Stepping into my room, I slam the door closed and press my back against it, closing my eyes and struggling to draw in several calming breaths. A few minutes later, I hear footsteps in the hallway. They pause briefly outside before I hear another door slam.
Parrish.
I make a preemptive strike by grabbing my phone and connecting the Bluetooth to the speakers on the sound bar that’s mounted below the bedroom’s TV. Cranking the volume, I start up “STUPID” by Ashnikko. The lyrics—and the video where she kills stupid boys—are pretty relatable to how I feel in that moment.
“Enjoy listening to that, you dick,” I murmur, frowning as I hear another song start up in Parrish’s room, drowning out my own.
With a groan, I flop onto my bed and turn my head into the silver pillows. They have too much glitter and sparkly shit on them to be comfy. I end up throwing all of the decorative ones onto the squeaky-clean floor and digging my old, thin folded pillow out of my backpack. When I press it to my face, it smells like home, and I have to force myself to hold my breath to keep the tears back.
“Give it three months,” Grandma Carmen told me, stroking my hair back and then cupping my face between her hands. “Just three months. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll find a way around this. I promise.”
Give it two months? I met Parrish all of two seconds ago, and I’m already over this place.
I force myself up, grab my pj’s, and pause to open the nightstand drawer next to my bed, intending on putting my phone inside. As I expected, there’s a phone charger built right into the piece of furniture. It’s like that with all the high-end stuff. Not that we had any at home, but my best friend Nevaeh’s family has a penthouse in NYC with charging pads on like, every piece of furniture.
There’s also a small red velvet jewelry box with a note underneath it.
I frown as I set my phone on the charge pad, lifting the handwritten note up. Why didn’t Tess mention this? I wonder as I read the slanted handwriting.
I’ve been searching for you for a long time, my sweet princess.
In this box, you’ll find my heart. Wear it always, or you’ll break it.
I’m not sure either of us would survive that.
I frown, setting the note aside and grabbing the box instead. Inside, I find a small metal heart pin. It’s solid metal, a shiny crimson that catches the light when I tilt it back and forth. Huh. Seems a little melodramatic, but then Tess is a writer. I hear authors are batshit insane on a good day.
Without another thought, I put the pin back and set the box aside, grabbing the note and crumpling it up. I chuck it in the trash just inside the bathroom door, strip down, and try to lose myself in warm water and steam.
The only peace I find that night is inside my dreams.
Tess and her husband, Paul, have agreed to give me a week and a half off of school to adjust to my new life. It feels like a century too little. The next morning—a school-free morning where I should rightfully get to sleep in, thank you very much—I awaken to a gentle knock on the door and the sound of a key in a lock.
Sitting up suddenly, I blink against the brilliant wash of sunshine and decide that the very first thing I’m going to ask Tess to buy me is a set of curtains. Turning over my shoulder, I watch as the door opens and a white girl in a maid uniform appears.
Uhh.
Very Japanese anime of the Vanguards …
“Excuse me,” she says with a tired smile. “But Mrs. Vanguard likes me to wake up the children on weekdays. If you want, I can come back later though.”
I just stare back at her, trying to hide my horror. They have maids here? But of course they do. God forbid the goddess of crime novels and Seattle’s favorite plastic surgeon clean up their own messes. Well, my grandma taught me better than that. Cleaning up after yourself is a basic human function for fuck’s sake.
“Uh, if I could, I’d like to ask that my room not be included on the cleaning schedule,” I say, fighting back the sleepy heaviness in my lids. Reaching over, I open the nightstand drawer, grab my phone, and see that it’s not quite seven in the morning. Jesus Christ. Back home, I don’t get up until eight, leave for school at eight-thirty. My entire family sleeps in until noon on weekends.
“You’ll have to take that up with Mrs. Vanguard,” the maid says, trying and failing to smile at me. She looks stressed-out, and I realize that by trying to be helpful, I’ve just made her job harder.
