Sweet Oblivion Page 2

  Hugh grunted. “You’re pushing it with him. No matter who your parents are, it won’t help if Lord and his buddies decide to take you down.”

  Hugh was a nice kid, and I actually liked spending time with him. He was easygoing and funny, unlike most of the kids here at Holyoke, who I simply couldn’t stand to be around.

  Lord yanked his arms from his friends’ hands and turned to glare at me. Just to piss him off more, I waved. Lord’s face darkened, but he strode off.

  “I’m not sure I want to take advice from the punk who kissed Naomi after lunch today,” I said, turning toward Hugh.

  Fear seeped into his features before he stood up straight. “She kissed me.”

  “I know. That’s the only reason I haven’t pounded you into the ground. Except I don’t need to hit you to ruin you, and we both know it.”

  One call—that’s all it would take to blackball Lord or Hugh. Not just because my mother, Carolina, had been the supermodel when she married my father, and because of that fame, she still had a packed schedule. Or because my father, Brad, was one of the hottest names in rock. Nope. Carolina Syad Porter’s father, my Pop Syad, had more money than most countries. His bank account made us Porters look like paupers.

  “You wouldn’t,” Hugh said, eyes wide.

  “You remember what an obnoxious little shit I was in elementary school,” I said. That was part of the reason I didn’t hate on Hugh, even after today’s incident. I’d known him since kindergarten—and he’d been nice to me after Lev died.

  “But that was before. And since, you know, your brother died, you’ve been…”

  Fucked up. I was so fucked up. If Lev hadn’t drowned in the lake behind our house last year, maybe my mom wouldn’t have turned to substances and my dad to pounding anything with a vagina to forget their shared pain.

  Their vices left me unable to move forward and unwilling to fall back—a terrible limbo I’d been stuck in so long it felt…if not normal then conventional. And I hated this conventional space I existed in.

  Hugh continued to meet my gaze, his irises too dark, but it was my insides that were black around the edges. Hugh was from a relatively normal family—if any family that lived among the sprawling homes and ranches dotting the Hill Country could be considered normal. I didn’t think they could—not after I’d turned on the news a couple of months ago and caught the latest crazy-town events happening at the house next to ours, where Camden Grace lived.

  Cam was a rising star in the music world, and I’d met him two years ago at a music festival where my dad first played the song I’d created. Cam had performed a stage over from my dad’s band, and I’d soaked up his edgy sound and deep, dark Springsteen-like lyrics. When Cam found out who I was—from his security chief, Chuck—he’d invited Lev and me to hang out backstage. Lev had been into a girl, and more interested in following her around, but I stayed with Cam for a few hours and learned that he lived in my neighborhood back in Texas.

  He’d invited me to jam with him a few times after that, but then he had a groupie break into his place and burn the house to the ground. His leaving had coincided with Lev’s death last year, so I’d lost my brother and my pseudo-friend/mentor.

  That left me with Hugh.

  Hugh was taller than me now, with dark hair to go with his tawny complexion. His plastic-surgeon dad was Greek or Haitian or something—I’d never bothered to ask because it didn’t matter, really. The important detail was that Hugh never pushed me about my mom or my brother. That’s why I let him stick around.

  And now, as Hugh continued to hold my gaze, even knowing that I’d expressed interest in Naomi, I gave him mad props for the show of bravery.

  “Like I said, she kissed me, and I like her back,” Hugh said. “Like, a lot. So take someone else.”

  “Or what?” I asked, my voice soft. Naomi was pretty and fun. I liked the idea of kissing her, but to like her the way Hugh seemed to? No, I wasn’t that stupid.

  Hugh swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Or I’ll quit hanging out with you.” His voice cracked and then broke.

  I studied him. “You’d do that—over a girl?” I asked.

  For a moment, Hugh’s resolve dimmed, and I thought I’d broken him, but then he straightened. “Yeah. For Naomi I would.”

  I shrugged, even as I wondered if I’d ever like a girl enough to forfeit a friendship. After seeing my parents’ implosion, I doubted I’d ever even bother with a girlfriend.

  I wondered if I’d ever have another friend, a true one, like Lev had been. Like Cam had tried to be.

  I wondered about a lot of things during ninth grade, especially since I cut myself off from Hugh after that day and didn’t have much of anyone else to talk to.

  But that was all before I met her.

  Well, met might’ve been too strong a word. I heard about the new chick when our English teacher informed us of a lame-ass project that was supposed to help us with those all-important communication skills.

  I grimaced. I didn’t need to work on stupid English syntax. I needed to write a hit song so my dad would look at me with pride and excitement again. So we could be a family.

  “We’ve been asked to set up a pen-pal relationship with an incoming student,” Ms. Gates, our English teacher, explained. “She’s currently in Nepal with her mother. When Aya Aldringham returns to the United States, she’ll attend Holyoke.” Ms. Gates said this with glee, which led me to believe this Aya chick’s family was loaded and had been very, very generous in their giving. “And we can all agree that it’ll be nice for her to have friends.”

  I rolled my eyes, already hating on this rich girl, gaming the system.

  “Each of you will send Aya an email, as she’s quite anxious about joining our class,” Ms. Gates said.

  I snorted. No way, no how.

  “Here’s a picture of her.”

  I glanced up at the smart board where Aya’s picture bloomed on the white space. As soon as I saw those eyes peering out from all that smooth, tanned skin, my mouth went dry. I knew those eyes. A memory wormed its way to the surface: a girl with a shy smile, a wave, white sand…the shell I still kept on my nightstand.

  A buzzing started in my ears. I couldn’t look away from those thickly lashed eyes. Those eyes mesmerized me.

  They were purple. No, not purple. I continued to study them. A more bluish tone near her pupil that radiated out into… Hell, I took art. What was that color called? Violet. Yeah. The chick’s—Aya’s—eyes were violet. The shade was even more striking against her dark hair.

  And they were soft, filled with knowing—like she understood how hard it was to be the rich, famous kid. Like she cared that my brother was dead, that my only friend, Hugh, had chosen a girl over me, and that my buddy Cam was busy living his life—and not interested in the fact that my mom cried herself to sleep every night.

  Maybe Aya did understand all that. Maybe. I mean, her parents hadn’t even realized she’d been so close to danger all those years ago. I’d dragged her out of the waves—something I hadn’t been able to do for my brother. But that little girl…I’d saved her. And she’d looked up at me like I was the most heroic person ever.

  I loved that feeling.

  I’d wanted to see her again, had thought of her for weeks after that happened.

  And now, the soft sound of waves filled my head, followed by the wind instruments from Claude Debussy’s La Mer. Shock rippled down my spine. I didn’t hear music that way anymore, yet the song flowed through my mind. The girl, the song… I shook myself. Literally. Like a dog flinging off excess water.

  “I guess that disruption was to draw attention to yourself. Thank you for volunteering, Mr. Porter,” Ms. Gates said, her smile more of a sneer.

  I never paid attention and still managed to get As. My ability to do so drove Ms. Gates batty, which was why she was always looking for reasons to give me extra work or make me look bad.

  She waddled to my desk, iPad in hand. “Type out a note right now.
That way I’ll know you did it.”

  I rolled my eyes, which landed on the icon of Aya Aldringham. Her eyes seemed to comfort me even from the tiny picture.

  I took a deep breath as I typed.

  Hey, Aya,

  I’m in what would be your English class in your grade at Holyoke School, aka School for Rich and Bored Deviants. Ms. Gates asked me to tell you a bit about the class, which sucks—and the school, which is okay but not really hard—so you’ll be more comfortable when you show up.

  I bit my lip, remembering Ms. Gates saying the girl had anxiety. I could at least attempt to alleviate her worries.

  Mostly, the kids establish a pecking order, and you hang out with people in your tier. Stick with me, kid, and you’ll be top-tier.

  Why was I being so honest?

  I needed to delete everything I’d written and start over.

  The bell rang before I had a chance, and Ms. Gates plucked the device from my hands, tutting as she read what I’d written. I made a grab for it, but she pressed send before I could highlight and delete it.

  “Now you’ve scared the poor girl,” Ms. Gates said, a malicious gleam in her eye.

  Oh, this all made sense. She’d asked me to write something so she could get me in trouble with the head of school. As if a mark in my record would get me kicked out. Still, I didn’t want to disappoint my parents or my grandfather. They had enough going on already. No way this lumbering teacher was going to give my mother another reason to drink or get high.

  “I wasn’t finished typing,” I said, snatching the iPad from her chubby claws and darting into the hall before she could catch me. I hustled out the side door and leaped over a low fence, tugging my phone from my pocket even as I tucked the iPad under my arm.

  I pressed the first entry in my speed dial for Steve, my driver/bodyguard. Pop Syad had sent Steve home with me after Lev’s funeral. My guess was my grandfather expected the former soldier to keep me safe. I wished Lev had had a Steve shadow. Then maybe he’d still be alive.

  “Meet me on the west side, under the big tree.”

  I hung up before he could respond. I tore around the lacrosse field, backpack smacking my back as I tucked the iPad into my T-shirt. I shoved the tail into my jeans just as I made a running leap for the edge of the seven-foot wrought-iron fence, which I scaled with ease thanks to years of parkour.

  I hit the ground with an ankle-jarring thud and glanced back, my breath rushing from my lungs. Ms. Gates was nowhere to be seen.

  Good. I had time to correct the message by sending a second one that made Ms. Gates look bad. No way the squinty-eyed hag would jeopardize her cushy position at one of the premier private schools in the nation once I sent Aya my version of what had gone down in the classroom today.

  I chuckled.

  There was no point in just getting back at Ms. Gates, or anyone else.

  I always preferred to get even.

  4

  Nash

  The lyrics from “Gives You Hell” by the All-American Rejects drifted through my head as I stared up at the ceiling of my room. That song annoyed me even as I was thankful to have something in my mind again.

  Aya had dismissed me. I’d saved her life—well, at least pulled her from that big wave—all those years ago, and she didn’t have the decency to reply immediately? It had been three full days since my messages to her. I’d followed up that first one with a couple more, trying to explain how she’d ended up with the first one. Maybe she thought I was crazy. Three freaking days.

  I hated rejection. It gave me a squirmy, dark feeling in my gut. One that reminded me of Lev…

  A new message popped up. I narrowed my eyes, but after no more than a moment, the oppressive boredom of being home, alone, in all that space, thinking about my dead brother, made me click on the message. That was the only reason. It was from her. Finally. Not because I wanted to see if she remembered me, too.

  Or if she still thought I was pretty.

  Or because I missed Lev.

  Or because I needed to talk to someone since I’d not decided on whether to forgive Hugh yet…

  The note opened on my screen.

  Dear Nash,

  I’m totally freaking out about attending Holyoke. Freaking out!

  I don’t want to meet these atrociously mannered kids, let alone interact with them every day. But my mum said I need Western education. Probably because I’ve spent most of my life living in the bush in Africa and Asia. In case you didn’t know, my mum runs this nonprofit, Clean Water, that’s tackling sanitation needs.

  We’re currently in Nepal. I get to school by climbing the side of a mountain. It’d be a lot cooler if I wasn’t terrified of heights. I nearly puke each time.

  I don’t have social anxiety, though, and I have no idea why the teacher told you that. Maybe because I’m coming from a foreign country, and I told her I was anxious about the books you’re reading and what you’re studying in history, math, and science. Send me some details, please?

  I only get messages on my phone when I climb to the top of the mountain. Write back soon—don’t make me climb up here for nothing.

  Your friend,

  Aya

  PS—I’m glad you think my eyes are pretty. Send me a photo of what you look like.

  * * *

  Huh. This girl sounded genuine. She wouldn’t last long once Lord and his crew sank their mean fingers into her. I snapped a shot of myself lying on my denim-covered beanbag chair and sent it to her, along with a laundry list of books we’d read and were supposed to read. I glanced at my overflowing bookshelf, a pang of longing hitting me.

  Lev had loved to read, and I’d commandeered most of his books. Maybe Aya had read them, and we could talk about them.

  What was wrong with me? I didn’t like to read. And I didn’t chat with chicks.

  I shoved thoughts of my brother aside and wrote to Aya about our history assignments and what math and science work we’d been doing.

  She replied quickly, stating that I was “cute.”

  I curled my lip at that.

  You look like a boy I met, years ago, while on vacation. He disappeared before I could tell him my name, but I remember his: Nash Porter. Are you that same person, Superstar?

  That was a loaded question. I wasn’t the kid I’d been on that trip. My family had been cohesive then, and I’d been happy. I’d enjoyed playing the little girl’s protector because everyone always babied me.

  The song in my head faded, but I barely noticed. I was too busy typing…and enjoying myself. Huh. Who would have thought? I hit send, and within moments, she’d responded.

  I thought so. What happened to the shell? she asked.

  I smirked as I surveyed the expansive space of my room—the beanbags in front of the gaming console, the pale wood that made up my nightstand, the shell atop it, and the intricate yet simple geometric pattern of my headboard. My bed was made, sheets and thin summer duvet tightly tucked against the mattress thanks to our new housekeeper. Dad had fired the previous staff of house help a few months after Lev died—I think when he realized Steve was on Pop Syad’s payroll, not his. For some reason, Steve’s presence really pissed Dad off. When Dad lost his shit and started yelling at Mom, she left the house in tears and flew off early for her next commercial.

  Still got it, I typed.

  Good. It was perfect, she replied after a moment. I never found another one like it.

  Do you remember anything else from that trip? I asked.

  Not really. Just you, Mr. Superstar. And your mom. She was very beautiful.

  My mouth smashed flat, and I accidentally took another photo when I squeezed my phone too tight. Worse, I somehow managed to attach it to the message and send it.

  No, no, that couldn’t happen—she couldn’t see that. I looked like a moron.

  Whatever. She was just some random girl. I didn’t need to impress her. I didn’t need to impress anyone.

  What’s wrong? Why the world-weary face?r />
  My breath trickled out of my lungs as tension seeped from my shoulders. Good. She wasn’t going to be a dick about my mistake. Huh. She really was nice.

  And her assessment was one I agreed with, even liked. I’d traveled the world, and I was weary. Damn tired of my parents’ inability to pull their heads out of their asses about Lev’s death and remember they had a living, breathing kid still at home who’d totally lick up even scraps of their time and attention.

  I pressed send before I realized I’d been typing my thoughts.

  I stared at the email, aghast. I hadn’t meant to send her that much truth.

  Holy shit.

  “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” sprang to life into my head. I tried and failed to enjoy it because anxiety wormed through my guts, leaving me feeling perforated.

  I’d sent this chick I didn’t know my entire life story, all the details I’d never, ever tell anyone here. The kids would use it against me, hurt me. Berate me. Rip me apart.

  I dropped my phone and sank my fingers into my hair.

  What was happening to me? I’d been so sure I’d lost the ability to hear music, and yet the moment I saw Aya’s picture, it had begun to come back. Now, even as I freaked out about this girl who probably wasn’t as nice as she pretended to be, songs ran rampant through my mind.

  My heart pounded so hard, I worried it would burst through my lungs. Hearing music was good—no, great! I couldn’t wait to tell my dad about its return, but…the email. I was an idiot, and I had to get it back. I had to stop her from reading it—a new message popped up.

  Aya must still be standing atop the mountain, gathering the courage to head back down. Well, that’s if what she’d told me about her life thus far was true. How would I know? And why should I believe her, just because she said it was so?

  I pondered her weird story and how I’d do with climbing up and down rocks to get to class or to talk to someone on the other side of the world.