Page 244 of Because I Killed Him
As we make our way into the amphitheater, my eyes sweep for threats: every rooftop, sidewalk, and alleyway where a gun could be aimed. But when we finally step inside, I’m pulled from my vigilance by the sight of Edmund, Jack, and Dickie heading for the elevators.
Dickie spots me first. His face lights up, and he elbows his Pinkie chaperone aside, waving wildly to remind me I haven’t been forgotten and that he still cares. Jack notices me next and gives a crooked grin before nudging Edmund, who’s crouched, fastening the buckle on one of his monk strap shoes.
When Edmund looks up and sees me, his eyes seem to fade, as if the blue is draining from the sky at sunset. Yet he still smiles, bright and unbearable, and in that instant, every memory we made together fills my mind, hitting me with the full force of what I’ve lost, like I’ve fallen out of heaven. If there’s a limit to what I’d give to get back to him, I don’t know where it is. I only know that if our time together is a glimpse of what a future with Edmund could be, then it’s worth fighting for.
Edmund lets his gaze linger, as if he knows it’s the last time we can be seen interacting in public and wants to make it count. Then he stands and walks into the elevator, with Jack and Dickie following closely behind.
My chest aches, empty, as if he’s taken my heart with him. Still, I keep my chin high and set my face as Dad and I take a different elevator to the Green level, knowing I have to be strong now. I made my choice, and I have to stick to it, no matter how hard it is to resist going back to Edmund.
On the Green level, Dad and I sit in a roped-off section overlooking the main stage, the security detail repositioning in the dim light, a quiet rotation of bodies and sightlines. While Dad talks with his head of security, I text Charlotte to ask if she’s here yet. A moment later, she replies:
“To your right.”
I find her in the middle rows on the Green level, sitting with her dad. She smiles at me, a look that tells me she’ll be knocking on my front door as soon as she can. I nod and smile back, a silent promise that I’ll be at her front door, too.
The spotlights flare to life and sweep across the stage, pausing on the velvet chairs where the professors sit in distinguished rows. The amphitheater swells into thunderous applause as Phillipa steps out frombehind the curtain. She looks exactly as she did the first time I met her, gentle and radiant, her smile so warm it feels as if she’s pulling the sun itself into the hall. Every gesture of her hands is graceful, yet they command the audience’s attention as she welcomes us and introduces the commencement speaker: a distinguished Purple alumnus whose words roll out like a brass fanfare, meant to ignite the hearts of the sixth-years preparing to graduate and leave Grandmaster forever.
When the speech ends, the mood shifts from attentive to nervous excitement. The names of the award winners are announced, each punctuated by clapping, as the air thickens with pride and envy.
I sit low in my seat, my pulse pounding so loudly I can feel it in my throat. I’d wanted to win the Political Theory & Governance award before, but now—with the electricity in the hall and Dad beside me—I want it so badly I could march up to the stage and take it straight out of Professor Fleming’s hand. My own promise echoes back at me, made during the final exam: if I win, my path is set. I’ll major in political theory. I’ll follow in Dad’s footsteps, no matter how deep or wide, even if they’ve left impressions the whole world can see.
Two long, breathless hours pass before the first-year awards are handed out. Most of the winners are predictable, the same names professors whispered dotingly all year. Dickie, of course, wins two awards, one for Applied Systems Logic and another for Artificial Intelligence & Civil Order. He pins the badge with his picture and President Reeve’s to his lapel, proudly flashing it as he bounds up the steps to accept his trophies.
Only two names stand out to me. The first is Rosamund, who wins the Blue award for Cloning Theory, which feels like a cruel joke of fate. The second is Edmund, who takes the Blue award for Genetic Engineering. It’s not the win itself that surprises me, but the moment he steps onto the stage, looks toward Jerome seated in the second row, and nods. Jerome returns the nod, almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough to tell me they know each other.
I wipe sweat from my neck, feeling as if my world is shrinking even as more people enter it. When the Green award for Political Theory & Governance finally arrives, I close my eyes and await my fate, telling myself that, win or lose, I’ll stand tall.
Then I hear Professor Fleming’s deep, gravelly voice:
“Miss Loredana Waldsten.”
My name echoes through the amphitheater, just as Dad’s once did, and for a moment, I can’t believe it. The air escapes my lungs in a startled gasp. The applause cracks in my ears like firecrackers, loud and dizzying, as I stand and force myself into the aisle.
The descent feels endless. As I walk down the stairs toward the shining stage on the ground level, the crowd blurs into a smear of light and motion. I hold onto Dad’s daffodil brooch, pinned to my dress beside my pounding heart, until I reach the bottom. Then the world sharpens back into focus. Rows of Purples watch as I weave between them toward the short flight of steps that leads to the stage. At the top, Professor Fleming waits. His smile is broad, his eyes glinting with pride, and for the first time since I heard my name called, the moment feels real. “Congratulations, Miss Waldsten,” Professor Fleming says, pressing the gold-filigreed trophy into my hands. “I look forward to seeing you in my class next year.”
“Thank you, sir.” My hands tingle as I clutch the trophy to my chest and turn on my heel, squinting up at the Green level. Dad is on his feet, still clapping, his face caught between shock and disbelief. He drags a hand through his hair, his eyes glazing over as if the sight of me is finally sinking in, then clears his throat and keeps clapping.
I smile at him, wide and trembling. I want to reach him as quickly as I can, but when I reach the five short steps to descend the stage, something holds me back. A quiet laugh escapes my lips, and before I realize it, myfeet take over. Tap steps echo on the stairs, with heel clicks, shuffles, and a sharp crisscross. The rhythm carries me downward until I hit the floor with a final stomp that reverberates through the hall.
Still laughing, I weave my way back through the Purple students, climb the stairs, and slip into my seat, where Dad is waiting. He pulls me into his arms, his voice breaking as he whispers in my ear. “It’s great, honey. It really is. I just hope you didn’t do this because you felt I pushed you to—”
“No, Dad. Not because you wanted me to,” I say, pressing my cheek against his. “Because I want to be like you.”
His arms tighten around me, holding me as if he’s finally ready to lift me out of his shadow and let me stand on my own. Even though he says the words, I would’ve known his thoughts if he’d remained silent: he loves me and, in the way I’ve always imagined and longed for, he’s proud of me.
I stay beside Dad, his warm hand resting in mine, until the final award is handed out. Then, with a blaze of silver light, a holographic band appears onstage and erupts into a mournful, reverent anthem honoring the victims of the Ranger attack at Grandmaster University. The students’ photographs appear on a giant screen as the music swells, and we all rise, holding up our hands in the two-finger salute until the last note fades. When it does, Phillipa returns to the podium, her smile ecstatic as she prepares to announce Dad.
“Mr. Waldsten.” His head of security taps him on the shoulder. “You’re due backstage.”
Dad nods, kisses my cheek, and signals for two guards to stay with me. I wish him luck, then sit up straighter, bracing for the moment he announces his run for Governor of the Rainbow District. His campaign won’t be the same battlefield I crawled through this year, but it will have its own risks. From now on, every step my sisters and I take will reflect on him. I wouldn’t put it past his enemies to dig up dirt on my family and feed it to Benjamin Bogart, who reports for the Blues as if they’re always just out of sight, waiting with a black bag to drag him into an unmarked grave if he missteps.
Next year, there won’t be any side roads to the finish line, and I only hope I’ll be strong enough to help Dad through it.
When the holographic band disappears, Phillipa begins reading Dad’s introduction from a teleprompter. Her words are complimentary, warmer than I expected. I listen carefully until a notification from my Bond beeps in my ear.
Who the hell would be texting me right now?
I glance at the screen, and the red glow makes my stomach clench. It’s an urgent notice. I open the message, my pulse quickening as I realize it concerns Irene’s death duel challenge. Back at the Belvoir Infirmary after the piranha attack, I’d received a notification which explained that the death duel was postponed until after I testified against Irene for trying to kill me in the Speakeasy. But now that notice is gone.
