Page 141 of When Hearts Ignite

I pull back and say softly, “I’ll let you know how things go. Don’t worry about me, or Millie, or Dad. I’m taking care of them.”

She smiles again, but the warmth doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I know, sweetie. I’m worried about your dad. He told me his job at the bank is precarious at best. There are rumors of a layoff. I’m so sorry to put all this on you. I know you’re taking on so much already, far too much for a boy your age. If only—”

“No, I’m happy to. I just want you to focus on getting better.”

I glance away and blink my eyes rapidly before the moisture gathers and betrays the turmoil of emotions swirling inside me. I twist my lips into a wider smile. A fake smile. But neither of us comment on that either.

“See you later, Mom.”

Exhaling a ragged breath, I close my eyes for a brief respite outside of the door, attempting to calm the tempest swirling inside me, and I swallow the pins and needles in my throat. My hands tighten into fists as I walk away, wanting to punch something. I want to yell, to scream, to ask the higher power why this is happening to us.

But I don’t. Instead, I leash down the storm inside me as I always do, and stride toward the exit, a pawn in this cruel game of life.

Chapter Two

Adrian

The sun beats down on the windshield of my car as I drive up the winding road to Warwick Academy, a prestigious, private high school perched on a beautiful cliffside in Palos Verdes, a suburbia filled with the rich and famous in LA. The city is situated on a small mountain, which boasts riveting views of the Pacific Ocean with waves crashing against the rocky shores. The magnificent French Baroque-style establishment beckons the attention of passersby, and one can’t help but gaze upon the grand structure beyond gold-tipped iron fences. It seems like they modeled the school after the Palace of Versailles. I snort at the over-the-top opulence as I make a turn into the parking lot in my car.

What excess. What waste. What ridiculousness.

The waitlist is miles long, with folks putting their babies on the list before their first steps or words. They say anyone would be lucky to score a spot at the academy, even if it’s only for a few months. I can’t help but roll my eyes at the rumors. Apparently, with the name of the school on resumes, doors are opened, connections are made. Having attended Warwick meant “you have arrived.” I couldn’t care less about these so-called superficial accolades or secret handshakes of the rich and famous.

But attending Warwick, even for such a short period of time, has a lesser-known side benefit, one Mom told me about when she insisted I apply. The headmaster here has deep connections with most of the prestigious colleges in the nation and as the head of an Ivy League feeder school, he writes letters and advocates to admissions committees for the school’s students during the critical few months when universities sort through the thousands of applications filtering through their system.

And I need the extra boost, the secret handshake.

I need a full-ride scholarship to a good college in order for me to dig our family out of the hole we are in. Plus, it makes Mom happy. It was always one of her bigger regrets that she couldn’t give me the same comforts and quality of schooling she had when she was younger. And so, I suck it up.

The engine groans and stutters. Fuck. I’ll need to find time and more of the money I don’t have to get it checked out. I find an empty spot at the far corner of the parking lot and turn off the engine, bracing myself for the snobbery I’ll no doubt face as soon as I walk through those double doors. A slice of dread funnels to my insides, but I shove it away, clenching my muscles, imagining myself in a suit of armor. Impenetrable. I miss my public school down the hill where the normal folks live.

You’re doing this for Mom. These people don’t matter.

I pull down the rearview mirror and check my appearance. Mid-length dark-brown hair, courtesy of Dad, which needs a haircut. Light-blue eyes from Mom. No stains on my shirt or suit jacket. It’ll have to do. I throw on a scarf, the flimsy material doing little to warm me up in the cooler temperatures of January. Cracking the stiff joints on my neck, I take a deep breath and exit the vehicle.

The hairs on my arms stick up, and a jitteriness fills my veins. I hear the whispers and see the finger-pointing from the corner of my eye before I even enter the main building, a towering structure with swiveling colonnades, arched windows, and intricate carvings on the stucco walls. I’m a fish out of water and I definitely don’t belong here.

But that doesn’t matter. I’m too old for this shit and too tired to care.

These kids may be rich in their wallets, but they’re peasants in their life experiences.

“That’s our new scholarship kid, huh?”

“Duh. I mean, look at the piece of shit he’s driving. Are we accepting the poor now?”

“I hear he’s a legacy, though. At least, that’s what I overhead in the headmaster’s office the other day.”

I grind my teeth against each other as I clench my muscles. Someday, I’ll show them. One day, I’ll walk amongst them and they’ll be clamoring for my attention instead. Steeling myself, I shove open the two double doors and head into the administration office for my assignments, the curling flames of anger mixing in with the heaviness in my chest.

Fuck them. Fuck them all.

“How may I help you?” A middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and rosy cheeks sits behind a large oak desk.

“It’s my first day. I was told to report here.”

She glances up at me as recognition dawns in her gaze. No doubt she knows about my family’s story and about Mom—I had to provide a family status in my application. “Ah, you must be Adrian Callahan. I’m Doris, the school secretary.” A small crease mars the smooth skin on her forehead as her brown eyes stare at me in what I’ve come to know as one of my most-hated emotions.

Pity.

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