The Shadow Prince

chapter twenty-two DAPHNE

I’m the first one in the music room on Monday morning. I had to get to school early to pick up my finalized schedule now that I’ve been accepted into the music program. The official verdict had come via my new Olympus Hills High email account Sunday afternoon. I had celebrated over speakerphone with the crew at Paradise Plants. Jonathan had led the employees in a hip-hip-hurray cheer, and my mother had done a somewhat decent job at hiding her disappointment—in her voice anyway. She hadn’t been thrilled about my having found a nearly dead girl in the lake, either. But Jonathan, having been pre-warned, was able to keep her from going into a full-on mother-bear panic. CeCe still didn’t know about my getting into the music program—nor about the girl in the lake incident—because she had called in sick, and still hadn’t returned my voice mail.

Joe had been gone when I got up this morning—hopefully not out wandering in his bathrobe again—so I’d ridden my bike to school, taking a different path from the one through the grove.

I stand by myself in the music room, drinking in all the sounds of the new room and its state-of-the-art facilities, when I realize that I’m not sure where to sit. I’ve gone to the same school all my life, sat next to the same friends, and suddenly the idea of not being able to do that today really hits me. I’d known I’d be starting over; I just didn’t know what that would feel like until this moment. I finally settle into a seat in the middle row—not too eager, not too aloof—of the semicircle of chairs that face a small stage, and watch students trickle in through the doorway. Some I recognize from auditions, and others are strangers, but there’s only one topic of conversation that consumes them all—what happened to Pear Perkins in the grove.

Even the ladies in the main office had been gossiping about it. Which is how I’d heard that the Olympus Hills Medical Center had released a statement saying that Pear had a heart attack brought on by a pre-existing heart condition.

Part of me wants to be filled with relief, knowing it was a medical issue and not something I could have prevented by warning her not to go into the grove, but another part of me can’t shake the image of those gashes on her arm from my memory. Could tree branches have really caused those wounds? Or had my theory been correct about the stranger in the grove and nobody had bothered to investigate that angle?

I shake my head, thinking I am being overly paranoid. A doctor had determined that what happened to Pear was caused by a heart attack. Why would the medical center have any reason to put out a false report?

“That’s the thing,” I hear someone say, coming into the room. I recognize the voice as Lexie’s. “If Pear had a heart condition, I would have known about it. We’ve been friends for, like, ever. And besides, I know all my competitions’ weaknesses.”

The word frenemy comes to mind and I make a snerking sound. Lexie sends a glare in my direction before sitting in the front row with her posse of girls. I imagine they’re the infamous Sopranos I’ve been hearing about.

A few minutes before the bell is supposed to ring, Tobin appears in the doorway. The dark circles under his eyes make me wonder if his nights have been just as restless as mine since the grove. I lift my hand to give a little wave to him, but find myself holding my breath, wondering if he’ll respond. I had contemplated looking up his number and calling him to share the good news about my getting into the music department, but I hadn’t because I was unsure of where our budding friendship stood after Saturday evening. Finding a nearly dead girl together could serve to either cement our friendship status or crumble it before it even began. And with the crazy story I told the security guards and my omission of the truth—okay, lie—regarding my nonschollie status, I wouldn’t blame Tobin if he’s decided to have nothing to do with the wacko newbie. But before I can decide whether or not to wave, he sees me and waves first. I respond with a smile.

Tobin slips into the seat next to mine. “I was afraid we’d scared you out of town,” he says. “Glad to see you’re still here.”

“I don’t scare away that easily.”

“Neither do I.” Tobin hooks his backpack over the back of his seat, showing that he’s not planning on moving to a new spot before class. Today, he’s wearing a periwinkle fedora with a darker blue ribbon above the short brim. “Have you heard what they’re saying about Pear having a heart attack?”

I nod. “Kind of impossible not to.”

“I know what you mean.” Tobin’s warm tone drops lower, colder as he leans in close to me. “But do you believe it?” he asks. “I mean, I guess Pear could have had a heart condition and nobody knew it. This place is pretty competitive, so she may have been afraid to show any weakness. I couldn’t fathom why Pear would have gone to the grove until I overheard my mother talking on a conference call this morning. Pear’s housekeeper said that Pear had forgotten her sheet music for the auditions. They’re saying she must have rushed home to get it and cut through the grove as a shortcut. They’re saying the stress of it all was too much for her heart and she collapsed.… But the thing is, some of those gashes in her arm sure didn’t look like they were caused by tree branches.”

Relief washes over me, knowing that I am not the only one questioning the weirdness of the situation. It makes me feel a little bit less crazy. “I was thinking the same thing. But why would there be some sort of cover-up going on?”

Tobin looks at me, the strangest notes coming off him.

“What?” I ask.

“I don’t think what happened to Pear is the only thing this place is covering up.”

This is the third time Tobin has indicated that something less than perfect is going on in this town. What exactly had I gotten myself mixed up in by agreeing to move here? I give Tobin a look, telling him to go on.

“You’re going to think I’m nuts—” Tobin stops abruptly. I look up and see that Lexie and Bridgette are standing right next to us, with a couple of Sopranos standing behind them. Bridgette holds a basket of giant muffins.

“I understand you’re the one who pulled Pear from the lake,” Lexie says to Tobin. She flicks her hand, and Bridgette sets the basket of muffins in his lap. “Consider this our thank-you.”

“Um … you’re welcome,” Tobin says. “But it’s Daphne you should be thanking. I wouldn’t have found Pear if it weren’t for her.”

“Oh.” Lexie blinks at me as if this is the first time she’s noticed me sitting there, despite giving me a death glare only minutes before. She picks up one of the giant blueberry muffins from Tobin’s basket and offers it to me. “Thanks,” she says. “Maybe you’re not as useless as I thought. If Pear doesn’t recover soon, we will have to consider taking on a new Soprano. We’ll be watching you.” Lexie drops the muffin in my open hand and returns to the front row with her Sopranos.

“They really are kind of like the mafia, aren’t they? ‘Consider this our thank-you,’ ” I say, mimicking the low, raspy Godfather-esque voice.

Tobin laughs. It’s nice to hear a tone coming off him that doesn’t sound so dark. I want to bring up the topic we were discussing before Lexie interrupted, but at the moment, I want to let him be lighthearted. “ ‘We’ll be watching you,’ ” I say in my Godfather voice.

“I wouldn’t put it past her to leave a severed My Little Pony head in your bed if you refuse their membership offer,” he says, and takes a bite of a muffin.

“Friendship is magic,” I say.

Tobin laughs harder, accidentally spitting bits of muffin on my shirt. He clamps his hands over his mouth, still laughing. Which makes me lose it, too.

“What’s so funny?” Iris says, taking the seat on my right.

Neither Tobin nor I can stop laughing long enough to answer her. She rolls her eyes at us. Tobin squeezes my shoulder. I love the sound of his laugh. It’s infectious, just like CeCe’s.

“Quiet down,” Mr. Morgan calls, entering the classroom from his office. “I have a special announcement!”

“Ooh,” Iris says. “I bet he’s finally going to give us details about the musical. Maybe he’ll even announce the leads.” She reaches behind me to smack Tobin on the shoulder in a knowing sort of way. His laughter dies down immediately and he puts his full attention on Mr. Morgan.

“I know many of you were upset that I didn’t announce what musical we would be performing this year before this week’s preliminary auditions,” Mr. Morgan says, standing on the small stage before the semicircle of chairs. He sounds far more like a teacher today, rather than the tyrant he was at the auditions. “But that is because some very special circumstances came up just after the beginning of the school year, and I would have been a fool not to have accepted. I am going to end your suspense and tell you all now, as well as introduce our surprise guest.…” He stops to straighten his tie, but based on the happy tones of anticipation buzzing in the air, I suspect he’s just pausing for the dramatic effect. He smooths down his tie and smiles, practically beaming. “This year, Olympus Hills High will be performing the debut production of a brand-new rock opera. But not just any rock opera—one composed by none other than the ‘God of Rock,’ Mr. Joe Vince himself!” Mr. Morgan sweeps his hands out dramatically, as if presenting us all with a gift as his office door opens, and Joe—my Joe—comes swaggering out to the sudden, uproarious applause and cheers of everyone else in the classroom.

I, however, am completely speechless.

“No way!” Iris practically shouts.

Lexie stands up, clapping, and some of her Sopranos have their hands pressed to their faces like they might just cry. Girls make that gesture a lot when my father is around. At least according to the pictures I’ve seen in Us Weekly.

Joe clasps his hands together and shakes them at the crowd of students. “Thank you, thank you for your warm welcome.”

Tobin turns to me. “Why didn’t you say something about this yesterday, you big fibber?”

“I had no idea.”

“I know holding auditions before announcing the play was unconventional, but we had our reasons,” Mr. Morgan says. “As Mr. Vince tells me, the play is a work in progress, and we will be helping him develop the songs over the next few months. In order to do this, he asked me to select the two best singers in our program, and he will then write the songs specific to their vocal range. The rest of the parts will be assigned over the next few weeks to those who impress Mr. Vince with their hard work and abilities.”

“I am sure the decision will be very difficult,” Joe says, “which is why I left the decision of the lead parts to your instructor. I trust he has chosen the best and the brightest of your group.” He looks right at me and gives a little wink.

A redheaded girl in front of me practically swoons, as if the wink were meant for her.

What on earth is going on? Since when did rock stars write high school musicals? Even for high schools their estranged daughters go to? A school she’s starting because he just showed up out of the blue and insisted on taking her to for no apparent reason she could discern …

And then it hits me. I know exactly what Mr. Morgan is going to say next.

And all I want to do is run away.

Mr. Morgan holds out his hands to quiet the class. Everyone is in a tizzy, speculating who will be chosen, or what it will mean to be the star of an original Joe Vince musical production. I can hear the Sopranos fluttering around Lexie, assuring her she’s a shoo-in for the lead—especially now that Pear is hospitalized. The class finally falls silent at Mr. Morgan’s and Joe’s bidding.

“Without further ado,” Mr. Morgan says, “I am pleased to announce the leads for the debut production of Joe Vince’s rock opera version of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth: Into the Dark.…”

How quickly could I cross the room and get out the classroom door?

“In the role of Orpheus, we’ll have Tobin Oshiro-Winters!”

“Sweet!” Tobin smacks his hands together.

Iris cheers for him, but I’m still too panicked to react.

“And in the role of Eurydice, we have another special treat.…”

I feel like my throat is about to close in.

“My very own daughter,” Joe says, cutting Mr. Morgan off in his excitement, “will be playing the part.” He claps his hands out toward me. “Stand up, Daphne, so the others can meet you!”

All I want to do is hide under my chair, but I’m pretty sure Joe isn’t going to stop clapping until I stand up. I do so, pulling Tobin up with me so I won’t be the only one in the spotlight. Tobin gives a salute to Joe and Mr. Morgan, and then a Frank Sinatra–esque bow to his fellow students, who call out their congratulations to him. There’s not a single congrats thrown my way, but there are plenty of dagger stares coming from Lexie and her Sopranos.

“This is crap,” she says, not so quietly, to her friends. “Isn’t nepotism illegal?”

Even Iris is staring at me, with her mouth looking like her jaw has come unhinged. “Why did you say you were a schollie?” she finally asks.

This is exactly what I was afraid of all along. I don’t even want people to think I’d gotten into the program because I’m Joe Vince’s daughter, and now they all believe I’d gotten the lead because my father is writing the play.

Joe gives me a big thumbs-up. So this is what he had meant the other night when he said he was going to make it up to me. If he thinks he is helping me win friends and influence people, he is as delusional as he is a drunk. I can tell from the murmurs and glares being exchanged that my social standing has just gone from New Girl to downright most hated.

Joe and Mr. Morgan go over some of the details of how the next few months are going to work with preparations, but honestly, I tune them out. When the bell rings, a few girls rush the stage. Joe signs autographs for them as he makes his way in my direction. The last thing I want to do is talk to him right now, so I grab my bag, ignore Tobin’s offer to help me find my next class, head for the door, and escape out into the hall.

I bump into several people as I try to find my way through the unfamiliar halls of Olympus Hills High, fighting tears of frustration that sting the backs of my eyes. The last seventy-two hours had been anything but ideal. I’d been ignored by my father; accosted in the grove; had found the body of a girl who may or may not have been attacked because of me; was treated like I’m delusional by a couple of rent-a-cops; and now I had earned the ire of almost every student in the music program, and the program was my only reason for being here.

I can’t imagine how things could possibly get any worse, I think as I round the corner and find room 108, my humanities class. I push open the door and almost drop my backpack. Because sitting right there in the back row is the boy from the grove.

I can’t believe it. There he is, looking through a textbook and tapping his pencil against the top of a desk. Just like any other student waiting for class to start. Except he’s scanning the pages of his book so quickly, he can’t possibly be reading anything.

“What is he doing here?” I say under my breath.

“You know Haden Lord?” The question comes from behind me. I glance back and see Bridgette standing there.

“Yes,” I say quietly. But do I know him? Is this even the same boy? He looks so different under the fluorescent school bulbs—so normal. If the contours of his face hadn’t been etched into my thoughts for the last day and a half, I might not have recognized him. His hair is still dark, but more the color of rich coffee than the midnight black it seemed in the grove. It’s shorter, too, and waves and curls slightly around his ears, rather than hanging to his shoulders like before. “No. I mean … do you know him?”

Bridgette shrugs. “I heard they were here.”

“They?”

“The Lords are some hoity-toity extended family from the East Coast or something. They send a few of their kids here every few years. These new guys must be younger cousins to the ones who came last time. I guess there was some kind of mix-up, because nobody knew they were coming to school until yesterday. There wouldn’t have been room for them if it hadn’t been for the big ole donation checks they showed up with.”

I raise my eyebrows at this flood of coherent information from Bridgette, who had seemed a little vacant up until this moment.

“What?” she asks. “My dad is on the school board. You didn’t think I got into this school because of my smarts, did you? My mom’s movies aren’t that good.” She smiles. “Dad was in a tizzy over the Lord boys at breakfast this morning.”

“What else do you know about them?”

“There are two of them going to school. One is a freshman, named Garrick, and the other is a junior. Since this is junior humanities, I’m assuming that means this one is Haden. Oh, and they’re staying at that really big house on Athena Way.”

I nod, even though I don’t know which house she’s talking about. All of the houses in Olympus Hills seem big enough to hold half of Ellis Fields in their main floors.

Before I can ask any more questions, someone pushes between Bridgette and me, knocking my shoulder into the doorjamb.

“Bridgette,” Lexie snaps at her friend.

“Oh yeah. I’m not supposed to talk to you anymore,” Bridgette says, and hurries after Lexie. They sit with a group of Sopranos in the first row. Each one deliberately not looking at me.

The bell rings, and the only seat left is in the second row. It’s directly behind Lexie. Great. But the worst thing about it is that it means I can’t see this Haden guy unless I deliberately turn back to look at him. I pause before sitting, to watch him. I wish he’d look up. I want to see his eyes again. I want to know if they’re bright and fiery like I remember. I need to know if he’s the same person I met in the grove.

“If everyone will sit, we will get started,” a tall, thin woman with red, curly hair says. I assume she must be Ms. Leeds, despite the leopard-print miniskirt she’s wearing.

I turn my back to Haden and slip into my seat.

“I trust last night’s events did not prevent anyone from finishing the reading.”

I pull out the iPad Marta had presented me with yesterday afternoon—she said it was preloaded with all of the books I might possibly need at OHH—as a collective groan echoes through the classroom. I would have joined in if I hadn’t turned to studying in an attempt to lull myself to sleep at three this morning. I ended up reading a third of the book before my alarm clock went off. It was either that or call Jonathan again, and I didn’t think he’d appreciate that.

Ms. Leeds makes a tsking noise. “I was hoping now that Mr. Morgan has announced the subject of the school musical, your interest in our Greek mythology unit would have heightened. Mr. Morgan tells me you will be focusing on the story of Orpheus, the tale of the great musician who traveled to the underworld to bring back his wife, Eurydice, from the dead. It’s an interesting story, but I thought we might back things up a bit and study some of the earlier myths of the underworld before revisiting Orpheus. Mr. Morgan will be very pleased if those of you in the music and theatre tracks actually have a clue of what it is you’re singing about.”

Lexie sits at greater attention as Ms. Leeds opens her notes and sets them on a podium. She’s dedicated, I’ll give her that.

“Now, who here knows who Persephone is?”

Lexie and I both raise our hands at the same time.

“Ah, we get to hear from one of our new students. Daphne, yes?” Ms. Leeds says to me.

I nod.

“Enlighten us with your knowledge, Daphne.” Lexie lowers her hand.

“Persephone was the goddess of springtime. She lived on earth with her mother, Demeter, until she was kidnapped by Hades and forced to go to the underworld to live with him. Her mother, who happened to be the goddess of the harvest, wanted her back, and caused a big famine until Zeus told his brother Hades that he had to send Persephone home. Hades, being an evil jerk, tricked Persephone into eating six pomegranate seeds, which meant she was now tied to the underworld for six months out of the year. That is supposedly where the seasons of the year come from. Spring and summer are beautiful and lush because Demeter was happy that her daughter was with her, and fall and winter are crappy because that’s when Demeter was sad, because Persephone was forced to be in the underworld with Hades during those months.”

“Colorful interpretation of the story,” Ms. Leeds says. “Though I find it interesting that you refer to Hades as being an ‘evil jerk.’ Why do you say this?”

“He’s the devil, isn’t he? Keeper of hell and all that.”

“No,” Ms. Leeds says. “While most scholars agree that the idea of Hades may have been the precursor to the medieval Christian concept of the devil, they were actually quite different.”

“But they both like dead people!” Bridgette says enthusiastically.

I can hear the eye roll coming off Lexie.

“Yes. True … somewhat,” Ms. Leeds says. “They are both the keepers of the souls of the dead. However, the Christian devil is traditionally known to claim only the souls of sinners, while Hades was believed to oversee all of the dead, whether they were good or bad.”

Bridgette nods as if that’s what she’d meant to say all along.

“It is also interesting to note that Hades was not only the god of the underworld, but he was also believed to be the god of wealth. As gold, jewels, and other precious metals come from beneath the Earth—which was believed to be the location of Hades’s realm. Many people would pray to Hades and make bargains with him in exchange for wealth and power. Some scholars think this may have been where the concept of ‘selling your soul to the devil’ arose in Christian beliefs. But what about the symbolism of these two figures?” Ms. Leeds asks, looking at Bridgette. “The Christian devil is widely accepted as the embodiment of evil—a fallen angel. But what about Hades? Is he a figure of evil in the Greek mythos?”

Bridgette shrugs.

“Anyone else?” the teacher asks.

Lexie and I raise our hands at the same time again.

“Daphne, since you brought up the subject, I’d like to hear more of your thoughts.”

I can hear the frustration wafting off Lexie, but I go ahead and answer. “I think he is supposed to be a symbol for evil. The myth of Persephone clearly shows that.…”

“I beg to differ,” says someone from the back of the room. I’m certain I’ve heard his voice before—even if there’s no hint of his strange accent now.

“Ah, our other new student,” Ms. Leeds says, with a little clap of her hands. “I’m sorry, I should have started class with introductions. Haden Lord, stand up so everyone can see you.”

Haden stands. There’s one thing about him that isn’t different from the grove. He’s tall. At least six feet four. I’m not the only one who takes in a quick breath at the sight of him standing there.

“Sweet mother of hotness,” Lexie whispers from the desk in front of mine. This must be the first time she’s noticed him.

“I don’t believe Hades was evil at all,” Haden says. “He was purely a man—or god, actually—who was assigned a difficult destiny.” He looks at me for the first time since I entered the classroom. His eyebrows arch, but I can’t tell if it’s a look of recognition or not. His eyes are still jade green but not bright like before, and I can’t tell if his pupils are surrounded by amber fire rings from where I sit. “Being the keeper of the underworld doesn’t make him evil. Somebody has to do it.”

“No. But being a kidnapper and a rapist does.” I raise my eyebrows right back at him. “I mean, there Persephone was, minding her own business, picking flowers, when all of a sudden Hades bursts out of the ground in a flaming chariot and grabs her. I mean, you can’t just go around grabbing people. That’s not okay.” I narrow my eyes, challenging him. “What kind of person does that?”

Haden glowers right back at me. “Maybe he didn’t see any other options at the moment.”

“Hades is a tool. He obviously couldn’t find a girl to love him, so he just thought he’d steal himself one. There wouldn’t be a story about him being a rapist if people didn’t think he was evil.”

“Rape didn’t have anything to do with it,” Haden says in a tone that seems defensive to me. “Her father—Zeus himself—had already agreed to let Hades have her, and according to tradition, taking a woman by chariot from her home to yours is part of the ancient Greek wedding ceremony.” He sits down. He wears a long-sleeved, gray shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. It bothers me that I notice the muscles flexing as he crosses his arms in front of his chest.

I shake my head. “How can you say that? He took the girl by force and made her his bride. The book calls the myth the Rape of Persephone for a reason.”

“But there are earlier translations of the story than the one cited in the text.” Haden waves his muscular hand. “Maybe Persephone, a virgin”—he winks at me—“went willingly into the underworld in order to explore her own sexual desires.” He smirks and leans back in his chair with his arms crossed. I’m sure my face goes white before heat floods my cheeks, but I refuse to turn away from his gaze.

“Well. I’m glad to see at least two of my students have a passion for this subject,” Ms. Leeds says. I can see her pretending to fan herself out of the corner of my eye.

My cheeks burn hotter as Lexie and her friends snigger at us.

“Be careful or I’ll assign you two to write a term paper together. I am known for my matchmaking skills, after all.”

That statement makes me turn away from Haden quickly. I stare down at the text on my iPad. Not because I’m backing down from him, but because the last thing I want is to get stuck working alone with this Haden jerk—for any reason.

Ms. Leeds sits on the edge of the table in front of the class, crossing her long legs. “Haden brings up an interesting point that I hope none of you missed. There are many interpretations and versions of these myths other than the ones featured in our textbook. The so-called Rape of Persephone story actually contradicts many of the other myths in which the figure of Persephone appears. In myths such as Orpheus and Eurydice, and Psyche and Cupid, Persephone is portrayed as quite the formidable queen of the underworld, not as a lilting flower, easily taken and tricked by a man. When I was at Berkley, I wrote a paper on this subject. My research showed that there were very early versions of the Persephone myth that claimed that she was not ‘taken’ at all. One version suggested that Persephone, tired of being under the constant watch of an overbearing mother, left the mortal world of her own free will in order to fulfill a greater purpose. She recognized the underworld’s need for a queen and chose to fulfill it.”

“But why would someone change her story?” Lexie asks, not waiting for the teacher to call on her this time.

“As I wrote in my paper: to very patriarchal societies, a tale about a young maiden who takes her own future into her hands, leaves her home and family in search of her own destiny—and possibly a bit of forbidden love—is a very dangerous story indeed. So, therefore, they changed her story to fit their purposes. To make her a victim—a morality tale to warn girls from wandering too far from home, like Little Red Riding Hood. They changed her story to take away her power. That is the true rape of Persephone, if you ask me.”

I nod in agreement and notice that Lexie does, too.

For the first time, I feel connected to Persephone’s story. Well, Ms. Leeds’s version of it anyway. We’d both left our homes in search of a bigger purpose.

Ms. Leeds launches into the rest of her lecture on other underworld myths, and I can tell she’s trying to spark another lively debate. But I keep quiet after that, and so does Haden. As Bridgette enlightens the class with her perspective on the plight of beautiful women in Greek mythology, I risk a glance back at Haden. He looks up as if he senses my movement, and for the briefest of moments, his eyes seem to flash a fiery mix of amber and jade green.

I run into Tobin on my way from humanities to geometry.

“Hey, superstar,” he says. “You doing okay after your dad’s big announcement?”

“Fine,” I say, “except for pretty much being nominated for class leper.”

I look behind my shoulder, feeling like I am once again being followed. I must look as shaken as I feel when I look back at Tobin, because he puts a hand on my shoulder and asks, “Are you okay? Lexie and her little mafia aren’t getting to you already, are they?”

“No,” I say. “It’s that … I saw him again. The guy from the grove. At least, I think it was him—he looks different somehow. But still the same.”

“What?” Tobin says, dropping his hand from my shoulder. “Did you see him somewhere outside? You didn’t go back there again, did you?”

“No, he was here. He was in my humanities class. He’s a student.”

The tone coming off Tobin is even darker than it was after we found Pear. “What’s his name?” he asks. “Do you know his name?”

“Haden,” I say. “I think it was Haden Lord.”

Tobin takes in a sharp breath.

I look down at my iPad. “Like I said, I’m not a hundred percent positive it’s the same.…”

But Tobin storms off before I finish my sentence.