Turn the Tables Page 3

  Music is one of the few classes not limited to ten students. There are fifteen of us in here, and at least five of the girls are here simply because of Brock. Brock’s dad is Henry Caruso, one of the biggest country stars. Brock’s a rising star himself, at least according to Bruce. Since I don’t follow country music, this is news to me.

  At any rate, when we get in the room, a handful of girls are flirting and sighing over Brock. He’s attractive, but I’m not the kind of person to drool over anyone. One girl is sitting on his lap and running her hand through his reddish-brown hair. Kiana Shimura is perched on the armrest, like a crow, giggling at something Brock says. Yeah, the crow part is my spiteful addition.

  Ingrid Waldorf arrives, clapping her hand to get our attention. She points to me. “You, Miss Kano, I understand you play the piano. Do you play well?”

  “She’s a freeloader. She taught herself for free,” Brock says, grinning as if he just said something incredibly witty. The girls around him giggle in response to that amazing wit.

  Ms. Waldorf makes a buzzing sound with her lips. “Elena, I would like to hear you play,” she says, gesturing to the piano. “There is sheet music there. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, do you know it?” There’s a faint gasp from the other students and Bruce tenses beside me.

  I nod, ignoring the hoot of laughter from Brock. When I sit at the piano, I briefly take note of the sheet music. The piano’s finer than the one I’ve played on before. It’s a school piano so you’d think it would be pretty shabby, but this piano has been loved and cared for. The one I have at home was given to me by a neighbor. I run my fingers over the shiny keys.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Ms. Waldorf says with a hint of impatience. A couple of girls snicker in anticipation.

  I close my eyes and play. I know the piece by heart and the irony is not lost on me. Beethoven dedicated it to his pupil. He had fallen in love with her, but he was a commoner and she was a noble. I don’t play completely with my eyes closed, but I don’t make any mistakes either. To be honest, it’s only with music that I can feel complete. I expect Ms. Waldorf to stop me, but she doesn’t so I keep playing. After I play the last note, I turn to face Ms. Waldorf.

  She has tears in her eyes. “My dear, were you never trained properly?”

  I glance from her to Bruce, who is smiling in astonishment, to Brock. Brock’s sneer is gone. He looks faintly flabbergasted, and he’s frowning. I shrug listlessly. “Did I mess it up?”

  Ms. Waldorf gasps. “No, you were lovely. You are a treasure. She is a treasure, class.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief when the focus is off me and the other students get to show their talents. Mercifully, except for Bruce, everyone ignores me for the rest of the class.

  For the next few weeks, the student harassment of Freeloader Elena continues but doesn’t escalate. It mostly involves hair pulling, tripping, kicking, and name-calling. Because I’ve been targeted by the Elites, most students simply ignore me. Bruce and Charles don’t defend me publicly, but they sit with me during mealtimes in silent support. Brock laughs every time I’m tripped. Mason smirks when the Elite girls yank on my hair. Oliver sometimes moves the chair out of the way when I try to sit.

  It’s not just traditional bullying, though. There’s a whole society based on wealth, family name, and reputation. For example, the Mavericks are one of the richest families here, but only Mason is an Elite. It boils down to the fact that Mason is technically older and there can’t be two Elites within a class from the same family. However, in the short time I’ve been at Highbury, there’s something more insidious to Katrina being relegated to the Inner Circle. Once, when Katrina defended me in gym class, Vanessa hissed about her being a “refugee kid” and I saw the flash of pain in Katrina’s eyes. Katrina is an outcast because of her ethnicity and because she’s adopted. It's insidious racism. Trust me, I’m not ignorant. White privilege is very real, and it exists in buckets at the school. But I thought Katrina’s connection to Mason would protect her. It doesn’t.

  I learn more about the terrible habits of some of the Elites. Vanessa Valentino has had at least two cosmetic surgeries. She’s set herself up for back problems in the future with the boob job. She’s had a nose job, too. It’s unfortunate that she thinks it’s necessary because she’s pretty in a pale sort of way.

  Kiana Shimura is the first Asian female Elite. Instead of using it for good, she’s verbally abusive to the staff at school, and supposedly she’s a terror to the staff at home. Bruce tells me she once chased away four nannies in a year. Her dad directs action movies and she’s known for visiting the sets during the summer, throwing herself at young actors.

  Ashley Witt is a ballerina wannabe. She’s good, but not that good. She’s been treated for eating disorders, and Katrina is certain that the reason Ashley only wears long sleeves is to hide the track marks. I’m told with disgust that Ashley’s main goal is to sleep with Lucas Rhodes. Let it not be said that Elites don’t have lofty goals.

  I’m told by Bruce that Astrid Fleming only recently became an Elite. Her mother’s second husband owns Sovereign Hotels. Of the Elites, she’s not “terribly bad” but she’s easily influenced by Vanessa. I know little about her except that she watches me with beady eyes.

  Lucas Rhodes comes from an old line of Elites. Almost as old as the Spark family, Charles explains during breakfast. Lucas’s been sleeping with girls since he was fifteen. (Yes, I did do a mental “Eww” when Charles told me that.) I guess he’s a womanizer – or would it be a teenage “girlizer”? Man-whore? Although Bruce believes that Lucas screws around to get back at his dad, Katrina says Lucas simply has no respect for females in general. I consider that when I see the number of girls that throw themselves his way.

  Even though Brock is the only son of Henry Caruso, Charles and Bruce inform me that Henry’s rarely seen and never comes to Parents’ Weekend or the last day celebrations. I think that’s sad. Brock’s making a name for himself on the alternative scene, but he is nowhere as well-known as his father.

  Then there’s Oliver Chang: track star, boy wonder, yada yada yada. His mother is the original Tiger Mom and she will brook no scandals to the family name. His life has been mapped out since he was two. He even has an arranged marriage waiting for him the moment he turns twenty-one. Lucky kid! His father is a high-profile attorney – you know, the kind that keeps rich kids who kill people when under-the-influence out of jail.

  I’ve analyzed Katrina’s actions over and over. She’s technically part of the Inner Circle, but she seems to both love and hate it. She doesn’t hang out with Ben Summers or Thomas Carver, two of the Inner Circle who idolize Vanessa Valentino. If I had friends at home, I’d be telling them about this weird social hierarchy I’ve found myself in. I even consider writing a story about it. I would call it The Twilight Zone: Highbury Academy.

  When I check in with John, he tells me that the doctors think they’ve found a mix of medications that work on Mom. He’s so excited by her progress – she’s eating three meals a day at the center – that I don’t mention the rich kids harassing me. I tell him that Katrina’s been great, and the food is good. I tell him the academics are challenging and the instructors are awesome. He tells me that it must seem like a dream. I don’t make him believe otherwise.

  CHAPTER 4

  TODAY WAS HARD

  SOMEONE TRIPPED ME

  SOMEONE THREW ICED TEA

  SOMEONE PUSHED ME INTO A WALL

  THIS IS BULLYING

  I CALL IT BULLSHIT

  I’ve covered the little window in the private music room with a piece of paper so no one can see me. I make sure the door is locked. I set up my iPhone – I saved up an entire summer to buy it – and record my written cards. Then I put on my harlequin mask and sit down. My mask with red feathers, gold, and white paint, has fake cracks. I’m not wearing my school uniform. I play “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera. Towards the end of the song, a tear slips down my cheek, but I don’t think it
will show on my video. I upload it to my YouTube channel.

  “Today we will be doing a mile run outside,” our gym teacher announces to groans. I’m soloing it in gym class because Katrina is down with a cold. I keep my eyes on the Elite girls and their posse of wannabes.

  The run should be easy, but the trail is muddy from recent rain. At least it’s well-groomed. I keep an even pace, appreciating the fall colors beginning to fade around me. Several girls pass me, but I don’t think about it until I feel a shove.

  I stumble, feeling my shoes slip on the leaves as I tried to get my bearing. But another push and a kick send me sprawling into leaves and mud. I scramble for purchase, but a foot on my back sends me back down hard. I briefly register a cunning, grinning Vanessa before hands pull, pinch, and push me down a muddy slope. When I stop, I wipe the mud from my face and stare at the gleeful Elite girls.

  “Mud. It looks good on you,” Kiana cackles to Vanessa. The girls laugh at me.

  I keep my walls up, staring at them blankly, and wait until Vanessa frowns with unease. “Let’s go,” she orders.

  I sit in the mud for a minute longer, imprinting the cold, wet feel into my mind. The sunlight filters through the leaves and the world fade into colors, music, and, oddly enough, numbers. I stand and finish the rest of the trail. When I emerge, I find the girls around Brock and Lucas. The two Elite boys look at me with various expressions of surprise. I’m a muddy mess and the girls around them are perfectly perky. Brock bursts into laughter as the girls squeal along. The sound moves in a strange cadence in the air and my eyes follow the sounds that no one else can see. Lucas doesn’t laugh. He simply stares at me with calculating coldness, his eyes looking for tears.

  There are no tears. Not for him. Not for anyone. People like the Elites feed off your tears, they revel in your pain. Instead, I focus on the streaks of light, the numbers I can calculate in my mind, and I simply fade from the world. I walk calmly back to my dorm and clean up. When I meet Katrina and hear the Elite girls laugh at me behind my back, I feel absolutely nothing.

  Because classes are small, it’s inevitable that at some point I’ll do a group project with someone I don’t like. I have the misfortune of being paired with Lucas Rhodes and Mason Maverick for our Literature project. We’ve been tasked with choosing either a poem from Robert Frost or Elizabeth Barron Browning and merging our collective voices into an essay. My only hope is that Lucas and Mason take academics seriously. Surely, they’ll be incentivized to be civil.

  The library is equipped with meeting rooms that can accommodate up to five people. Before our meeting, I’ve grabbed a copy of poems by both poets. Robert Frost is often considered a nature poet, but he hated being called that. I remember reading an article where he claimed he’d only written two poems that were totally about nature. Browning is an altogether different poet from a different era. Although known for her romantic sonnets, she wrote poems that were quite liberal for their time.

  When Lucas and Mason arrive, they are surprised that I’m early. They exchange a look before sitting down. I guess Elite rules don’t apply in the library?

  “Alright, Freeloader, we’d like you to not mess up the essay. I’ll write the whole thing with Mason,” Lucas says like it’s a done deal.

  I ignore him and pull out several notes I’ve prepared. “I made copies for each of you and I have them on my iPad. Most people write about Frost’s nature poems, but I think poems like ‘To Earthward’ really show how in tune Frost was to his emotions. It’s an interesting poem because so many kids these days are anxious to grow up, and he dwells on how different our wants are when we’re young.” I point to the second sheet. “Browning is known as a romantic poet, but I think her best poems were about social issues. I rather like ‘A Man’s Requirements’ because it addressed the inequality that was real for many women, then and now. Inequality remains an issue today. It would be simple to relate this inequality to the current inequality we see between the men and women today.”

  Mason leans back when I’m done talking. “When did you do all of this?” he asks, his dark blue eyes hard and full of disbelief.

  “I’m familiar with Browning and Frost,” I admit. “I’ve been scribbling thoughts since we got the assignment.” I shrug. “I’m not saying this is the angle we should take. It’s just my thoughts on the matter. You know, so we can discuss what we think. We’re supposed to talk about it.” The last bit is added because they seem slow on the uptake.

  Lucas’s jaw tightens as he looks at my notes. “Who wrote this for you?” he questions, tapping a long finger on the table. “Don’t tell me this is your real work.”

  I wait, holding my tongue, and Lucas leans over the table. “I’m talking to you, Freeloader,” he states through clenched teeth.

  I tap the book with Browning’s poems. I quote, “Thus, if thou wilt prove me, Dear, Woman’s love no fable. I will love thee—half a year— As a man is able...” I meet Lucas’s eyes. “We can write an essay that incorporates male and female viewpoints, even make it a debate alternating our ideas: point and counterpoint.”

  Mason crosses his arms across his broad chest, silently analyzing me.

  “And what does that poem say to you, Freeloader?” Lucas rests his chin on his clasped hands.

  I sigh. Do I respond or be silent? I finally say, “Browning saw this as a reality for women in the Victorian period. Women are asked to make sacrifices and profess their eternal love. But men do not make half the sacrifices women do, nor are they capable of giving the same amount of love.” I tilt my head. “In essence, guys know shit about sacrificing. They take what they want and get away with it.”

  Lucas silently stares at me and I meet his dark gaze with benign indifference. The girls talk about him in dreamy, lust-filled tones. He’s attractive. At sixteen, I can see how the semi-boyish features will change as he ages. But knowing what I know about him? A chocolate brownie would be far more enticing. Thinking about chocolate makes me hungry. I wonder how long I must endure this dramatic treatment just to finish this essay.

  “You sound like you’re challenging me. Us,” he amends, gesturing to Mason.

  I have my forearms loosely crossed on the table and I rest my forehead on them wearily. “Can we just stick to the subject?” Do it for Mom. She’s getting better. Why do they have to make everything so annoyingly difficult?

  “Giving up already?” Mason snickers, but he stops when I raise my head.

  Don’t let them see you bend. Don’t let them see anything. “What are your thoughts, then?” I ask numbly, my face smoothing to indifference. Just like that, I withdraw. I analyze the wood grain in the table under my fingers. I stare at the shadows my fingers cast.

  Lucas is hard to read. He has the same look on his face that he had when I saw him leaving that utility closet. Just considering that is disturbing. “I like your train of thought, Freeloader,” he states in a droll tone. Mason jerks upright in surprise. He snaps his fingers. “Let’s get to work.”

  In the world of Highbury Academy, your net worth (or your family’s net worth) outweighs intelligence, good works, or honesty. We shouldn’t be surprised. Millions idolize reality stars that have nothing important to say or do – who finds whether or not someone sends a text message to someone so fascinating? We’re a nation that loves and hates wealthy people, and we let them get away with murder. Is it any wonder that children get bullied for not having the right hair, right clothes, or the right connections?

  I’m mulling this as I stretch by the pool. Highbury Academy has not one, but two pools. Despite our busy schedules, students get a “free” hour on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I happen to use mine to get some physical activity. There are trails around campus, but I’m wary about being out and about alone. Blame it on my neighborhood. It isn’t the worst neighborhood, but there’s enough that happens after dark that you know it’s better not to walk alone.

  Then again, if I can survive Highbury Academy, I might get a scholarship to
a great college. I’m doing well academically – getting straight As – but I keep that information to myself. At the end of every semester, they’ll post student rankings. It’s done semi-anonymously. You’re assigned a six-digit code that is used to track your grades, so I think it’s possible to remain under the radar even if I defeat everyone academically.

  “What are you doing here, Freeloader?”

  And just like that, my quiet ruminations come to an end. I slip into the pool and let my body adjust to the water temperature before I look up at Mason and Oliver. Katrina told me her brother is on the swim team. I guess he’s getting in an extra workout, but I’m surprised to see Oliver at the pool.

  “You wear a one-piece to the pool,” Oliver mocks, legs draped over the edge.

  I almost say You wear Speedos to the pool. He doesn’t look hideous in a Speedo, but Speedos just make me go eww.

  “I told Oliver you talked during our team meeting,” Mason pretends to complain. “Now he won’t believe me because you’ve gone mute again.”

  I stretch my neck, slip on my goggles, and start swimming. I’ve never been on the swim team – my old high school didn’t have a swim team – but I was a frequent visitor to the community center. I sometimes tutored kids there and the people who ran the place would let me swim for an hour right after they closed. The janitors always kept an eye out for me. John would pick me up so I wouldn’t have to walk home. As I swim, my eyes burn remembering those times. I miss John and I miss my mother, even if she was nothing but a shadow most of the time.

  After a lap, I stop to readjust my goggles. Mason is watching me. “What?” I snap, glad that the pool water disguises my tears.

  “You’re a good swimmer,” he remarks, and I can see he’s slightly surprised. “Why haven’t you joined the swim team?”