5. Maddison

Maddison

M usic is booming through the house, the volume so deafening that the floors vibrate with the bass thumping. Usually, I like music, but the sound of laughter and the occasional shrieking, manic laughter has me on edge.

My parents are having a party, like they do every weekend. During these times, I’m instructed to lock myself in my room. Normally, I’m okay with that, but this particular party sounds like a bunch of lunatics have locked themselves in a padded room and are going insane. They’ve also been at it for over twelve hours, and I’m hungry, bored, and I have to pee.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. Standing up from my bed, I pad over to my bedroom door and unlock it. Then, sucking in a breath, I open the door. I immediately get overwhelmed by the stench of smoke and rotting food. But that’s pretty typical for my house, so I ignore it and step out into the hallway. A couple is making out just a ways down, but they’re too distracted to notice me, so I make a beeline into the bathroom and lock the door behind me.

I use the bathroom as quickly as I can, wash my hands, and then prepare to run back into my room. I wish I could grab something to eat from the kitchen, but if my parents see me doing so, they will be so mad. Plus, there’s a huge chance we’re out of food, anyway.

I can’t wait until school on Monday. At least there I can get something to eat ? —

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I tense as someone knocks on the bathroom door.

I’m unsure if I should say anything since I’m supposed to be in my room.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Maddy,” a man says through the door.

I remain frozen. Who the heck is out there?

“Maddy girl, it’s me, your dad’s friend, Brock,” the man says through the door. “Open up. I’m supposed to take you to get something to eat.”

I hesitate. I know Brock. He hangs around here a lot, and he seems nice. Plus, my dad and him are close. It’s weird, though, that he’d take me to get something to eat when no one ever does.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Knock, knock, knock, Maddy,” he says as he knocks. “Come on, sweetie; open the door. I know you’ve gotta be starving by now.”

Biting my lip, I reach for the doorknob …

Knock. Knock. Knock?—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

My eyelids spring open. For a heart-soaring instant, I still think I’m seven years old and back in that bathroom. But sluggishly, the haziness of sleep evaporates from my body, and I realize I’m eighteen years old, lying in my bed, and someone is banging on the door.

Could it still be Drew? How much time has gone by since I fell asleep?

Sitting up, I reach for my phone and check the time. “Holy crap, I slept for like twelve hours.” I can’t even remember the last time that happened.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I consider letting the knocking continue until Drew gets bored and leaves, but what if it isn’t Drew? I should probably check.

I exit my bedroom, pad to the living room window, and I’m pulling back the curtain right as the person knocks again. I blink several times against the bright sunlight shining down from the cloudless sky before seeing anything. And once I can, I’m so damn perplexed because standing in front of my apartment door is a man and woman who I’ve never seen before. What makes the entire situation so bizarre is that they’re dressed in formal attire; the man wearing a pressed suit and tie, and the woman a pencil shirt and button-down silk blouse. They look straight out of a business magazine and out of place in this dump of an apartment complex. Maybe they have the wrong place?

Letting go of the curtain, I walk over to the front door and open it as the woman is about to knock again.

She startles mid-knock then lowers her hand and smiles at me. “Are you Maddison Averly?”

“Um … yeah?” In the pit of my mind, concern is rising that they’re here because my mother did something terrible or illegal.

“Oh, good.” A smile remains painted on her lips. “Your last address listed in the system hasn’t been updated in years, so we weren’t positive if you still lived here.” Her phone rings, and she fetches it out, her gaze scrolling over the screen.

“I’ve lived here for most of my life,” I inform her, glancing at the man from the corner of my eye. He’s staring at me with arms crossed, and while he has sunglasses on, I can tell he’s assessing me.

This is too damn strange.

I direct my attention back at the woman as she puts her phone back into her jacket pocket. “Who are you?” I ask. “And why are you looking for me?”

“Because we have some great news for you, Maddison.” Her smile is starting to creep me out. “Have you ever heard of the Royal Academy?”

I lean against the doorjamb, on guard and totally confused. “Of course I have. I may be on the trashy side of town, but I do read news articles on occasion.” Anyone who does knows about Royal Academy, a highly elite college located on the outskirts of the southside of the city where only wealthy people of royal bloodlines can attend. Royal City has a lot of royal families that reside in the area, hence the name.

“Oh yes, of course you do. I wasn’t implying that you didn’t know how to read.” She grows flustered. “In fact, we’re well aware of how intelligent you are—a straight-A student and all-star track athlete.”

“I’m not that smart,” I stress. “It’s easy to get straight A’s in northside schools.” And that’s the sad truth. Lower class means a lower education due to lack of funding.

Yep, Social Darwinism at its finest.

“Don’t underestimate yourself.” She tries to sound encouraging. “We’re viewed your test scores. You’re an exceptional student and athlete, and you’re going to make a great addition to the academy.”

It takes my brain a moment to process what she said. “Wait … What?”

“You’ve been selected by our client to receive a scholarship for the Royal Academy,” the man finally speaks. “It will cover room and board, and all of your tuition and book fees for the next four years.”

My gaze shifts between the two of them, and then I laugh. “Okay, who put you up to this?” Before either of them responds, a thought slams into my mind that makes me stiffen. “Wait—did Drew and his gang have you do this to lure me out of the house?”

It seems like too much of a creative plan for Drew and his gang, but it could be possible. The woman does sort of look familiar. Then again, her face is relatively generic. I move to shut the door, anyway.

“Wait,” the woman calls out. “We’re not here to lure you out of the house. I don’t know who Drew or his gang is, and I assure you this is real.”

“Bullshit,” I call her out. “The Royal Academy doesn’t just hand out scholarships. Like I said, I read the news; I know the deal. Only the rich and royal go there. There are no lower-class pity handouts. And even if in some weird alternate realm there was, I’m not the sort of person who’d be lucky enough to get one.”

She inches closer to the door. “This isn’t luck. Our client decided last year that he wanted to handpick one student from the northside and give them the opportunity of a lifetime. He spent months sorting through school records, trying to find the perfect candidate, and he selected you based on your achievements.”

My skepticism stays present. “Did those records also tell you I’m on probation and am currently facing assault charges? Because that doesn’t seem like much of an achievement.”

“He’s well aware of your probation status, and he was informed this morning about the charges that were filed against you last night,” she tells me then looks at the man. “Give her the envelope, Bruce. She clearly needs proof.” She snaps her fingers at him.

Bruce barely shifts his stance as he sticks his hand into his suit jacket, retrieves a blue envelope, and hands it to me.

Written across the front, in perfect cursive handwriting, is “ Maddison Averly ,” and the back is sealed with the wax seal of a crown stamp—the Royal Academy’s logo.

“There’s more paperwork you’ll have to fill out,” the woman explains, “but this is an official invitation. Once you’ve accepted it, we’ll take you down to the office where we can cross the T’s and dot the I’s, and make everything official.”

The envelope looks legitimate, but wariness nibbles at my insides.

“Who’s your client?” I smooth my thumb over the wax seal.

“He’d like to remain anonymous,” she clarifies. “This is something he’s chosen to do out of pure kindness and nothing more. If word gets out who he is, it’ll become a publicity stunt.”

Anonymous, just like the person who bailed me out of jail. Could this be the same person?

Although, she said her client found out about my new arrest charges this morning …

I don’t know … This entire thing is weird as hell. It can’t be real? How could it be? My life sucks. It’s supposed to suck. I’ve accepted that it probably will for quite a while. So, how can something like this be happening to me?

I need a minute or two to process this and also to see if it could even be legit.

“Can I have some time to think this over?” I ask without opening the envelope.

Surprise flickers in her eyes. “Um … Sure.” She tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear. “But I can only give you a day at most since classes start next Wednesday.”

“Okay, I’ll let you know no later than tomorrow if I will accept it.” And I’ll spend the rest of the day figuring out if this is real because it can’t be.

It just can’t.

I search for signs of Drew and his gang lurking in the parking lot, convinced they’re behind this. Not a sign of them is in sight, though. However, a sleek, black Mercedes is parked amid the rusted cars and beat-up trucks.

The woman takes a card from her pocket and gives it to me. “This is my contact information. My name is Bethany, and this is my colleague, Bruce. We work for the Royal Fairland Law Firm down on Main. Call me when you’re ready to accept, and you can come down to the office and sign the paperwork.” She says it with such certainty, like there’s no way I won’t accept.

And why wouldn’t I? It’s a great opportunity.

And yet, I can’t get past this inkling it’s a big prank.

“Sounds good.” I force a smile onto my face.

She returns it then says goodbye before endeavoring toward the parking lot with Bruce trailing behind her. Not surprising, they climb into the Mercedes, which also removes the probability that Drew and his friends are behind this, unless they stole the vehicle, but that’s a little extreme, even for them.

Stepping back, I shut and lock the door. Then I return to my room, sink onto the unmade bed, lean against the headboard, and turn the envelope over, staring at the wax seal. I don’t tear the envelope open, my distrust for this situation flowing potently through me.

It makes no sense that I’d be selected for this type of thing. Not to mention I’ve never heard of someone from northside getting chosen for a scholarship

I set the envelope down without opening it and open my internet browser on my phone while examining Bethany’s business card. Then I type in the name of the company she works for.

Tons of articles pop up, along with the business website. It’s a highly prestigious law firm with a high-profile clientele. The more I scroll through the information online, the more skeptical I become that Drew and his gang are behind this. Creating business cards, hiring a woman and man to show up at my house, stealing a Mercedes, buying a wax stamp of the Royal Academy Crest—I highly doubt the guy voted the biggest procrastinator in high school is behind this project.

Diving deeper into my investigation, I search the Royal Academy. The website is the first thing to pop up, so I click on it. I’ve seen glimpses of it from some regions of northside and in photos that are attached to articles, but I forgot how castle-esque it is, with towers that peak to the sky, glistening, golden-trimmed columns, and a wide staircase that leads to the arched entrance. And that’s just the outside view. The inside is equally as beautiful, with marble floors, cathedral ceilings, spiral stairways, and crystal chandeliers. Not to mention the highly sought-after professors, and the list of classes is beyond anything I could come up with in my wildest imagination.

Suddenly, it crashes into me like a car wreck. I could go to this place and get the education I never dreamed of, only to avoid disappointment. It’s how I’ve lived my life—with low expectations because anything else would crush me.

But what if this is all real? What if I could go here?

I toss my phone aside, draw my knees to my chest, and yank my fingers through my hair, absolutely terrified.

It’s ridiculous, I know, to be terrified of getting something great. But that’s the thing about living on northside—you get so used to everything being awful that anything good almost feels like a threat.