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Gabby, Crina and I meet up in the morning to take the train into Manhattan. After getting off at the 86thStreet subway stop, on the Upper East Side, I pick up a donut twist at the shop on the corner.
Biting into it, I’m about to step onto the crosswalk when a bus roars passed me like it’s on a high-speed car chase. Crina yanks me by the back of my uniform shirt, and I barely escape getting mowed down. A gust of dirty exhaust blows in my face.
Hacking, I shout into the wind with my fist in the air. Pedestrians rushing past me barely glance my way. Gabby grabs my elbow and tows me across Lexington Avenue. Afterward, I trudge behind them moodily the few blocks it takes to arrive at the gate that leads to our high school.
Kids stream into the small cobblestoned courtyard, the scattering of black wrought iron benches, tables, and chairs already swarmed by hordes of students. Each of the kings is leaning against the brick wall near the entrance, coolly surveying their subjects like the royalty they assume themselves to be. Roxie is among them, hanging all over Lucian.
I grimace as I loop arms with Gabby and walk past them. Crina comes in right behind us, and when Marku makes a comment to her, she growls and snaps her teeth at him. His deep chuckle reverberates in the packed courtyard.
I’ve just passed the double doors of the entrance when Lucian leans toward me a fraction and murmurs, “Music room. During study hall.”
Ignoring him, I wipe the white donut powder from my mouth with the back of my hand. Roxie glares at me over the expanse of his chest. She may not have heard him, but she doesn’t like his focus being sidetracked to another female. Knowing how Roxie is, Gabby protectively tightens her grip around my arm and tugs me away.
I was hoping against hope that Cristo and Lucian would’ve forgotten about me, but I’m not surprised Lucian’s initiated contact; two days into the first week back from spring vacation and assignments have already been handed out.
Later that afternoon, I knock on the door of one of the soundproofed music rooms in the basement. I try the handle. I softly push the door open and glimpse inside.
Lucian is sitting at a small table he's pushed to the center of the tiny room, and his head is cradled in his hand as he studies the laptop in front of him. A paperback is lying facedown beside him. There are a few music stands and plastic folding chairs carefully arranged in a corner. The white walls are interspersed with beige acoustic panels and one sorry-looking vintage poster of a crying geisha forMadame Butterfly, at The Metropolitan Opera. Jeez, this must be one of the most depressing rooms in the school.
Without looking up to check who he’s talking to, Lucian grumbles, “It’s only been a couple of days and Ms. Sava hasn’t wasted a second of it.”
“It’s Ms. Sava. What do you expect?” I reply, dropping my worn backpack on the carpeted floor.
The multitude of pinback buttons covering my backpack make its reassuring clattering noise. I carry a metal chair from the corner and drag it to the rickety table. Facing him, I pull out my notebook and the paperback we’re reading for English.
Lucian finally lifts his head and looks at me. “I need you to write the essay for me.”
I blink at him.
“You want what?” I cup my hand to my ear. “I must have misunderstood because I swear I heard you say you wantmeto writeyouressay.”
A faint smile lifts the corner of his beautiful mouth. “Stop acting smart.”
Just as quickly, it vanishes. His voice hardens. “Just do what I say.”
I make a little dismissive noise in the back of my throat. He’s insane if he thinks I’m going to jeopardize my graduation by helping him cheat. Not only do I not have the time for this, but Ms. Sava is no fool. She’ll easily catch us.
“That wasn’t our agreement and that’s not what Cristo wants either. You can’t bribe these teachers. They’re immune to getting paid off. Not only do they make good money, but they’ll get fired and worse if they take a bribe.”
Disappointment burns in my chest. “So this was your plan all along. That’s why you didn’t fight Cristo on this.”
“What Cristo doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” he replies shamelessly.
“Just do the work.” Exasperated, I pick up the soft paperback with the yellowed edges and slap it softly against the hard white plastic table. “You’re smart enough to graduate on your own. Put in the work, get the grades, and move on. Sounds simpler than trying to get away with cheating.”
“I’m failing,” he snarls at me. “And I have more important things to do than read fucking Shakespeare.” He flicks a disgusted finger at his paperback. “After I leave school, I have to pull in a full shift for my clan.”
He lightly slaps the book down on the table. “I hate English. Even if I put the work in, there’s no way I’ll get more than a D, and that’s not acceptable.”
Ignoring the last comment, I reply, “How can you say that?”
I tap the cracked cover of the book. “I bet you haven’t even read Shakespeare. I bet if you gave him a try, you’d be surprised by how good he is. There’s political intrigue, violence, family betrayal. Guilt. Remorse. All of them are lessons.Lifelessons.”
Seriously, some of Shakespeare reads likemafieclan sagas.
He lifts one brow. Tone dripping with sarcasm, he asks, “I’m going to find that inA Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
I huff out an irritable sigh. “Maybe not inthisplay, but it might make you laugh. You might be amused. Did you think of that? This Shakespeare guy is a master. If you only put in the effort, you can do well on this essay and pull up your overall grade high enough to get a B.”
