Elysium's Love Triangle

  Elysium’s Love Triangle

  By A.M. Metcalfe

  Elysium’s Love Triangle

  Copyright 2012 A.M. Metcalfe

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

  Chapter One

  Back when I was ten my best friend in the world was Greg Harshaw. Every day we’d play together on the beach near my house. My mom used to keep an eye on us, give an occasional shout if we went too near the sea. She was always worried that I’d be stung by a jelly fish, pinched by a crab or eaten by a shark.

  At least that’s what she told me. I think she just doesn’t like the water. There was an incident, back then, which caused her to dislike it.

  I don’t think about the incident a lot, not anymore.

  In fact I don’t even think about Greg a lot anymore. He moved away when we were eight. His Mom is the complete opposite to mine, a ‘free-spirit’ if ever there was one. She never checked on us much. Greg always bragged that he was allowed to do whatever he wanted.

  He wasn’t allowed to stay living in our neighbourhood.

  I remember him crying to me about leaving. I had a dream about it last night. This is why I am now thinking back on the good old times, if you could call them that, and writing about the dream in my diary.

  It’s hard to keep what I’m writing private. I am on a plane in a row of four seats. My Mom is sitting next to me, trying to peak in.

  On the other side there is a teenage boy around my age. He has his hood up, so it’s hard to get a good look at him. He is lying back trying to sleep. A girl, also around my age, is sitting next to him. I can’t stop myself from wondering if she’s a relation or his girlfriend. There doesn’t seem to be that much warmth between them.

  They haven’t spoken to each other since we got on the plane. She’s reading a book with a frog on the cover of it. Her hair is blonde with pink streaks going through it and she is dressed, head to toe, in designer clothes. She is also wearing quite a lot of make-up.

  The boy is still turned away from me. I still haven’t seen his face.

  My Mom grabs her armrest again and inhales sharply. She does this every time the pilot puts on the ‘fasten your seatbelt’ sign. Flying is not her favourite thing in the world to do.

  She is obviously scared witless. The only reason she came on this flight was to make sure that I got on it myself. She’s sending me off to boarding school. We’re on the way there now. I saw the leaflet; it’s far too posh for me. She thinks it will give me the best opportunities in life.

  Dad went there when he was young, she told me.

  This is why, in the end, I agreed to go. I didn’t get to know my Dad for very long. He died when I was four. Going to the same school, weirdly, makes me feel just a little bit closer to him.

  It was horrible leaving all my friends. They’ll all be going to high-school together.

  I don’t know anyone going to this school. I’ve never been more scared in my whole life.

  The girl at the end of our row smiles suddenly, looking satisfied. I wonder if there was something amusing in her book. I wonder what could possibly be amusing about frogs.

  She glances at the boy. He shakes his head at her.

  There is some kind of non-verbal communication going on here. These two are really intriguing me.

  Greg used to do that too, mostly with his stories. I can still see him, on the beach, with sand in his blonde hair. He used to dare me to go into the water and break my sandcastles. When they were broken we could stay out for longer, to make a new one. He never really seemed to want to go home.

  I wonder what he is doing now. I wish I was older when he left. Then we could have swapped phone numbers.

  It’s amazing how you lose contact with people.

  It’s strange, not knowing if they still remember you.

  We hit some turbulence. I stop writing in my diary and take my Mom’s hand. She is completely terrified. She’s practically shaking.

  I assure her that everything’s okay. Still there is terror in her green eyes, the emerald colour that I inherited from her. I also inherited her chestnut brown hair and pale skin. I often wonder what, if anything, I got from my Dad.

  From the corner of my eye I see our pink haired girl. She is the complete opposite to all the nervous people now, smiling and delighted. Last time we hit turbulence she giggled. I begin to wonder what she finds so amusing about it.

  I’m not as bad at flying as my Mom but I still don’t exactly like turbulence. I don’t really see how anyone could.

  I come to the conclusion that our frog-fan must be a very quirky girl.

  The boy doesn’t seem to mind turbulence either. It never stirs him from his attempted sleep, not even the worst bouts of it.

  My Mom gets some water from the air hostess and takes her sleeping pills. She brought these ‘just in case’ we had a bad flight.

  In just a few minutes she is fast asleep. I am relieved, she’s happier now.

  I sit back and begin to write in my diary again.

  I am distracted before I even get one word written. Our quirky girl decides to put away her frog book and takes out a new one.

  This one is about sharks.

  My breath catches and I look away quickly. It’s too late. I saw it.

  My heart beats just a bit faster.

  It was only a picture.

  I tell myself this again and again. Nothing bad is going to happen to me.

  I glance at my Mom. She usually helps when this happens.

  Anything to do with sharks will whip me into a frenzy of anxiety. It’s a phobia that started when I was four.

  They come when you least expect it. They kill you.

  They prey on people.

  I am gripping the side of seat now.

  She is still reading that book. I can sense it.

  She has no idea of what she’s currently putting me through.

  I close my eyes.

  It can’t get me. I’m not in the sea.

  I squeeze the hand rest tighter.

  “Hey, are you okay?” A voice distracts me.

  I open my eyes. It’s the boy beside me, his hood is down now. He is looking at me, concerned.

  He is stunningly gorgeous.

  If my breath hadn’t already left me it would’ve now.

  He has his black hair pushed back in a way that is extremely sexy.

  My attention focuses on his eyes. They are sky blue and seem, if it isn’t my imagination, to be almost glowing. There is something so beautiful and celestial about them. I am completely enchanted.

  I compose myself, “Yeah I’m fine. It’s just the, em, the flight you know . . . kind of rough.”

  He smiles kindly. This brightens up his face.

  Wow, I thought he couldn’t get any more gorgeous.

  “It is statistically the safest form of transport you know,” he assures me. “I know that probably doesn’t help but . . . it’s a fact.”

  I grin back at him, grateful. I don’t know how he did it but he has definitely distracted me from my real fear.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He holds out his hand, “My name’s Daniel, by the way.”

  I shake it, “I’m Katy. . . Katy Darkwood.”

  I like the grip he has on my hand and find myself extremely aware of it.

  My heart is going fast for a completely different reason now.

  The girl clears her throat, distracting us both.

  The boy smile becomes a knowing one, “This is my sister Angelica.”

  Now she looks pleased, having been introduced.

  I am also guiltily happy. She’
s his sister, not his girlfriend.

  Her first question comes fast, “Do you like sharks?”

  A chill runs down my spine at the word.

  “Angelica!” Daniel rebukes her, looking nonplussed, “She’s having a hard flight. I don’t think she wants to hear about deadly predators right now.”

  Predators.

  I shiver again.

  “No, it’s quite alright. I happen to find sharks . . . amusing.” I swallow before purposely changing the subject, “Are you two going on holidays?”

  They glance quickly at each other, looking regretful.

  “I wish,” he confesses. “No, we’re going to school . . . Berchmont Academy. I’m completely dreading it . . . What finds you here?”

  I don’t think I’ve ever been happier with an answer in my life.

  He said Berchmont Academy. That’s precisely where I’m going.

  Things are looking up. At least I’ll know someone there.

  I am suddenly very glad that I sat beside these two.

  I tell him that I’m going there too, trying to hide my glee.

  “No way!” He sounds excited.

  He tells me that he’d thought there would only be spoilt rich kids here. I seem pretty normal.

  I laugh at this. I tell him that he’s pretty normal too.

  After this he looks me in the eyes. It’s only for a second but it has the effect of almost stopping my heart.

  “I’ve a feeling it’s going to be great fun,” Angelica says.

  Looking at Daniel I begin to believe this myself.

  *

  Berchmont Academy divides its students into classes in a novel way. We are put in a class with people of the same eye colour.

  The Principal won’t let us into the school until we arrange ourselves accordingly. Two hundred students with suitcases stand outside, trying to figure out who has the same eye colour as them. It is all very strange.

  As is Principal Sheeran himself. He has long black hair and an ear ring. To add to the effect he wears a purple suit. During his opening speech to us he references fifty rock songs.

  A lot of the kids seem to be wondering whether they’ve come to the right place. I wouldn’t blame them. Sheeran really doesn’t look like a man who runs a school of ‘unparalleled’ academic and sporting excellence.

  I find the green eyed group with some help from Daniel. They are gathered on the football field to the left of the school.

  Then, unfortunately, Daniel has to leave to find the blue eyed group. My comfort and sense of ease leaves with him.

  I’m out on my own again.

  I am not the only one who looks lost. There are a few people talking in my group but more seem to be keeping to themselves. It’s not easy to just talk to a group of people you don’t know after all. We are all still very awkward and nervous, without exception.

  The school uniform isn’t helping. I look down at my black skirt. It is a lot shorter than the one most girls are wearing. I glance around hoping that someone else is wearing it the way I am.

  I find a girl wearing one a full inch shorter than mine. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  She is standing in the middle of a bunch of boys. In the moment I’m paying attention she laughs loudly and says to one of them, “Oh Greg. You’re so funny. You know that.”

  He looks confused, “I wasn’t joking. That really happened.”

  There is a silence. I would pay good money to know what he’d said before.

  I am about to look elsewhere but something about the boy’s voice keeps my attention.

  I allow myself to look again.

  I can’t believe it. It can’t be.

  The blonde hair. The dark green eyes.

  Greg Harshaw.

  My mouth practically falls open. He begins telling a story about something that happened on the bus ride on his way here.

  He has a roundabout way of telling stories. I recognise the nuances, and pauses, the slight fabrications that are his trademarks.

  I still can’t be sure. It’s so unlikely.

  Then he does that sideways smile that I knew so well when I was young.

  There is no doubt left.

  Complete joy fills me. My smile returns.

  My tone betrays my happiness, “Greg?”

  He stops mid-story and looks over.

  At first he doesn’t seem to recognise me.

  I guess I have changed, as has he. He didn’t look like an athlete when we were young. Now he has a perfect six pack and is perfectly toned. I am rather dazed.

  I didn’t expect him to grow up so ‘perfect’ after all. It’s the only word you could use to describe his body.

  He studies me for a moment. Then he does a double-take, “No way . . . Katy Darkwood?”

  Delight swells up in me.

  He remembers me.

  I nod.

  He is over beside me in a shot, every bit as excited as I am. “How have you been? I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other! What are you up to these days?”

  We have a lot to catch up on. This we do in the following few minutes.

  He and his Mom moved around a lot after they left my hometown. They could never really settle anywhere.

  His Mom got into ‘a bit of trouble’ when he was eleven. He’s been living with his Uncle Andy ever since. Andy won the lottery last year.

  This is the extremely shortened version he gives me of how he ended up here today.

  We begin remembering the old times. There was a cave, near the beach, which we said we’d live in when we were older. He wants to know if I remember it.

  I do. When I was five my whole future lay in that cave. There would no nasty grown-ups and Greg and I would do whatever we wanted. Life was going to be great and fun when we were big enough to live alone, just the two of us.

  He also remembers the time that we ran away together. We didn’t even get as far as the end of the beach before my Mom noticed that something was awry.

  Still, it was a major act of rebellion then.

  “You were always trying to get me to break rules,” I remember aloud. “I was good before you put all those crazy ideas in my head! My Mom used to go mental!”

  He answers smoothly, “Being good is over-rated.”

  The tiny hint of flirtation in his voice isn’t lost on me.

  I am so happy to be here.

  *

  Berchmont Academy is strict in everything, even decor. The outside of the school is in-keeping with the rustic red brick features found in the town it’s situated in. The windows are constantly being cleaned by a man named Bill. He has a ladder; he never seems to be off of it. The inside is just as patterned. At every corner there is an inspirational quote painted, neatly. Pictures of past Principals cover the wall. The school has been around for hundreds of years, being ‘excellent’.

  There is a mess hall where we will eat our food. We shall not eat food in our common rooms, or in our dormitories, unless we are sick.

  The girl’s dormitories are on the left side of the building. The boy’s ones are on the right.

  Sneaking into the opposite genders dormitory will get you suspended. If you do it twice you will be expelled.

  There is no drinking and/or debauchery allowed on these premises.

  This is a centre of excellence, not a haven for immorality. Our theology teacher Martin Krein tells us so, while giving us a tour of the school.

  The rules are set in stone. They will not be bent, or changed, for anyone. He assures us of this.

  I look at my Greg. There is a mischief in his eyes. I recognise it from when we were young.

  This is one boy who is planning on breaking all of the rules.

  It was late by the time our crazy Principal let us into the school. The tour only ends at midnight.

  Professor Krein tells us that it is way past time for lights-out. It is an exceptional case tonight though, so he will let us away with it.

  He doesn’t look as strict as he has proved to be.
He is a round little man wearing a formal black suit and a buttoned up white shirt. The last wisps of hair that he has are combed over. I can imagine him being a lovely butler if he didn’t have this job.

  He gives each of us a key-card; it will open our particular room. We were told our room number earlier, when our luggage was taken from us and sent there. I have been assigned room thirty seven. It’s on the third floor, on the left side of the building of course.

  Krein tells us to get to bed immediately.

  We all leave but before we do Greg asks him one last question.

  Is he sure that the boy’s dorms are on the right side of the building? It would be a terrible travesty for him personally if he accidently ended up in the girl’s one. He is being extra vigilant and making sure this doesn’t happen. He is prone to mistakes after all.

  I can’t help smiling.

  Krein doesn’t look amused, “Mr Harshaw?”

  “Yes,” Greg does a good job of sounding innocent just now.

  “We’re not going to have trouble with you are we?” Krein is good at having a hint of a threat constantly in his tone.

  “Oh no, sir, never,” Greg replies.

  He glances at me, for a millisecond, and I get a glimpse of his smile.

  I notice that his eyes scan the room-number of my key card.

  I shake my head, my grin unwavering.

  I’ve got a feeling that Greg Harshaw is going to be a whole load of trouble.

  Chapter Two

  I will probably not get a lot of sleep tonight.

  This is the thought that hits me when I see how full of energy my new roommate is.

  She is positively full of the joys of spring.

  Angelica.

  I nearly fell flat on the floor when I walked in, a few minutes ago, and found her unpacking my stuff for me. She’d already unpacked all of her own, she explained. She was at a loss for something to do.

  The fact that she’s been through my stuff freaked me out for a few moments.

  I get over it now. I wasn’t looking forward to unpacking after all.

  I thank her and tell her that I’ll do the rest.

  I ask her if she’s seen my diary. It’s a more urgent question than I let on. I am so afraid that she has read it. I wrote some things about her brother that I’d really rather she didn’t see.