Page 112 of Because I Killed Him
No.
Edmund will like the Hellion’s badge. He has to.
Because I gave up too much for him not to.
Time is ticking, so I swap my morning run for a drill with my fencing stick, then shower and dress in my formal daywear. Charlotte and I are supposed to meet Edmund for an early lunch, after which we’re free to disappear. The best-case scenario is that we slip in, grab a quick bite, hand over our gifts, and ghost out before the chaos starts or, worse, before Rosamund shows up.
The line of Pinkies outside the Blue Dormitory has doubled. They standin neat formation, handing their impeccably wrapped gifts to the Pinkies in the lobby, who whisk them away to storage, moving carefully so as not to disturb the high-citizens exiting the elevators or waiting for their hovercars at the valet.
When I leave my suite around 10:00 a.m., the whole Green Dormitory is flipped on its head. Everywhere I go, students are chatting about the party and what it’ll be like to see Scarlet Du Pont perform live. By the time I reach the parking garage, the silence feels like mercy. Charlotte is already there, lingering by my hovercar with one foot on the running board. Her kiss curls peek out from beneath a cloche hat, still short but growing longer each day. The lapel of her jade fur coat covers half her face, and her oversized sunglasses hide the rest. She looks like a turtle trying to disappear into its shell.
Charlotte remains silent for the first half of the drive, absentmindedly flipping through the radio stations and skipping her favorite jazz station. Her knee bounces, and her eyes dart between the flashing holographic billboards lining the streets, each plastered with Edmund’s and Rosamund’s faces, surrounded by swirling gilded letters that read,Happy Birthday. Every time she notices one, she shifts in her seat.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
Charlotte opens her mouth, then closes it.
“Come on, Char,” I prod gently. “You can tell me.”
“I know I can. It’s just…” She exhales deeply and drops her head into her hands. “I’m screwed, Lore.Screwed. I didn’t get Edmund a gift.”
I decelerate the hovercar too abruptly, and Charlotte jerks forward in her seat. “What do you mean?” I ask. “I thought Jack lent you money?”
“He did, but…” She pauses to clip on her seatbelt. “Money’s tight right now, tighter than a gnat’s ass stretched over a barrel. I can barely cover my basic expenses, let alone buy some extravagant gift.”
“Doesn’t your dad give you an allowance?”
“Only what he’s legally required to. Which isn’t much. Other than that, he’s cut me off.”
I knew things were rocky between Charlotte and her dad—she mentioned their fallout on Harrison’s jet—but I didn’t realize the situation was this bad. Her dad always struck me as the social-climbing type,especially among the high-citizens. He’s a top-dog lawyer who only represents Blues, hoping to gain access to a Blue’s entourage, Charlotte once told me. Yet, even with all that hunger for prestige, abandoning Charlotte and leaving her to fend for herself at a place as expensive as Grandmaster seems almost too cruel to believe. I’m surprised she’s not already sleeping on a park bench.
“Don’t worry about anything, Char,” I say. “Let me help.”
She tugs off her sunglasses. “No, Lore. I couldn’t—”
“My monthly allowance is more than I spend.”
Charlotte hesitates, chewing the edge of her sunglasses as if they might bite back. Then, slowly, she reaches across the console and squeezes my hand. “Thank you.”
For a moment, her expression looks lighter, as if a piece of the weight she always carries has slipped from her shoulders. I smile, grateful for the chance to finally help her after what she did for me on the Regal Express.
Her hand stays on mine as I drive, weaving through congested aerial lanes toward the Moonshine Mile. Soon, she flips through the radio again, her gaze drifting over the hovercar as if staring hard enough could make a gift suddenly materialize.
“Do you really need to give Edmund something?” I ask. “He already knows you don’t like him, so—”
“I never said I didn’t like him.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No. I didn’t,” Charlotte insists, rummaging through the glove compartment.
My eyebrows pinch together. “Either I’ve got a hole in my brain, or you’ve got one in yours. On Harry’s jet, I could’ve sworn you said all Blues are spiders who fatten you up to bleed you dry.”
Charlotte’s cheeks tighten. “Oh, right. Well, I was pissed. And I still am.”
“Why? What did Edmund do?”
She rubs the back of her neck, avoiding my gaze. Her throat works around the words, and for a moment, I think she won’t say them. Then, barely audible, she whispers, “The same thing Jack did. He didn’t forgive me.”
