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I smile at my brother triumphantly and sign, “It’s not good to distrust your own siblings. We need to work on these bad habits, Niko.”
“You’ll stay away from that bunch of little fuckers.” He pushes the phone against my chest. “Brandon included.”
And then he leaves. Gee. Talk about pissed off.
But oh well. This is still a win.
Now, I need to thank Bran personally and hope—no, pray—I never see his psycho brother again.
4
MIA
Since meditation in the house is virtually impossible, I had to come up with an alternative.
The chess club downtown.
We have a chess club in The King’s U, but they don’t provide me with a challenge anymore. Besides, I might have kicked the club’s president in the shin for calling Maya an attention whore.
So what if she likes to dress up and show off her body? It’s none of his damn business.
As is obvious by now, I don’t react well to people hurting or bad-mouthing my family. Besides, that damn president knows shit about our lives and the type of pressure and danger we’ve had to navigate through since we were kids.
Maya is an independent girl who loves dressing up and showing off her beauty. She definitely wasn’t looking for that scum’s attention.
Naturally, I was blacklisted from the club, despite being the best they had. Anyway, I was able to join the local chess club a few weeks ago after seeing a few flyers outside our dorm building.
There are some decent older players, but many of them come to gossip, as if it’s some sort of knitting club.
Anyhow, since chess and meditation help me quiet down my demons, this is my last resort.
I also love looking after plants, but I’ve been hesitant to have any here. It’d feel like I’m cheating on my pretty flowers back home.
Point is, I really can’t get myself kicked out again or I’m in trouble. In my family, I can only play chess with Gareth, but he’s busy with studies lately.
I walk down the street, ignoring the looks everyone gives me. Today, I went back to my signature look—an ample black dress with a fluffy tulle skirt, chunky boots with chains, and matching ribbons in my hair. Oh, and killer blue-mirror sunglasses.
What? It makes me feel like the villain.
Many call this a goth look, but, really, it’s not. Nor is it my Satan worshiper look—I’m out of that loser’s league. I also don’t wear black makeup. In fact, my only makeup is pink lipstick and mascara. If I’m in the mood for mayhem, like that day in the Elites’ mansion, I add bold eyeliner.
I love being cute and deadly. It’s my strength.
Once I’m inside, I remove my sunglasses and wave at the club’s president. The other members look up, but upon seeing me, they either go back to their gossiping or their games.
Oh well.
Somehow, they figured out my origins and won’t touch me with a ten-foot pole. They rarely talk to me either.
The only one who does is the president himself. He’s usually my partner in the game as well. At my wave, he slowly stands from his sitting position by the reception and advances toward me.
Mr. Whitby is a nice old man with white hair, sagging wrinkles, and an impeccable posture for someone his age.
“How are you today, Ms. Sokolov?”
I do the okay sign that he understands by now. Everything else, I have to write in my phone’s notes app.
After I type out my reply, I show him. “I told you to call me Mia. Just Mia.”
