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When I arrive home,the flashy red Porsche sits in our driveway. My heart skips a little. Which is truly stupid. He isn’t here for me.But I can’t get my heart to recognize that yet, not after eighteen years of disappointment has it learned its lesson. I think a small part of me, the little girl who sat on the porch after her dad drove away, crying, I think that part of me will always have hope for something more. For the relationship I’ve always been denied without any rhyme or reason.
“Mom, I'm home!” I sing as I drop my white leather backpack on the entry table.
I can hear Mom laughing with someone in the kitchen. I make my way toward the noise, my heels clacking on the black-and-white checkered tile. Splashes of red artwork on the wall as I pass the living room. The floor dips down, showcasing the white leather couches with red throw blankets and pillows. The complementing black, sleek furniture that holds elegant knickknacks. Their voices get louder as I enter the space of the kitchen.
Richard sits at the table, his eyes flicking up from my mother, smile dropping quickly as he looks at me. I do that stupid thing girls do when they’re nervous or looking for approval, I tuck my hair behind my ear.
“How was school?”
Why ask if you don’t fucking care?The inside of my head is brave. She is powerful and takes no bullshit. However…
“Fine.”
He nods, attention quickly moving back to Mom. He smiles at her. Has he ever smiled at me? Looked at me like I was the light of his life? Does he make small talk with his other children? The ones he actually wanted. Or does he simply act like they don’t exist? Like he does with me.
Richard rises, placing a quick kiss to Mom's forehead before turning to me. He gives a slight nod, dismissing me and crumbling my heart into small mushy pieces. His bodyguards follow behind him silently. They stay out of view so much I forget he even has them. I guess when you’re the governor, you have a ton of enemies and need protecting, but he’s kept us a secret for so long, I don’t know why he feels the need to bring them here. You’d think by now I would have grown a heart of steel when it came to this man. But, unfortunately, I have not.
Sighing, I make my way out of the kitchen and up the stairs, basking in the sanctuary of my room. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. It has built-in twinkling lights like stars; you can’t see them here in the city, so Mom tried to compromise. She is always trying to make it up to me for some reason. She should realize just being here, not abandoning me as he has, is enough.
I pull out my phone, pulling up Instagram. I’m not supposed to do this, but I can’t help myself sometimes. I type inClint Collins, my eldest brother. His Instagram account flashes up. He looks so much like Richard. There are pictures of him and his mom when he was in nothing but a diaper, wishing her a happy birthday in her afterlife. Pictures of him kissing a girl with copper-colored hair on a beach. One with her hand stretched out to show off a giant diamond ring as happy tears stream down her face, Clint’s lips pressed to her cheek. I wonder if she is good to him? If she knows how amazing it is to know him? He’s doing his residence at John Hopkins as a pediatric surgeon. I hope he does amazing, even if I can only see his success through a small screen.
Next, I type inNoah Collins, the middle of the three. Though he does look like Richard, you can see hints of his mother in his brown eyes and cheekbone structure. Definitely the prettiest of the three. His Instagram is filled with modeling photos. I can’t really get a read on who he is or what he loves because his Instagram is a stage.
Clicking the search bar again, I type inHeath Collins, the youngest of the three. He favors his mom in everything but his black hair. He’s my age, a senior this year. Dad must have been busy that year. He goes to our rival private school, St. Arthur’s Preparatory School. It’s on the other side of the city. His page is filled with basic teenage stuff, football pictures, group pictures of him and his friends.
All their Instagram accounts are pretty clean, considering who their father is. I guess I was blessed to not be watched and judged my whole life. I could have a nip slip in a picture and CNN wouldn’t be talking about it on the ten o’clock news.
My finger hovers over the search bar again. I could search for Mr. Boyd. I don’t believe he doesn’t have any social media, that’s insane. But I don’t know his first name. I guess I could look it up on the school website. For some reason, I don’t want to do that. I want him to tell me.
I toss my phone, rubbing my hands over my face. Reaching behind my head, I grab my bow, gently freeing it from my hair as the blonde strands fall down my back and around my face, free from restraint. Walking to my closet, I pin the bow on my bow wall. Every color, size, and fabric lines the wall.
Grabbing my volleyball bow down, I set it in my sports bag with my uniform for tomorrow’s game. When I started high school and had to choose between cheer and volleyball, it was a no-brainer.
Walking out of the closet, I make my way to the bathroom to start my routine of removing my makeup before dinner.
Wishing mydadwould stay, but knowing he has already left.
CHAPTER THREE
Journal entry: I don’t really have anything inspiring to write today. But I can say this: all water does not taste the same, and if you say it does, you’re lying.
Is Mars in retrograde?Because it would seem so. I have seen five fights today. Starting first thing when my heels hit the concrete of the parking lot this morning. Over a parking spot.We have assigned parking spots.So, yeah, I understand the anger, but not the full-on brawl that took place. Just file a report at the office. Keeps you out of getting a school suspension. The rest were literally out of nowhere. I mean, one minute they’re talking, the next they’re throwing fists. I don’t understand the vibe today. The atmosphere reeks with undiluted anger.
I walk into the cafeteria, wishing for some real food instead of this rabbit feast, when I pause. Bethany, a girl with very few friends, in an anime t-shirt and her black hair with these wicked purple strips in it, that I actually really love, sits next to Jennifer.Walking over, I take my spot next to Macy, across from Jennifer. “Hey, Bethany.” I smile at her.
Her eyes double in size as she looks around our table, fear and curiosity mixed in her wide orbs. Everyone in the cafeteria is looking at us, wondering why the social ladder is out of whack, I’m sure. “You’re a walking disaster,” Jennifer chimes, the crowd laughing when she smears spaghetti sauce on Bethany's pale face.Apparently, I’ve walked into the middle of something.
Bethany gasps, her eyes watering as she looks around the room. My chest tightens, that retrograde anger I’ve been talking about bubbling up inside me. Being mean is so early two thousand, and I personally am sick of it. Most people in my position would save face, laugh at Bethany. The thing about me? I’m not a mean girl. I’m nice to most people, a little selfish, sure, but I don’t bully.“I think,” I say as I rest both my hands on the table, “that’s enough, Jennifer.”
She scoffs, flicking her Megan Fox black hair over her shoulder. “Don’t play hero today, Callum. No one is buying your nice-girl act.”
I pinch the bridge or my nose, taking a deep breath. “And everyone can tell how miserable you really are by your actions. And guess what? No one actually cares what you think.”
Her blue eyes narrow, jaw ticking. “If you want to be a hero, why don’t you go sit with her then?” Her catlike smile reflects off the light.
I shrug. “Fine. Come on, Bethany.”
