Young Writers Society

“There’ll always be people like Victoria,” Alden said, “and they’ll always be looking for people like us to push around and people like Max to sweep up into their madness.”

I sighed and looked out over Lake Michigan. Victoria, like the social vampire she was, had sucked Max into her little group the second she could get him alone. I don’t know why, but for some reason, it felt like a personal attack.

I knew Alden was right, and I knew it was harder for him than it was for me. Maybe he gave off a different scent, or possibly a strange heat signature, but for some reason, Victoria and her gang of socialite wannabe’s constantly sought out people like Alden for their torment. Alden, along with nearly thirty other students at Chiarts, was a scholarship kid. Apparently, being so amazingly talented that it didn’t matter how much money your parents had made you a pariah. Technically, my status as an heiress to a multi-million dollar fortune should have put me among the same ranks as Victoria, but being an artist instead of an actor or a singer, coupled with the fact that I was a decent human being, kind of cancelled that out.

“Wouldn’t it be cool, though,” I said, running my fingers along the weather-worn wood of the pier “if, just once, she wasn’t the queen of everything?”

Alden shrugged and stood, throwing his scarf over his shoulder. “Sure. But a lot of other things would be nice, too.” He smiled and held out a hand for me, once again the brotherly figure that I loved so much. “Come on, Lake. Dinner’s on me.”

I stared at myself in the rearview mirror of my car as I waited outside Alden’s townhouse the next day. I frowned. It wasn’t that I was ugly. I just wasn’t particularly stunning in any sort of way. My mother, a former Miss Illinois and model, hadn’t managed to pass on her height, so the pale blonde hair, blue eyes, and slender frame that made her look like a fairy made me look like a malnourished street child. The smattering of freckles on my cheeks made me look like I was closer to twelve than eighteen, and a lot of the time people thought Alden was my older brother, even though I was nearly six months older.

I was just about to start honking when Alden through the front door open and stalked down the walkway in his usual dramatic fashion. Everything was truly a runway for him, and I laughed as his long black coat blew like a cape around him. I was just a little stunned that his naturally chestnut brown curls were a deep, nearly black, purple, but it was far from the strangest thing I had ever seen him do, so I just ran my fingers through it as he slid into my passenger seat. “This is a nice change.”

He grinned and laid his head on my shoulder, a habit left over from when we were little kids. “Thanks, Lakey. You should let me do it to your hair.”

I laughed as I pulled onto the highway. “Yeah, right. Say that to my dad.”

My father. Sometimes I wondered how someone as free spirited as my mother could have ever fallen in love with my father. Adrian Walker, of Walker and Stein Publishing, was co-owner of one of the largest publishing companies in America. Mom liked to say his first love was his work. Apparently it was his second and third love, too, because it had been at least three years since I had had a real conversation with my father.

It had been when my mother and I had decided that I would move from my fancy all-girls private school, De La Salle Catholic School, to Chiarts. My father, a devout Catholic, had lost his mind, swearing up and down that no daughter of his would ever attend an “artsy-fartsy school for girls and fruit loops”. Since then, he had been trying to squash any and all attempts I made to express myself in the house. He had forbidden my mother to hang my paintings anywhere other than my room and my mother’s salon, and when I had come home from art camp last summer with the ends of my hair dyed pink, he had made me chop it off. He hated Alden, but he put up with him because my mother like him, and the only thing my father seemed to be able to tolerate was my mother.

Alden made a face. “Your dad’s kind of a jerk.”

“Tell me about it.” I said, turning on the radio. The grey clouds that had been hovering over the city for the last week opened up, and rain started to fall just as Can’t Stop Lovin’ You by a band called Fireside Soundtrack started playing. I smiled and we both sang along as we stopped and started through the early morning Chicago traffic.

“Thank you for joining us, Miss Walker,” the piano instructor, Mr. Burns, said as I slid into class almost five minutes late. “and I apologize for the inconvenient scheduling.”

I felt my cheeks turn bright red as I sunk low in my seat next to Max. He gave me a look that said he wanted to know exactly why I was late the second the teacher was done talking.

“Now, as I was saying before I was interrupter by Miss Walker, we’re pairing up for writing”

Some kids groaned. Some kids cheered. Victoria turned around and put a hand on Max’s arm. Even her nails were painted black and sharpened to points.

“Stop!” Burns said. “I’m picking partners. Cara and Marcus, Matt and Tyler, Victoria and Sean, Max and Lake. . .”

I glanced over at Max, who was already looking at me, and grinned.