PrologueOrion, Age 15
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 ofBlack 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 ofimpressive—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 Iwasa 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,anticsmeantworkarounds: 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. Theaudacity.”
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 neverappliedmyself. 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.”
