“Everest.” My name cuts through the archway I’m lingering in. I blink to clear the haze from my vision, stepping through to find both of my parents standing near the podium. There’s a stern look from the pair of them, warning me to stop hesitating.
My father stands beside his wife with the same rigid posture he has at every public function, his dark suit pressed to perfection. The woman hanging from his arm is draped in a pale lavender coat that probably cost more than most students’ tuition for a semester. She looks immaculate as always, every strand of her blonde hair pinned neatly in place, her lips set in a solemn expression designed perfectly for the cameras circling the courtyard.
“Nice turnout,” I comment as I approach them, slipping my hands into my pockets. My voice carries the right amount of neutrality. Supportive, but not overly emotional. It’s a balance I’ve been practicing my entire life. My father’s eyes sweep over me immediately, cataloguing the lilac pocket square, the pressed shirt, the absence of any visible annoyance on my face. All as requested.
“You’re late.”
“I was at practice,” I retort, lying skillfully. Despite insisting I should be putting in the work, his mouth tightens slightly, the explanation irritating him more than my lateness. Lacrosse is only impressive when it wins headlines and trophies.
“Kiss your mother,” he demands quietly. I step forward immediately, leaning down to brush a quick, dutiful kiss against her cheek. The motion is practiced, my body angling so the photographers clustered near the fountain can capture the perfect angle. Her perfume hits me immediately, expensive and floral. She tilts her face just enough to present the moment to the cameras, her smile small and mournful in the way society magazines love. Nothing says heartfelt grief like a staged moment for the cameras.
This woman has been in my life since I was eight years old, yet the word mother still sticks in my throat every time my father forces it out of me. She’s his wife. My real mother didn’t survive childbirth, and I don’t have so much as a photograph to know ifI received any traits from her. It’s as if she never existed, which is the point. My father doesn’t tolerate disappointments, and the fact she only gave him one heir was a travesty.
To his credit, he created a solid plan B to tie up the loose ends of his legacy. A single mom to wed a single dad, forming a power couple worth billions, and Marianne plays her role well.
“Everest, you look tired,” Marianne says softly as I pull back, her manicured fingers squeezing my arm in a gesture that could almost pass as maternal concern. I pat her fingers and place them back in the crook of my father’s arm.
“I haven’t slept much,” I reply evenly. It’s another lie. I haven’t slept at all. Marianne simply nods, reaching the limit of her concern and turning her attention back toward the growing crowd. More bodies are filtering into the courtyard, their murmurs weaving through the floral-scented air. Candles flicker as volunteers move between the rows of chairs, placing them into waiting hands.
My father clears his throat. “The press arrived fifteen minutes ago. They’ll want photographs of the three of us before the speeches begin.” I withdraw a sigh.
Nothing sells a story quite like a family who didn’t know the captured girl making speeches about her loss and the effect it will have on our community. But, regretfully for Laura, that’s not the point of this whole charade. The point is to control the narrative. Redirect the story so the reporters don’t take a closer look at what we’re disregarding.
“Of course,” I reply, forcing the corners of my mouth to resemble sincerity. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint.” My father’s jaw tightens at the hint of sarcasm, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he gestures toward the candle table where a cluster of reporters are already positioning themselves for a better shot.
Marianne glides forward first, accepting a candle gracefully before turning back toward the cameras. I follow suit a momentlater. The wax is cool against my palm, the flickering flame casting a warm glow over the small circle we’ve formed near the podium. Across the courtyard, dozens of other flames begin sparking to life, although they’re dulled by the rapid flashes of cameras leaving spots in my vision. I pose and pause, changing stance every few moments, giving the camera what it wants and none of what I’m concealing inside.
Luckily, it’s bearable for the few minutes it lasts before my father takes his place on the podium. I guide Marianne to our reserved seats off to the side, sparing a glance for the person who is painfully absent. A seat has been left open beside mine for Meg, an outfit delivered to her dorm earlier this afternoon. She needs to be here, that was a non-negotiable my father set. He doesn’t know like I do, bossing Meg around will only force her to dig her heels in. I had to be subtle and smart about it, offering her a small piece of myself in return.
Students shift quietly into the rows of chairs, their earlier chatter trailing off. Even the reporters sense the mood settling, lowering their cameras as the last of the candles are lit.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” my father begins, his voice carrying effortlessly through the microphone before him. His eyes scan those present, ensuring every pair of eyes are fixed on him. The Calloways are used to hosting this performance. “Hollowbrook is more than an academy. It is a community.” I tune out the rest almost immediately.
His speeches always follow the same format. Acknowledge the tragedy, praise the unity of the campus, promise unwavering support from the Calloway Foundation. My attention drifts across the crowd instead. Faces of students and faculty stare back, anxiety in their expressions reflecting in the candlelight they’re holding. When Meg disappeared, it was a fluke. Now it’s happened again, it’s a pattern.
My gaze snags on the floral arch, double taking on a flash of white blond. As soon as it appears, it’s gone. I swallow hard, lowering my gaze to the stone beneath my dress shoes for the rest of the speech. My father speaks first, then a counselor from the student services department offering reassurance about our community resilience, followed by a local police liaison who reminds everyone that the investigation is ongoing. Each speaker blends seamlessly into the next until they become one long, monotonous drone in the background of my thoughts.
I nod when required, stand when prompted, and even hold my candle at the appropriate moments when the crowd collectively bows their heads for a minute of silence. The entire time, however, I’m purposely ignoring the archway.
By the time the vigil dissolves, small clusters breaking off to murmur amongst themselves, I’m itching to be as far away from here as possible. My parents linger near the podium, shaking hands with faculty members and donors who have suddenly decided that their presence here is an excellent networking opportunity. Cameras flash intermittently as reporters try to capture the most emotionally compelling angles of the night. I slip away the first chance I get.
Thankfully, no one stops me, meaning my job here is done. There’s a certain advantage to the reputation I’ve cultivated over the years. People assume I’m brooding, preferring to reflect in private. In reality, I’m just tired of being watched.
The farther I move away from the courtyard, the quieter the campus becomes. A soft rustle of wind moves through the trees that line the walkways, drowning out the event happening behind me. Hollowbrook appears different at night, the academic buildings looming larger in the dark, their lit windows glowing against the stoney grounds. The perfect setting for the tension rippling through every brick and branch. Another girl is missing, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
I don’t realize where my feet are carrying me until I find myself striding towards the stadium, the door handle against my palm, the locker rooms passing in a blur until I step beneath the moonless sky once again. The flood lights are off, leaving the field contained within the fence swallowed in darkness, but the scent of artificial turf still lingers faintly. I lean against the cool metal railing, rubbing a hand down my face as the events of the evening finally catch up with me.
How much longer do I need to carry this pretense? How many times am I going to be used as a poster child for events that have nothing to do with me? Whilst we’re distracting the media, there’s a girl out there in need of saving, again, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Except using her distress to redirect attention away from the scandals in my past. If only someone stopped long enough to look deeper, they’d realize I’m not who they think I am. I’m the son of a business mogul and I’m?—
Footsteps approach from behind. My heart stutters in my chest, my breathing uneven as I glance over my shoulder. Meg stands there, her pale gaze not the one I was expecting. Attempting to shut down my expression to a mask she’d be more comfortable with, she frowns and takes a swift step forward. Her heel scrapes against the concrete.
“Everest, what’s wrong?” she touches my back, her hand trailing between my shoulder blades until she turns me to face her.
“I’m fine,” I croak, clenching my chest. “I just…sometimes it hurts to breathe a little. My head is just…swimming.” I grip the railing harder, but it doesn’t stop my knees from buckling. Meg rushes into my space, joining me in sinking to the ground in the black pantsuit I picked out for her.
“Everest, I think you’re having a panic attack,” she gasps. I shake my head, squeezing my eyes tight.
“No, no. I don’t panic. I’m fine,” I wheeze, my lungs shutting down. The air refuses to settle in my chest, each breath catching halfway down my throat like there’s an invisible hand squeezing tighter and tighter around my ribs. “Just leave me. I’ll be…fine in a minute.” I hate the sound that escapes me next, a weak, strangled gasp that shatters whatever illusion of control I still had left.
