CHAPTER ONE
SLADE
Champagne is for pussies. At least that’s what my grandfather used to say right before lighting a cigar. He drank top-shelf whiskey as if it were water. Class, in his mind, was measured in power. The kind that made men kneel at his feet, not toast with Cristal.
Someone shoves a flute of piss-colored drink into my hand as his voice repeats in my mind.Champagne is for?—
“Congressman! Congressman DuPont!” The lights flash in a barrage of tiny explosions around me, and I angle myself with the glass in my hand. Tiny bubbles race to the top, tipping an effervescent fizz in the air and landing damp on my knuckles. I wonder if the reporters think I look like him. I do have my grandfather’s eyes.
Henry DuPont: ruthless congressman, absent father, and overbearing, narcissistic grandfather. He has served in the House as a congressman from Illinois for over eighteen years, and tonight that torch passes to me.
I lift my chin at a bald reporter pointing a recording device at me.
“Congratulations on your win tonight, Congressman. How does it feel to be the youngest congressman elected in Illinois?”
The media’s run with that—so has my campaign manager, Tasha. She made sure to plaster my age everywhere. At twenty-five, I barely made the cutoff to run this cycle, but with my grandfather’s influence and endorsement, my opponent didn’t stand a chance.
“He’ll let you know when he’s sworn in.” My grandfather pipes in, slapping a hand on my shoulder and sending my drink splattering on the floor. He ignores it, taking my hand to shake, then holding it for the cameras to get the perfect shot.
I turn, eyeing my grandfather in his tailored Tom Ford suit. His silver hair is combed back and parted on the side. When I don’t return his smile, his bushy gray brows lift over his morbid blue eyes.
“How does it feel, son?” he says, smirking.
I push up on the rim of my glasses, the thick black frames sliding back down and settling on my sweaty nose. “Surreal. I’m looking forward to making a difference.”
The room hums with conversation. There’s the steady buzz of reporters layered over clinking glasses, and congratulations are punctuated by bursts of laughter. I shake some more hands, nod, and smile. Someone mentions the promise of new zoning favors, another cracks a joke about budget cuts, and a third wants to talk funding for the waterfront district. I answer on autopilot—sound bites I’ve said a hundred times before while my focus is elsewhere.
Scanning the crowd, I search for someone who cares to talk about what matters. Someone interested in the education in our city, about the kids who are slipping through the cracks before they’ve had a chance to stand. So far, every pathetic excuse for a functioning human I’ve spoken to has only made it clear they’re eager to push their own unmet agendas on me.
Illinois has some of the best schools in the country, but only if you’re lucky enough to live in the right zip code. Zoned to thebetter school. If you’re not? You’re set up to fail before you’ve learned how to read. And that’s where I want to start—with literacy.
I tuck a hand into my suit pocket and pretend to sip the drink I’m fisting.
Comic books saved me. That’s not an exaggeration or some ridiculous sentimental line. I was the scrawny kid at my private school, known only for my last name. I was an easy target, the one who got shoved into lockers, tripped in the sweeping hallways. Sure, I got invited to the parties because I was a DuPont—the congressman’s golden-boy grandson. But I learned early that titles don’t soften fists, and breath runs out fast—exactly a minute and thirty-seven seconds.
When the world outside the classroom felt too cruel or overwhelming, comics became my escape. I was drawn to the loners. The ones misunderstood by the world but saved it anyway. I devoured comics with heroes who stood up against impossible odds, when the world was stacked against them and they had the guts to do what was right. In those pages, I wasn’t the kid who sat alone at lunch—I was a hero, an explorer. Now I want to make sure every kid, especially those who feel like I did, has the same chance.
By third grade, a kid should be able to pick up a book and understand it, not stumble through the words. But right now, thousands of kids can’t. Not because they aren’t capable, not because they don’t want to learn or their teachers are failing them, but because no one’s ever given them the tools to succeed.
Entire neighborhoods exist where books are a luxury, parents work two jobs with no time for bedtime stories, and underfunded schools cram too many kids into classrooms.
A cell phone flash blinds me for a second, yanking me out of my thoughts. A young blonde journalist steps into my path—ortries to. She’s too short to pull it off. “Care to comment on your grandfather’s failed terms?”
I blink, staring at the tousle of golden hair piled on top of her head down to her sun-kissed skin.
“Or would you like to offer an answer to how he was seemingly reelected indefinitely?”
I deposit my champagne flute on a tray as the server brings it by, annoyed it’s my grandfather’s legacy she wants to ask about. “Ms. …” I search for her press pass, but she beats me to it.
“Reeves. Piper Reeves with theChicago Chronicle.” She crosses her arms, and her deep honey-brown eyes bore holes into mine.
Movement beyond her steals my attention, as the man I hope to connect with drifts by. “Ms. Reeves, excuse me.”
Sidestepping her, I move toward Richard Steele, the CEO of Chicago Public Schools.
My heart pounds. This is why I ran. Not for the title or power, but for the kids who need a voice.
When he sees me approaching, he stops and smiles.
