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  TURN THE TABLES

  LJ Byrne

  Amazon

  Copyright © 2020 LJ Byrne

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9798664234855

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Canvas

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my family and friends

  Thanks for the love and support

  TURN THE TABLES

  BOOK 1 - FALLING

  PROLOGUE

  Online, I am anonymous. I’m known by the handle BSGirl and my YouTube videos have a small, but loyal number of views. But no one knows who I am. That’s my thing. I wear a harlequin mask and you only see my mouth and chin.

  I sing in my videos while playing the piano. Sometimes, I use cards to write messages, but I never use my speaking voice. I like being unknown because it means the bullies can’t hurt me. My cards tell my story. My songs express my feelings. My voice shows the world how I’m hurting. I hide behind my mask.

  Here’s one thing I know about bullies. They can smell a target a mile away. The bullying got better in ninth grade, but old habits die hard.

  I work on my latest video first using my handwritten cards.

  BULLIES ARE BULLSHIT

  IT’S THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL

  The song I play is short at barely two minutes long. The song is about running away and escaping. I end it with this line: Soon I’ll be so high you won’t have to see me anymore.

  CHAPTER 1

  My stepfather is late for dinner. This is not unusual for him, merely an observation on my part. There’s meatloaf, a favorite, and I’ve kept it warm in the oven for him. I pretty much run the house these days. A few years ago, Mom had a nervous breakdown. She’s always been high-strung, but one day she snapped and never came back. She’s a shadow of a mother, but I keep hope alive that she’ll come back to us. She’s not catatonic. In the morning, she’ll wake and use the toilet. She drinks water if I put a cup in front of her, and I rarely have to feed her. She goes through the motions of life without interactions or emotional responses. The part that makes her unique hides in the recesses of her mind.

  My story is not a sob story. My stepdad is a decent human being. I know stepdads get a bad name in movies, but John Kano has never looked at me with hate. He works hard to provide for us and he’s loyal to Mom. She’s not the same person he married, but he never complains about it. “Through sickness and health, Elena,” he tells me when I help him put her to bed. He still stares at Mom like she’s the love of his life, and he’s not angry about the hand fate dealt him.

  My biological dad – a.k.a. The Sperm Donor – died less than five years ago. I never met him. He abandoned Mom when he realized she was pregnant and signed away parental rights. All I know is that he was too rich to be tied down to a “gutter whore” and disappeared. I found out he called Mom that in a letter she kept hidden. It’s pretty much where he tells her he doesn’t believe she’s pregnant with his baby and that she’s only after his money. He was a real charmer. Nothing in that letter – the only one from him she’s kept – gives me any indication of what she saw in him. Why did Mom pick the asshole from hell to be my biological dad?

  Mom did her best raising me. Single-mom, not well-educated, but we did okay. When Mom met John, though, it was good for a while. She seemed happy. There are pictures where we look and behave like a functional family. But since her mental breakdown, it’s been harder. I know John hates that I cook and clean. He wants me to be a kid. It’s a small sacrifice in the scope of things.

  When I hear the car pull up, I head to the window and peer out. I see our trusty little Kia. But the strange thing is that I see another car park right behind him. Because I have the porch lights on, I can see that it isn’t your typical car. I could be wrong, but it looks like a Rolls Royce.

  I back up into the living room. Mom’s sitting in her chair in the little nook I like to call our library. She just sits, barely moving as she stares vacantly in front of her. I run over to make sure she’s warm enough, adjusting her shawl, but when I hear the door open, I rush back.

  John comes in, his burly face a bit weary. He’s one of the best mechanics in town and sometimes he stays a little late to help special customers. He’s wearing his wrinkled striped shirt and I make a mental note to get more stain remover. But John’s not alone. Behind him is a man I can only describe as distinguished. He has silvery-gray hair in a George Clooney kind of way. He’s pretty handsome, too, for an older guy.

  “Hi, Pops,” I say uneasily, taking his coat and grabbing his dirty coveralls. I put them in the hamper in the hallway and come back.

  “Elena, sorry I’m late. I’ve been talking to this man here about you,” John says, his dark eyes kind but wary. He moves to check on Mom and comes back. “She been good today?”

  I shrug. “About the same. She ate a bit more than normal.”

  The stranger steps up to me. “I understand you’re quite a cook, Elena. John’s been bragging about what a self-sufficient young lady you are.”

  “Oh, well, I use recipe books,” I say stupidly. “I have dinner ready.” I look at the stranger. “Would you like to join us, Mister, um—”

  “Edgar Maverick,” the man introduces himself, shaking my hand. He doesn’t seem upset about our lack of manners and graces. I note how clean and shiny his nails are. “I’d love to join you.”

  “It’s just meatloaf,” I say, leading them to our little table. In the kitchen, I plate up the meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. On impulse, I grab napkins and utensils. I put the plates down in front of John and Edgar Maverick before I get my plate and join them.

  Edgar takes a bite and smiles. “John, you did not lie. This is very good. Maybe you can teach my son and my daughter how to cook, Elena. They are thoroughly hopeless.”

  I just smile because I’m confused. This man drives a Rolls Royce and I’m sure it’s a custom suit he’s wearing. I’ve never seen fabric so fine.

  “Elena, Edgar is an old friend of your father,” John says, and there’s a bit of sadness in his voice.

  I straighten in my seat, almost choking on my bite, before wiping my mouth with my napkin. “I’m sorry to tell you that my biological father is dead,” I say flatly. I meet Edgar’s blue eyes directly.

  Edgar nods. “I know. And I know Peter Spark was terrible as fathers go. Not as bad as Stalin,” he adds with wry humor. “Your father—Peter and I were in school together. We went to college together. We were friends for most of his life. He was—not an easy man to love much less like.” Edgar stops to inhale some mashed potatoes. “You need to tell my chef how you make these potatoes.” He sighs happily. “I’m sorry, where was I?”

  “Peter was hard to like.” I would never be this blunt in school, but at home, I don’t beat around the bush.

  Edgar just smiles. “Pete was a constant in a sea of change. I’m waxing poetic here, mind you. What I mean is that he didn’t change for the world. He made the world change for him. Had he been more in tune with his emotions, he might have been a decent father to you. He was too focused. Too narrow-minded. Had he been a proper father, you would be where you ought to be – in school with my kids at Highbury Academy.”

  I blink. “I have no aspirations to be there.”

  John takes my h
and. “Elena, Edgar wants to offer you a spot at Highbury.”

  I take a moment to absorb the words. Highbury Academy is considered the most expensive boarding school in America. Famous people go there. It’s over five hours by car, which means coming home won’t be an option. Rich people go there. I’m not rich.

  “It’s far too expensive of a school,” I say calmly, twirling my fork in my mashed potatoes

  Edgar rubs his chin with a hand. “I’m offering to sponsor you to go there. My foundation hands out partial scholarships. In this case, I would cover your tuition and related expenses, if you accept, for the next three years. Consider it penance so my wife will stop yelling at me about what a terrible man I am.” He raises his hand when I open my mouth. “Let me finish, Elena. Elizabeth tolerated Pete, but she disliked him as a person. She confronted him when she found out his girlfriend was pregnant. He claimed you would be taken care of and she let the subject rest. It wasn’t until she wondered what happened to your mom that we found out Pete lied.” Edgar’s mouth twists with unhappiness. “When Pete died, he left over twenty million to my foundation, Elena. My foundation provides educational scholarships and we fund research in mental health. You seem like a fine young lady. Your father tells me you’re smart, bright, and that you play the piano beautifully. You taught yourself, right?” When I nod, he continues, “Please let me do this.”

  “I can’t accept such generosity. I don’t know how I would repay it,” I reply, my heart pounding as I grapple with the part that wants to accept and my desire for independence.

  “Your father was worth nearly one billion dollars when he died.” Edgar moves his plate away and clasps his hands together. “He left a hundred million to Highbury Academy. He left you nothing. There are buildings there named after him and his family.” Edgar tries a different tactic. “I want to sell the school’s program to you. The campus is huge. Only first-year students share rooms. After that, you get your own bedroom. For second years and beyond, you live in a two- or three-bedroom apartments with an en suite bathroom and a small kitchen. Meals are provided there, of course. Each grade level has approximately one hundred students. As a second-year student, you are privy to annual trips to the lodge, clubhouse, even Europe. The facilities are state-of-the-art. Fifty classrooms, eight science laboratories, an indoor pool, a computer-regulated greenhouse. Off-campus, there is a beach house, a ski lodge, and a clubhouse. Most classes are taught using the Harkness method. No more than ten students who sit at a table to be guided by a world-class instructor. Think of the possibilities that evolve from such discourse.”

  “I need to be here for Pops and Mom,” I say stubbornly. I move my hand so I’m clasping John’s hand. “They need me.”

  John shakes his head. “No, Elena, I can’t let you do that.”

  “It’s not your choice.” I lift my chin. “You have to work. Mom needs help.”

  Edgar pauses. “May I ask what’s wrong with your mother?” His question surprises me in its gentleness.

  I let John answer. “She hasn’t been well. The doctors aren’t sure – at least the ones we can afford – what’s going on. It’s a mental health issue.” For the first time, John lets the heaviness – the sadness – of his heart show.

  “I see.” He looks at John first. “As I mentioned, my foundation provides grants for mental health research. We work in conjunction with a facility called Rosebud Center. It’s about an hour away from here. It’s a residential facility with great doctors and staff. I can get her in there.”

  “I don’t want your charity!” I nearly shout, standing up. “We’re fine without the trapping of wealth!”

  Edgar’s eyes widen and I glimpse a faint smile on his lips. “You probably don’t want to hear this, but your stubbornness is reminiscent of Pete. He was intractable and inflexible sometimes. Before you discount my offer altogether, can I tell you why this is so important to me and my wife?” When I sit, nodding slowly, he gives me a grateful look. “My wife grew up in a working-class home. She built computers for fun and then launched a business out of her garage. When we got married, our goal was to have as many children as possible. But fate had different plans. We—struggled. When she finally got pregnant with Mason, we were ecstatic. At the same time, one of our housekeepers, Sara, got pregnant. She was worried we’d be upset, but Elizabeth was overjoyed to have someone who would empathize with her. We even decided to have Sara be Mason’s nanny so that she could stay with us, bring her child along, and have a job. We were thrilled when she accepted.” Edgar grimaces. “The father of Sara’s baby was not so ecstatic. He got drunk. He shot Sara when she was thirty-seven weeks along and then killed himself. Somehow, the baby she carried survived even though Sara technically died. Sara’s daughter arrived a week after Elizabeth gave birth to Mason. A beautiful girl. We adopted her, of course. Katrina. She’s just a great kid and I’m so lucky that she’s my daughter. I love Mason and Katrina even if they’re spoiled. After what happened to Sara, it became Elizabeth’s mission to help children get the education they deserve so they can rise and reach their potential.” Edgar leans toward me. “Elena, you might have your father’s genius. If even a fragment of it exists in you, it would make Elizabeth – and me – so happy to give it a place to bloom. You know, I thought you’d jump at this opportunity. I should have never made assumptions.”

  I shrug. “You can’t miss what you don’t have.” I blink back my tears.

  “Well, consider that I’m going to use the money he gave to my foundation on you and your mother,” Edgar continues. He’s kinder than I would expect for a rich man. He directs his next words at John. “Rosebud is one of the best centers for mental health. It would be at no cost to you. Consider it this way. Pete is indirectly helping you. He fathered Elena. He abandoned your wife. For all we know, he may have caused some of her health issues.” There’s a flash of sadness in Edgar’s eyes.

  When I look at John, I see hope in his eyes. He doesn’t want to express it, but I can see how badly he wants Mom to get help. I can’t say no just because of my pride.

  “Pops…” I lower my head.

  “Elena, I love you and I’ll always be your Pops. But you’ve made so many sacrifices. You’ll be sixteen soon. Aika is not getting better. Maybe Rosebud can help her. You need to think a little about yourself.” John gives me a tearful smile. “I’ll come to visit when I can. And when your mom is doing better, we can both visit.”

  I hide my face in my hands so no one can see my tears or see my fear. I’ll be exposed without a place to hide at Highbury. “Okay, okay,” I say finally, my voice muffled. “How do I sign up?”

  CHAPTER 2

  The Mavericks send a car to bring me to their house before school begins. It’s a two-hour boring drive. When I arrive with my beat-up duffle bag, there’s someone who takes my bag for me into the house.

  I’ve never been in a house – if you can call this monstrosity a house – where the floors are made of marble. To be honest, marble just seems cold and impractical. The bag man – the person who is carrying my bag – leaves me and my duffle bag in a room and tells me to wait. After a few minutes, a tall, athletic girl about my age enters.

  “Hi,” she says casually, “you must be Elena. Dad didn’t say you were so pretty. I’m Katrina.” She smiles and it’s genuinely warm. I’m surprised she thinks I’m pretty because Katrina could be America’s Next Top Model. Her flawless skin is the color of milk chocolate and she has these amazing cheekbones. Her glossy black hair falls in perfect ringlets over her perfect shoulders. Okay, I made the perfect shoulders up. I have no idea if they’re perfect because she’s wearing a blouse.

  I shake her hand because I don’t know what else to do. “Yeah, I’m Elena. Nice to meet you.”

  “Dad already admires you,” she adds, “and he tells me that he’ll buy me a new car if I learn how to make your mashed potatoes.”

  We laugh together and my shoulders relax. She seems nice. Looks can be deceiving, I remind myself.r />
  Katrina steps closer. “I hope we can be friends, Elena. Highbury is an amazing place when it comes to academics, but like every school, there are a few bad apples.” She wrinkles her nose.

  “Don’t scare her, Katrina,” a woman chides from the doorway. Her hair is a vibrant red – probably not natural – but her eyes are the color of sapphires. She has a natural beauty that doesn’t seem to be by the grace of plastic surgery. “I’m Elizabeth Maverick. Officially, I’m your sponsor. But I hope you’ll think of me as a possible friend and mentor.”

  We shake hands as I marvel at how nice this family seems. I remember Edgar telling me that his kids were spoiled, but Katrina seems genuine.

  “Katrina, where the hell are you?” a voice shouts from another room. A tall boy with Elizabeth’s blue eyes enters the room.

  “Mason, we have a guest,” Elizabeth says firmly. “She’s your new classmate.”

  Mason stops to look at me slowly. “This the girl getting the free ride?” he asks rudely, his lips curling arrogantly.

  “Mason!” Elizabeth goes up to her son. “That’s horribly impolite. She is attending Highbury on a scholarship. We are giving her a ride to school. You can all go together.”

  Mason’s mouth scowls. “Mom! I’m driving my car to school. All the guys are doing it. And I can’t fit her with that bag in my car. I was going to take Katrina if she wants a ride.” He waves his hand dismissively at me.

  Before his mother can lecture him, Katrina intervenes. “That’s fine, dear brother. You couldn’t possibly fit my suitcase in your car anyway. Go on without us. Elena and I will get driven there.”

  If anything, Mason is not mollified. He scans me with a lazy, assessing look. “Whatever,” he says, his long legs taking him from the room quickly.