up, pack my things, and leave the studio in a rush because I want to stop at my room and change before lunch. But I don’t get far. I’m almost to the stairs when I see a movement out of the corner of my eye.
A girl is alone in one of the ballet studios, practicing pirouettes in front of the mirror. Every movement is controlled perfection. She’s brilliant, and she knows it with every fiber of her tense, controlled body.
Little Miss Perfect.
Ophelia Winslow.
My sister.
My stomach tightens. I didn’t see her yesterday on the roof terrace, probably because I was busy dodging all the other people up there who I usually avoid like the plague.
I should keep walking: The last few hours have been absolute shit, and watching Lia dance so well makes everything much worse.
But suddenly, I can’t move. I’m not only good at self-deception; I also have a knack for torturing myself.
As if sensing my gaze, Lia stops mid-turn and looks at me. Her face is expressionless, her green eyes as familiar as my own. We looked alike as children, with our blond hair, green eyes, and full lips. My sister’s face is more finely formed than mine, but the resemblance is still uncanny.
Lia raises her eyebrows, a silent question. Is something wrong?
I imitate her expression because I know she hates it when I do that. Needless to say, we don’t have a particularly affectionate relationship.
She rolls her eyes and turns away. I do the same. It wasn’t always this way between us. It was never simple, sure, but it wasn’t like this. Cold. Angry. Full of jealousy and hatred.
I started dancing because of her. A little boy who fell in love with ballet because he saw his big sister dancing. It wasn’t even her grace that impressed me but her control over her body, over every tiny movement, coupled with the burning passion that it requires to captivate an audience.
That’s exactly what I wanted. That power. The absolute mastery, the passion. A dream.
There was a time when I hoped that dancing would bring us closer together.
That time is long past.
My heart twitches a warning, and I push any thoughts of Lia to the back of my mind, because every time I look at her, or even think about her, I can’t help but think of Sam.
And when I think of Sam, the indifference with which I suppress every other feeling cracks open, and that’s the last thing I need right now. Or ever.
I’ve just reached my room when someone calls my name.
“Jase!” At the sound of the stern voice, I turn and see Camille, Mr. Pearson’s assistant, walking toward me. As usual, her face is tense and pinched. She always looks like she’s disapproving of something.
“Mr. Pearson would like to talk to you.” She looks even more serious than usual, and my stomach sinks.
“Do you know what about?” I ask nervously.
She shakes her head. “Only that it’s urgent. Come with me.”
I hesitate, but I don’t really have another choice, so I follow her. In silence, Camille leads me to the administration building and up to Pearson’s office. With every minute that passes, my palms sweat and my stomach drops.
What the hell does Pearson want from me?
Students walk past us on their way to the cafeteria.
I’m met by curious glances, and my shoulders tense again.
Everyone knows that being seen with Camille is not a good thing.
You’re usually in a lot of trouble if you’re escorted by her.
But fuck, it’s only the first day. And it’s only lunchtime.
I haven’t even had time to do anything that might not suit Pearson.
The administration building is eerily quiet as we enter and walk through the corridor before finally reaching Pearson’s office.
Camille knocks on the door, and the sound echoes in the empty hallway.
She doesn’t wait for an answer, just opens the door and waves me in.
I enter the room without looking at her again and let the door close carelessly behind me.
Pearson looks up from his laptop and points to one of the two armchairs in front of his desk, which are usually reserved for parents who are worried about their children or students who have gotten themselves into some kind of mess.
“Have a seat,” he says.
In spite of the silver-gray strands in his dark hair, he seems younger than he actually is. I know his birthday, and not just because we get cake every year for it (as an exception—here, we’re taught that refined sugar is practically poison). I knew him long before I was accepted here as a student.
“Have a seat, Jase,” he repeats when I make no move to comply. I seem to have forgotten how to move. All at once, my body feels strangely numb. “We have something to talk about.” The look in his dark eyes is serious.
I suppress the urge to turn around and walk away, but I sit down in the chair anyway. Whatever he has to say, there’s no point in putting it off.
“What’s up?” I act bored, as though I don’t care at all about why he called me here. But my heart races, and I feel nauseated. My body can’t deal with these damn feelings. Insecurity and fear. I can’t do anything about them.
“I tried to reach your parents, both today and yesterday, but without success. That’s why you’re here now,” he begins.
The mere mention of my parents makes me sick to my stomach. Fuck. This can’t be good.
“So?”
“Their payment for the current school year has been withdrawn. Do you know anything about that?”
His words hit me like a punch in the solar plexus, hard and relentless, squeezing the last bit of oxygen out of my lungs.
“What?” I say, barely audibly. I stare at him, stunned. I blink, trying to understand what he just said.
“Your tuition fee has been withdrawn,” he repeats, as if I hadn’t heard him. But I did. I understood him far too well.
It’s totally clear what it means. I’m screwed.
Before
Jase
One year earlier
June 25, 12:43 PM
My parents didn’t come to my graduation. Neither did my sister, my grandparents, or anyone from my family. Although part of me isn’t surprised, the disappointment burns.
I watch as Caleb and my friends are embraced by their families while I stand off to the side. My throat tightens when I see Caleb’s dad tousling his hair with a proud smile, and I quickly look away.
My gaze lands automatically on Zoe, who’s standing between Tristan and Reed. Reed has an arm around her shoulders and is tugging on a strand of her copper hair. Zoe laughs, and something inside of me tenses at the bright sound.
“Jase, where are your parents?” I flinch at the sound of Ceara’s voice. There’s an expression on her face that’s hard to interpret. A mixture of disapproval and sympathy.
I shrug and try to look indifferent. “They had an emergency patient. A high-risk pregnancy or something. There were complications during the birth.” That’s probably not even a lie.
My parents are often called to emergencies.
I guess that’s what it’s like when you run one of the most famous maternity clinics in the country.
But that doesn’t explain why no one let me know.
Or why Lia and my grandparents didn’t come either.
The truth creeps closer to the surface, but I firmly push it back. I don’t want to think about the possible reasons, because every single one of them hurts like hell.
A crease forms between Ceara’s eyebrows, and she presses her lips together so firmly that I can easily guess what she’s thinking, even if I hadn’t seen her almost every day for the past four years. In some ways, she acts more like a mother to me than my own mom.
“We’re about to take Caleb out to lunch. Would you like to join us?” She means well, but the kindness in her voice makes my shoulders tense nervously. I don’t want her pity.
“No, that’s all right. My grandparents wanted to come, but their flight was delayed. I should be at home when they arrive.” Another lie. I force myself to smile. “But thanks anyway.”
Ceara hugs me, and I stiffen before returning her embrace for a brief, weak moment.
“You don’t have to thank me, Jase. You’re family.” She pulls away from me and musses my hair with a smile, just like Ethan did with Caleb a moment ago.
You’re family.