Vermilion Lights

“Sir?” I ask, not hearing him correctly. Mr. Rynes clears his throat softly.

“Kellan, you’ve exceeded your LED again. Congratulations!” LED stands for Level of Education. Private school doesn’t necessarily only heed district guidelines, we make our own. I smile inwardly, but now it’s awkward because I haven’t said anything.

“Ah…any particular grade levels?” I ask out of honest curiosity. Mr. Rynes smiles; clearly pleased I asked, “Yes. 12th-15th. I could send you off to any number of your scholarships right now.” Another thing about our school; we don’t identify grade levels by name; for example, in the public school world I would be called a junior. Here I’m a third year. A third year exceeding grade standards by years of knowledge mysterious to me.

“Much obliged, sir. May I be dismissed?”

He grins to himself one last time and nods “No, Kellan. Thank yourself. And yes you are dismissed.” I incline my head once at him and leave closing the door quietly behind me. The corridor is empty; all of the students remain in their classrooms. Except for one, she sits on the staircase with her elbows balanced on her knees and her chin in her hands. I shrug at her, and she gets up as if on command.

“SO. Do tell me what the prodigy scholar has done now?” Clarissa smiles at me. I roll my eyes as we stroll back to AP 12th grade American History. All students are advanced, but Clarissa and I stand alone in the sea of what could be excellent business drones. “I’ve done it again. I’m such a Gourmont.”

“I think that’s a chef prodigy. Not nearly as genius as I thought,” she smiles not having to look at me to show it. This is why she is one of my only friends. Real friends. Everyone else thinks we are good friends simply by association. I see the looks I get from girls, too. Clarissa may be the only girl here that doesn’t watch me that way. The way she watches me is by smiling creepily and tilting her head down so her chin almost touches the place where her collarbones meet. We usually embarrass each other, but to everyone else we are the coolest people in school.

I can’t begin to express how many ‘Love Confessions’ (as Clarissa lovingly puts it) from the girls who believe themselves to be the monarch clan. All are quite tedious and repetitive, and all I usually do is let Clarissa feed the paper shredder in my dad’s office, which never seems to get old with her. I push my fists into the pockets of my jeans as we continue to stall. It’s sixth period, three minutes from the bell. I’m glad I took my backpack with me. Clarissa seems to have planned this as well. We walk out of the building just as the bell rings, a mob of rich, well-dressed adolescents filing out around us. Unlike all of the students, I don’t own a car. I prefer to walk. New York is something of a labyrinth, difficult to navigate but not impossible.

I wave at Clarissa as she ducks into her hand-me-down Audi A5. She waves back, but motions for me to get in the car. I shake my head and wave again strolling down 50th street, away from the Beekman School.

2

At 3:00, there aren’t many lights on in our apartment. Hyatt 48 Lex is actually a hotel, one my dad owns. So we get a penthouse without much question. I drop my backpack on my bedroom floor then proceed to rummage about in the cupboards for something to eat. I decide on a Cliff Bar. About an hour later, after finishing my homework (which naturally I sprint through) I’m tired of being inside. I leave Hyatt 48 Lex at nightfall and hail a cab for Riverside Park. It’s not the best park in my opinion, but I prefer it rather than Central.

There’s more to look at besides the building jungle around me and the constant throng of people. I can peer into the filthy Hudson River. The cab smells just like any other New York cab, cigarette smoke, old leather and cheap hairspray. My dad would probably say; “That’s the smell of opportunity,” which I can’t seem to fit logic in that statement anywhere. The cabby pulls up at the curb before an entrance to the park. There’s a stench— it’s not the cab. It’s something beyond the cab. “That’ll be thirty,” the cabby states bluntly in a typical Brooklyn accent holding a hand out of his open window. I take the fifty-dollar bill from my pocket and press it into his hand

“Keep the change,” ya filthy animal I almost want to add.

The cabbie has no objections to my wishes and tucks the fifty into his grungy shirt pocket and drives away without a second glance. Greedy creatures. The stench is stronger out in the open I swallow a gag. I follow the path the cabbie dropped me off at; the horrid smell getting stronger and more intense. About a mile or so down the path, to my right looms a great tree house, seven or eight feet off the ground built around the trees. A string of vermilion lights are strung along the trim of the roof like Christmas lights. The oddness of it pushes me up the steps and makes me peer through the windows. A home? Judging from the furnishings inside and the stacks of envelopes and magazines on a coffee table someone definitely inhabits this tree house. I double take at the mantel, because there appears to be a Tri Wizard Tournament Cup surrounded by candles and a mess of other Harry Potter paraphernalia. Feeling ashamed for invading someone else’s privacy, I turn to go back down the steps. But a sight hidden behind the hedges makes my jaw drop.

In a bloody mess lies a twisted, dismantled body. Of what gender I cannot decide, the features so unrecognizable. The stench is so overwhelming in this particular spot it seems to be the place of origin making my eyes water and my throat burn. The blood glistens darkly in the dimness of the warm street lamps lining the path, the light spotting the scene grotesquely.

“Near the house!” A girl’s voice yells from a little down the  path. I drop to my knees, flattening out on my stomach as four people my age strut down the path in a hurried manner. A built boy with blond cropped hair follows a French-looking girl with a bright red bun. Both stomp down the trail in combat boots. Behind them in close pursuit is a girl with insanely white hair that looks silver in the dark, to her right is a girl with shoulder-length dark brown hair and glowing eyes. All of the girls have ageless, pretty faces. Something pulls tight in me when I see the girl with the glowing eyes. A strange recognition, although I can swear I’ve never seen her before, something I can’t quite describe. When I’m sure they are around the hedge, they’ve discovered the scene. They speak amongst themselves

“This is simply extreme. What are they playing at?”

“They are playing at war. This is a threat.” I’m certain that this voice belongs to the girl with shoulder length hair.

There’s silence expect for a hushed apology directed at someone named Fynn, the hushing resembling a tone one might use not to interrupt something. After five minutes, the group of four leaves the park. The girl with glowing eyes carries two plastic containers in her hands that weren’t there when they entered. I hope they didn’t see me. I rise slowly, brushing off the fronts of my jeans and t-shirt feeling the coolness of the breeze against my warm skin. Two things stick with me: one, I know the girl with the containers. Two. I have seen something someone like me shouldn’t have.