Olivia's Trek (1) (2 page)

Chapter Two

Lucien Borgia

My eyes are fixated on my mother, sitting at her dressing table, diminished by the giant bay window in her bedroom. Our new Manhattan apartment seems to just swallow her up, make her disappear.
Watching like this reminds me of hunting trips with my father. I love observing women applying makeup. It’s such a delicate thing. My eyes follow her fingers as she dabs around the pattern of aubergine colored marks that have formed on her elegant neck. She trembles as she tries to tie a hideous silk scarf around the contusions, although the swirling purples and pinks of the scarf do match her bruises perfectly.

She stops. She must sense me standing in her bedroom doorway. I didn’t intend to startle her.

“Lucien? Shouldn’t you be on your way to school by now? It wouldn’t do to be late.”

Gracefully rising, my mother, Francesca Borgia, turns to face me, her seventeen-year-old son. My eyes follow hers as she takes me in. It’s our secret dance. She used to tell me that my jet black hair and powerful body reminded her of her favorite racehorse, Diablo.

As she walks towards me, her arms outstretched, hands reaching for my hair, I swerve to avoid her, my head narrowly missing a collision with the doorframe. I’ve just taken forever to get my hair to sit right, so it looks good for school. She loves to run her hands through it, but every time I catch sight of the ugly scars around her wrists, it creeps me out.

“You look beautiful Mother. I’m just leaving for school now.”

“Remember your father will be home for dinner this evening, dear.”

Our matching dark eyes lock on each other, as she nervously starts to pat down the imaginary wrinkles in her skirt. She performs this ritual whenever my father is mentioned.
I want to hold her, take away her sadness and her bruises, tell her I love her and that I will look after her, but the words don’t come out of my mouth.

“Of course.”

Turning my back on her, I bound down the sweeping staircase, two steps at a time, out of the open front door and straight into the black Sedan that sits waiting to take me to school.

I reckon it’s probably better to leave speaking to Olivia until I see her at school rather than on the phone. She just needs to calm down, accept what happened. I guess things got a bit out of control, but I’ve told her she can’t turn up at my house looking as ravishing as she did yesterday. It must have been the wine. She knows that I love her, that she’s special to me, so it shouldn’t be a big deal really.

The thought of any trouble makes me feel uncomfortable and a shiver of relief passes through me as I reach inside my jacket pocket and run my fingers over the embossed gold letters on the acceptance envelope from Harvard Law. It’s still there, like a child’s security blanket. Nobody is coming between me and my fast track to the U.S. Attorney’s Office.

My attention is diverted to the woman’s raspy voice reading out a news bulletin. She sounds like she’s blonde and has just got done drinking a gallon of bleach.

“Legendary litigator-to-the-stars, Felipe Borgia, celebrated the holidays in style, moving into a new, six million dollar apartment on the Upper East Side. The Borgia-Schilstein lawyer got a steal as well—a one-point-fifteen million dollar reduction on the listed price.”

Who gives a shit how much our apartment cost? What the hell is wrong with everyone? Now everyone knows where we live. It pisses me off that the stupid driver has left the screen down so I can hear the radio, not to mention his diseased breathing.

Oh God, he looks like he’s going to talk to me.

“Miss Olivia didn’t look very well yesterday.”

“Mason. Can you drive and talk at the same time?”

“I can, Sir. Yes.”

“Olivia Carter knocked me out yesterday. I wouldn’t say that she was unwell at all. Not that it’s any of your business, Mason, but she’s beautiful and sexy and I want her and she elicits that feeling and I feel quite powerless around her.” Ha, that should shut him up.

“Powerless is not a word that I would associate with you, Lucien, so it’s nice to hear that you like her so much.”

“Olivia Carter is going to be my wife one day, Mason.”

I can’t decide whether to watch re-runs of
The Sopranos
or play my favorite game, Mafia II, on my phone. I love anything to do with the mob world. I mean, my father is obviously my inspiration, but gangsters rule. My heart beats faster and my breathing quickens just thinking about it, especially the
Playboy
centerfolds that you get points for collecting.

I decide to play Mafia II. Mouthing the words,
my name is Marco Russetto, a soldato for the Salieri crime family
as the graphics come to life, I avoid stealing a car or purchasing any firearms this morning. I just want to search the room for my little ladies. I’m trying to collect all fifty issues of
Playboy
scattered throughout the game and net the Ladies’ Man Achievement Trophy. My boys and I spend many hours at school debating the centerfolds. Oh yes, it passes the journey in the car to school and back in a fine way. It helps to divert my attention away from the constantly disconcerting change in scenery; one minute we’re driving past a luxury condo at 96th Street and the next we’re outside some filthy housing project at 99th Street. The sight of homeless people sleeping in doorways and on benches turns my stomach, especially when they’re all living in public housing or getting their rent money from the city. Fact.

Spotted: a new dark haired beauty on the cover of
Playboy
lying on the coffee table.

“Lucien, we’re here at school.”

“Damn you, Mason. Your job is to drive and not to interrupt me every time I start to concentrate.” Jesus, I’ve lost the brunette centerfold now.

“Yes, Sir.”

Creepy chauffeur is always watching me in his mirror. Thinks I don’t notice. Always asking me stupid questions. My eyes pass over his Sperry topsider shoes, Docker pants, and a t-shirt under a Tommy Bahama shirt trying to conceal his XD40 sub compact in an IWB holster at the one o’clock position. I can actually see the outline of his gun. This bodyguard’s speciality is clearly not concealed weapons. Asshole.

I slam the car door as hard as I can, watching Mason in the sideview mirror as he winces and shuts his eyes like he’s in pain. I cross the road to my school as the image of him falling to the ground in my video game plays out in front of me. I slam my fist into his fat stomach and stand on his head when he’s lying groaning on the floor Mafia II style.

I pass Min Zhou, one of the ‘parachute kids’ who came here to study alone, narrowing my eyes to make her feel more at home.

“Hey Min.”

She scurries past me like a scared rat, trying to balance her stupid violin. It slips and falls. I step in and catch the slick black case before it smashes on the ground.

“Oh, thank you so much.”

“So, Min, what are you doing over the holidays?”

“We’re reading Kurt Vonnegut in English class, so I have to do that, oh, and violin practice, I guess.”

“No Hamptons or Aspen?”

Her eyes look at me like I’m talking about Mars and she shakes her head like I’ve suggested something illegal.

“It’s so great that we get
xiao liu xue sheng
.” I think that’s how you say it in Cantonese.

“Little exchange students?” Min scurries away again like I’m some crazy guy.

My eyes widen in appreciation, as I pass a clique of girls outside the gates. The Westbourne Prep girls can wear polos with a v-neck sweater, sweater-vest, or cardigan, each of which excellently emphasizes the outline of their differently-sized and shaped breasts. It’s a real pity they can’t be
Playboy
centerfolds, too. Their gray kilts with white or gray knee socks show a generous expanse of inviting flesh that I wholly approve of. My father likes that look, too. I’ve seen it in his eyes when he’s been at school with me. The boys all look like clones, though, with our dark blue blazers, white Oxfords, blue striped ties, gray trousers and plain black dress shoes. Westbourne Prep’s very own blue-blooded army. They should patent our genes.

My feet crunch up the gravel as I move across to the manicured greens of the grounds of this two-hundred-year-old school. Locking eyes onto a group of boys that look stronger, taller and more menacing than the rest, I find my direction. Yep, those are my boys, my ‘mob family.’

They all smile, glimpses of perfect rows of sparkling white teeth visible as they lift their heads up from their iPhones, nodding as they see me coming. I know they’re all trying to outdo me and win the Ladies’ Man Trophy for collecting all 50 issues of
Playboy
scattered throughout the Mafia II game. They won’t, though, I’m the champ.

My right shoulder brushes against another shoulder walking in the opposite direction. It’s Ava Forrester Payne, holding onto her stupid blue French bulldog, which, by the way, is not even allowed on school grounds. It really irritates me that she doesn’t acknowledge me. I should chop her dog’s legs off, make her beg and then kill it anyway. Bitch. I think I’ll post that she has an eating disorder on Facebook later. It’s not like no one knows anyway.

Chapter Three

Olivia Carter

I’m sitting in my usual spot, clammy skin sticking to the red plastic seat, on the second tier of the Olympic style swimming stadium. My Uncle Preston’s talking about the school’s endowment and how it keeps growing, his cheeks glowing.

“Last year, fueled by gifts from wealthy alumni and its own successful investments—it crossed the one billion dollar mark, up from just over $500 million in the previous year, much of it Carter money no doubt.”

Gabrielle Aplin’s haunting voice echoes through my head from my iPod. “Dreams are like angels, they keep bad at bay, love is the light scaring the darkness away …”

It’s the first time I’ve come into school after what happened. No one knows.

My mind flicks back to the conversation that took place when things started heating up between Lucien and me.

“Aww, come on Olivia. All the other guys are doing it. It’s starting to piss me off that they all still call me a virgin.”

“Leave me alone. I’m not even going to have this stupid conversation with you.”

“We can just pretend that it’s our wedding night if you want. I’ll get a great bed, maybe a honeymoon suite, so you feel special.”

“It’s not what I want. We’re friends and the very thought of you and me, well, ugh, grosses me out. Stop asking.”

“Fine, it’s cool and I promise not to push it.”

Silence.

I can hear his breathing. I know he’s not happy, so I look at him because I know he hasn’t finished talking.

“You’re changing. Your body’s so hot and to be honest it makes me feel out of control sometimes.”

I just walked away and we didn’t discuss it again. I had no idea that he wasn’t intending on asking at all.

My head feels so heavy again, the weight easing as I bow down. Even my eyelids seem to want to shut every time I blink. I catch sight of a stranded paper lying on the floor beside my right foot. It’s a leaflet with a picture of me, the faint black tread marks of a shoe on it. A mass of black hair and huge green frog eyes stare at me as I pick up the shiny paper, slowly unfolding one of the corners and start to read.

It was easy walking through the rain this morning, because no one could see my tears. Just like every other day, I walk past one of the hall monitors with my invisible cloak on and nearly run into a bunch of jocks who don’t even bat an eyelash at me, as they march around the school like they are the top players of the NFL. A group of girls twirling their hair and excessively chewing their gum nearly overpowers me with the odor of their makeup and hairspray as they giggle at each other while I put my bag in my locker. They don’t even jump when I slam it shut. Making my way towards the swimming pool, none of the Goths, Geeks, or even the Band kids says hello. It’s been like this since I got here five years ago.

Only Lucien Borgia sees me.

Breathe.

Being on the swim team suits me. Drill after drill for about three hours a day. Just the water and me. Survive how we know best. That’s it, Olivia. Focus on the water now. On the race. Block everything else out.

Torrential rainfall pounds against the windows, making the world look wobbly, distracting me. A painful shiver runs straight through me as I catch a distorted reflection of myself in the glass. Alone, damaged. My hair never normally behaves itself by staying inside my swim cap like it is doing today, but maybe it’s trying to help me keep it together. Gangly limbs all tied up in a Speedo swimsuit. I feel naked. I don’t think I can race today. Rubbing the tops of my arms where it hurts doesn’t help. I stand up and double check that my bruises can’t be seen, but my skin coloring helps to camouflage them.

My shoulders ache right up to my head where I can feel a tight band clenching my skull. Everyone will be here soon. I close my eyes long enough to blink but jump at the loud click of the metal double doors being thrown open.

Here they come, shoving their way through to the swimming arena for the last competition of the season, spreading out in all directions. Pupils of Westbourne Prep, clones in their uniforms, laughing and chattering, their shrill voices echoing through the expansive glass swimming hall, like screeching rats from the Pied Piper of Hamlin. Like an exodus. It’s easy for them. They confidently fit in. They all know who they are and who their friends are.

Still no one sees me up here. The ghost of Olivia Carter.

Coach Duggan spots me in my usual seat. She waves me down and beckons me to the poolside with a decisive flick of her head, “Olivia have you been in a wrestling match or something, hon?” Her eyes are all over me.

The leaflet with my interview falls from my fingers, slowly floating back to the ground again as I remove my headphones from my ears, pretending that I didn’t hear her. I make my way down the steps, disconnected from everyone else here. I don’t even wince as my toenail catches on the corner of one of the steps.

The eyes of the other swimmers gathered by the pool in a close group don’t linger on me as Coach gathers us all up pre-race, her eyes still looking me up and down suspiciously.

“Okay guys, it’s not about what happens to you, it’s about how quickly you can get up. I want beaten records today.” I hand her my earplugs and iPod.

It’s about how quickly you can get up. God knows I’m trying. I couldn’t have made the timing any worse for coming back to school. I’ve only picked the most important race of the whole year.

My skin prickles uncomfortably as a burning sensation spreads like fire throughout my body while I watch—while I anticipate the race. Stomach hurts. All those butterflies collide and fill every corner of my stomach until their wings get trapped. They come every time that I race—it never fails. There is so much noise—the splash of water, talking, yelling, whistling, and cheering. Today, it makes me want to gag.

Coach pats me on the shoulder. I move forward, pull my goggles over my eyes and adjust my swimsuit.

The loudspeaker booms, “Swimmers, step up.”

Climbing up onto the block, looking down into the water, I become totally focused. The outside world is completely gone.

“Take your mark.”

With the loud crack of the starting pistol, I’m off.

As
I first hit the water, pushing off the wall, I’m propelled underwater like an explosive warhead. Completely submerged, the water closes in over me. I hear nothing. Just me, my own thoughts, as I glide. This moment full of promise. It’s when I know the race is mine. But all too soon it runs out, like my breath, when I burst above the water and take my first stroke.

“Go Olivia!” someone screams.

That voice. Lucien.

Can’t focus. My body starts trembling and my mouth opens to scream, water pouring into me, heart pounding, nerves alight, every muscle stiffening. Stop. Focus. Deep breath and close everything out. I shut my eyes and the turbulent world in which I am submerged goes black and silent.

Coach says visualize the race. Visualize your ideal race. I visualize … I smell like him. I taste like him inside my mouth. I can’t get the feel of him off of my skin.

Water is more than 700 times denser and 55 times more viscous than air. Think about anything. No, think about nothing. Just focus.

As my arms jerk upwards, my lungs burn as I open my mouth searching for air, a reprieve from the water, but I miss the air. The pounding in my chest is so violent that I know my heart is going to burst right through my rib cage.

White cotton spots start to dance in front of my eyes. I’m suffocating. Part of me is still begging, all the way up the stairs from the kitchen where we had been drinking to his bedroom, all the time, begging, pleading, crying, fighting, please don’t do this, please let me go, please don’t, please stop, please, oh God, please stop, oh momma, please … still wriggling away just to be dragged back and have it start all over again, desperately fighting and trying to get away just to be pulled back, and no sound except my voice still begging, no words from him, nothing, just that constant dragging back and starting again, tears streaming down my face, feeling so tired, so very tired, and so cold and sick, aching inside, aching in my soul.

Choking as water fills my mouth, nose and lungs. I don’t want to fight anymore. I let the water start to pull my heavy body down.

Coach is in the water with her arms around my neck, yelling. Arms pulling at me in all directions, dragging me out of the water. Hundreds of eyes all staring at me, people standing in their seats. Silence.

I hear my Uncle Preston’s voice, but I can’t make out what he’s saying before the rabble of voices drowns him out.

Everything goes dark like someone switched the light off inside my head.