Falling for Ocean Blue [BxB] ✔️

Chapter Four

After being punished to my room for the remainder of Sunday night; the morning air of my first day creeps through the cracks in my window. Light spills onto my face, waking me earlier that I would have liked. I turn onto my back and try to untangle myself from the comforter all the while blinking the sleep out of my eyes.

The four walls are unfamiliar.

My eyes drift to the music wall. The entire length of my right wall is covered in music sheets, taped corner to corner. In between the pages, there are photos of Soren and Kitty and me. In our youth, we smile behind cones of ice-cream, or grin teasingly on the slide with our arms laced together. In one, Mum sits with her arms wrapped around baby Kitty, Soren and I sit behind them trying to catch the camera. The photo is a personal favourite, it is taped delicately to the white wall right underneath a large clock that now reads 8AM.

Finally deciding on a brisk shower, my feet haul the rest of me out of the cosy bed and straight into the en suite bathroom. The shower installation is all electronic, with a touchscreen controlling several shower heads in the ceiling. Between scalding and tepid, I settle on tepid and type the command on the screen.

When I'm done, the entire room smells like lemon. I brush my teeth still in the shower, then slip into another white t-shirt, this time the words Bach are stitched cursively in the breast pocket. Black converses and a pair of Soren's old jeans. I wrap a clean bandage over three of my fingers, and sling a backpack over my shoulder before hurrying downstairs. The large foyer at the foot of the staircase is busy with maids, porters, cooks and servants. In a house of nearly 30 rooms, outsourcing was sometimes necessary to maintain appearances.

I avoid their stares as I make my way to the family-style kitchen. Soren looks up from the island, already clad in his soccer kit. Kitty is in a plaid skirt and blouse, looking uncharacteristically mature.

She catches my curious eye, "You'll get yours soon, I imagine."

"You ready for your first day?" Soren asks, his eyes expertly avoids the new bandages.

I just nod curtly before taking a seat on the closest stool.

"I'll be there the whole time,"

"So will I, but only as a last resort. I have a reputation to uphold." Kitty says taking a bite out of her toast point.

Soren scolds her with a glare and slides a bowl of cereal my way.

"Eat up."

I look around the small kitchen, bronze pots and pans hanging from hooks, the broken stove in the corner left to its demise. The kitchen isn't something Mum takes much care of, or spends much time in. I would've thought she had gotten over her domestic shackles to bid me farewell.

"Mom is at your meeting in Bel Air," Kitty informs me, her face ashen.

Our Mother has reigned my career for almost ten years, which means my music is almost as old as Kitty. I'm not blind to how our mother divides her attention. I got most of our limited resources, growing up. Every bank account was drained to fund the academy until I got a scholarship in my third year. The least I can do is find success to replace their college fund.

I feel the familiar lump in my throat rising.

"We should get going, Kitty." Soren hops off his chair, slinging a gym bag over his shoulder. He gives me a reassuring smile.

Kitty nods.

"Coming, Max?"

I shake my head.

"I'd like to go alone."

"Why?" Soren stops before reaching the door. He turns back, his eyes scan every inch of my face.

I simply shrug, "Discretion."

Soren and Kitty share a look so fast I think I must have imagined it. The awkward silence weighs heavily as they both think on my request, their eyes darting to calculate the chances of their flight risk.

"Ok," Kitty says finally. She gives me a quick hug and whispering, "Good luck, big brother."

I smile at behind my shoulder, giving them a reassuring nod.

They both walk out through the garden door, albeit hesitantly, towards Soren's Porsha parked in the garage. The cobbled path through the vibrant garden is clean and extends down the property to the furthest side of the house.

I spoon the contents of my bowl into my mouth. The silence settles my stomach and I can finish the damp cereal.

The foyer is still full of people trying to ready for their day of labour. A hubbub of chatter buzz in the air as I try to manoeuvre around strangers to get to the door. An early social call.

Yvette, our Head cook is standing with her hands to her hips and a permanent scowl on her withering face. She catches sight of me, ties an apron onto her large frame and shoves a small, nervous boy out of her way. I watch as the boy stumbles into the crowd.

"This is your lunch," she hands me a paper bag, "Your meeting with the Principal will be at 9."

Yvette gives me a look that could be mistaken for sympathy, except I know her better than anyone. She's passing judgement, searching for cracks in the perfection. I gulp away my fear. My face is passive the entire inspection, more so than usual.

"Could you make sure no one touches the music room or bedroom?" I ask her politely, breaking the silence.

Yvette just gives a curt nod, "They know the rules."

I make for the door, avoiding contact with strangers. I step outside, the Californian sun beating down on me behind morning clouds. The paved path towards the garage is trodden with mud and shoe prints. In the large vacant garage sits my rusted bike, a thin silver bicycle with rubber handles and a basket where I put my paper satchel. In it is the turkey sandwich Yvette prepares most days for my lunch. My diet is a bland one, something my mother forces me to stick to.

I leave for the day, the daunting feeling like a rock in my stomach.

I ride my bicycle through the busy traffic, narrowly missing a red Honda reversing out of a porch. I pedal harder when I reach a stop sign, the traffic lights turn, and I cross the rails. LA is different than London. I tip my nose up and inhale the smell of coffee early in the morning wafting out of cafés. The buildings around me get higher closer to the city. I move further through the cars, the top of the school building emerging from the thicket of skyscrapers.

Swinging one leg around the bicycle, I ride into the row of bike poles and take out a lock. First period must have started from the look of the empty parking lot. I spare a quick glance at the four bikes already chained. Expensive models painted fresh and gleaming brightly. I wince at the stark contrast between my own faithful bicycle of five years.

I make my way to the brick building with large Victorian windows, towering for five stories. On the sixth, a beautiful clock tower blocks the almost noon sun as the black handles stand elegantly.

9 o'clock.

*