Wealth, status, and beauty define the elite of Kensington Prep. Every one of them possesses the ability to get away with anything and everything they want, unscathed and remain as privileged and superior as ever.
But Amory Scout decides that tim...
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Orson got the call in Maths class.
I memorized his class schedule from back to front and I know that he has Maths every Monday at 10:30 with Mr Warner. I know he got the call in Maths because I was in Biology when he texted me: Babe, meet me out front. It's an emergency.
Like I prepared him to say. We are to act accordingly- with text messages and social media clues to show for it.
I raise my hand and stutter out some poor sorry excuse to my biology teacher to leave the class. I'm resplendent in the ever-careful gazes of my classmates and make sure the worry in my eyes is prominent. As I leave for the door, the whispers wondering what's going on follow me. I treat this like a performance and I'm giving them the best damn entertainment they've ever seen. This is my last act, my finale if you will.
The closing show with curtain calls on our heels.
I see Orson standing by Mrs Abbey's side, his face appropriately grim. We both look at each other and for a moment I see a glimmer of solidarity. We are both behind the black lines, helping each other, partners in crime.
What he doesn't know is that I'm the one behind the doors pulling strings.
"Miss Scout, why are you here?"
"I ask her here," Orson says, and he grabs my hand. He looks at me forlornly, places his head on my shoulder.
I play dumbfounded. "What's happening?"
"It's my Dad," he swallows with much difficulty, "Maral just called and...and..."
I stare at him, unable to finish, proud that he's playing his part so well. Like I've instructed him. The emotions wide in his eyes, his eyelashes curved upwards like ravens taking off into a sunset. We know our lines so well, bouncing off each other's rehearsed facades like nothing.
My face softens, just the right amount. "Orson, what happened?"
Distress crosses over his face. "They found his body."
A cold wave rushes over me. I work my face into a hurt surprise, a gentle believable shock and throw my arms around his tall sweeping figure. He bows his head into my neck and I feel tears wetting my blazer. I don't know if he's genuinely sad or acting. Maybe it's a bit of both.
"If you two would come with me and I'll phone your families to come to pick you up."
-
All of New York can feel the tremor of Elijah's death. For this month, Time Magazine dedicated a cover to his memory- they named it Murder of a Titan, with a photo of Orson's father from a shoot he has done with the Tattler, embossed in a glossy black suit behind a mahogany desk, beaming coldly and proudly into the camera.
On the day of Elijah's funeral, ten highly polished town cars idle in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral on a clear April morning and at least five more are parked around the corner on Fiftieth Street. The church steps have been swept clean, the railings give off a high shine, and even the pigeons have found somewhere else to roost. The activity on the sidewalk across the street continues apace. There are so many people that they seem to move in one long, silken scarf of black colour. But when the town car doors open simultaneously in a perfectly choreographed ballet, all movement stops and the gawking begins.
