Page 5 of Sweet Oblivion

I grimaced. I didn’t need to work on stupid English syntax. I needed to write a hit song so my dad would look at me with pride and excitement again. So we could be a family.

“We’ve been asked to set up a pen-pal relationship with an incoming student,” Ms. Gates, our English teacher, explained. “She’s currently in Nepal with her mother. When Aya Aldringham returns to the United States, she’ll attend Holyoke.” Ms. Gates said this with glee, which led me to believe this Aya chick’s family was loaded and had been very, very generous in their giving. “And we can all agree that it’ll be nice for her to have friends.”

I rolled my eyes, already hating on this rich girl, gaming the system.

“Each of you will send Aya an email, as she’s quite anxious about joining our class,” Ms. Gates said.

I snorted. No way, no how.

“Here’s a picture of her.”

I glanced up at the smart board where Aya’s picture bloomed on the white space. As soon as I saw those eyes peering out from all that smooth, tanned skin, my mouth went dry. I knew those eyes. A memory wormed its way to the surface: a girl with a shy smile, a wave, white sand…the shell I still kept on my nightstand.

A buzzing started in my ears. I couldn’t look away from those thickly lashed eyes. Those eyes mesmerized me.

They were purple. No, not purple. I continued to study them. A more bluish tone near her pupil that radiated out into… Hell, I took art. What was that color called? Violet. Yeah. The chick’s—Aya’s—eyes were violet. The shade was even more striking against her dark hair.

And they were soft, filled with knowing—like she understood how hard it was to be the rich, famous kid. Like she cared that my brother was dead, that my only friend, Hugh, had chosen a girl over me, and that my buddy Cam was busy living his life—and not interested in the fact that my mom cried herself to sleep every night.

Maybe Aya did understand all that. Maybe. I mean, her parents hadn’t even realized she’d been so close to danger all those years ago. I’d dragged her out of the waves—something I hadn’t been able to do for my brother. But that little girl…I’d saved her. And she’d looked up at me like I was the most heroic person ever.

I loved that feeling.

I’d wanted to see her again, had thought of her for weeks after that happened.

And now, the soft sound of waves filled my head, followed by the wind instruments from Claude Debussy’s La Mer. Shock rippled down my spine. I didn’t hear music that way anymore, yet the song flowed through my mind. The girl, the song… I shook myself. Literally. Like a dog flinging off excess water.

“I guess that disruption was to draw attention to yourself. Thank you for volunteering, Mr. Porter,” Ms. Gates said, her smile more of a sneer.

I never paid attention and still managed to get As. My ability to do so drove Ms. Gates batty, which was why she was always looking for reasons to give me extra work or make me look bad.

She waddled to my desk, iPad in hand. “Type out a note right now. That way I’ll know you did it.”

I rolled my eyes, which landed on the icon of Aya Aldringham. Her eyes seemed to comfort me even from the tiny picture.

I took a deep breath as I typed.

Hey, Aya,

I’m in what would be your English class in your grade at Holyoke School, aka School for Rich and Bored Deviants. Ms. Gates asked me to tell you a bit about the class, which sucks—and the school, which is okay but not really hard—so you’ll be more comfortable when you show up.

I bit my lip, remembering Ms. Gates saying the girl had anxiety. I could at least attempt to alleviate her worries.

Mostly, the kids establish a pecking order, and you hang out with people in your tier. Stick with me, kid, and you’ll be top-tier.

Why was I being so honest?

I needed to delete everything I’d written and start over.

The bell rang before I had a chance, and Ms. Gates plucked the device from my hands, tutting as she read what I’d written. I made a grab for it, but she pressed send before I could highlight and delete it.

“Now you’ve scared the poor girl,” Ms. Gates said, a malicious gleam in her eye.

Oh, this all made sense. She’d asked me to write something so she could get me in trouble with the head of school. As if a mark in my record would get me kicked out. Still, I didn’t want to disappoint my parents or my grandfather. They had enough going on already. No way this lumbering teacher was going to give my mother another reason to drink or get high.

“I wasn’t finished typing,” I said, snatching the iPad from her chubby claws and darting into the hall before she could catch me. I hustled out the side door and leaped over a low fence, tugging my phone from my pocket even as I tucked the iPad under my arm.

I pressed the first entry in my speed dial for Steve, my driver/bodyguard. Pop Syad had sent Steve home with me after Lev’s funeral. My guess was my grandfather expected the former soldier to keep me safe. I wished Lev had had a Steve shadow. Then maybe he’d still be alive.

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