Alaia Finley has always lived in the safe, wealthy bubble her parents created.
Her neighbor, Benedict Grace aka Ben, couldn't be more different.
He's part of the city's most feared group, known for causing trouble.
Even though they've lived next...
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When I told my mom about the neighborhood barbecue, I never expected to find myself standing in the Graces' garden, wearing a tight yellow summer dress that makes me look like a ray of sunshine. My mom said it was "traditional." Yeah, right. Bullshit. Around me are a bunch of old snobs who live off the successes of their ancestors, now parading around in Ralph Lauren polo shirts and Hugo Boss shoes, with champagne glasses in hand. I glance over to where my mom is standing with Mrs. Grace. They're both laughing, but it's the kind of fake laughter you can spot a mile away. My mom even playfully touches Mrs. Grace's shoulder. I'd pay millions to know the story behind what happened between those two. A voice behind me makes me jump. "Dad!" I mumble to myself as I turn around to face him. "Sorry, kiddo. Having fun?" he asks, though his attention is distracted as he glances over at my mom and Mrs. Grace, before turning back to me. "I had more fun in the pool with water snakes than here," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. If this hairstyle wasn't pulling at my scalp so much, this day might just be bearable. "Don't be so optimistic... maybe you'll find some friends or—" he starts, but I cut him off. "Dad, I'm 17, not 8," I say, looking around the garden.
Little kids in swimsuits are running around, laughing as they play. The adults are standing in clusters, drinks in hand. Some of the women are pregnant, their bellies big and round. But one thing they all have in common is that they live in a rich neighborhood where nobody would even think about stealing a rose from the sidewalk. My gaze drifts up to the large white house, to the window where he stands. Ben fucking Grace. He's looking down at the garden from his room. Behind him is his best friend Jackson. If Jackson is here, Noah must be too. Because those three are inseparable— Ben, Jackson, and Noah. The terrors of our town... as cheesy as that sounds.
I look back at my dad. "I'm going to wash my hands," I say as an excuse and make my way through the garden door into the large living room, where a few other guests are gathered. I glance around—there's not a single family photo in sight, no pictures of Ben as a kid. Maybe they're in the bedrooms? I head toward the stairs, the laughter and conversations fading into the background with each step I take. By the time I reach the second floor, the only sound is the creaking of the floorboards beneath my feet and my own breathing. I look around. The hallway is dark, just white walls and brown wooden doors. One door is slightly ajar—Ben's room. It's like my feet have a mind of their own, leading me toward that door. I come to an abrupt stop when I hear a voice inside. He's talking to his friends, but I can still make out the words.
"He's only in town for a week. We need to take our chance to finally get rid of that bastard," Ben's rough voice cuts through the gap in the door. Who are they talking about? "He's probably in town for a reason, meetings... gatherings... when the hell are you planning to take him out?" Jackson's voice is instantly recognizable—so innocent and full of irony. There's silence in the room until Ben speaks again. "That damn Michael West will have to find a free minute for us."
