Chapter 1: Visitor

‘The Hallows don’t go to Hell… they own it.’

-Patriarch of the Ashveil Family

Charter Academy

Manhattan, NY

“Jain Hallow, report to the Principal’s office.”

The burger stopped halfway between my mouth and tray, and I was torn between taking another nauseating bite or just setting it down all together.

The bathroom today smelled like shit more than usual. Which, I guess, is one of the perks of dining in such fine places.

In the end, my better sense won out and I took another bite of the burger before dumping the entire contents of my lunch tray down the toilet. My stomach growled in protest.

The fries swirled down, and as disgusting as it was, I had half an imaginary thought of plucking one out and just–

No.  Just… just no. 

Ever since I transferred to Charter Academy two months ago, it only took about a week for me to find a place where I could chow down comfortably. Not bad, considering my usual prospects.

I guess it's about time to introduce myself.

My name is Jain Shin Hallow and I eat lunch in the school bathroom.

It’s easier that way.  Out there, in the cafeteria, there are too many stares.  Too many whispers about the ‘Orphan Kid’ or ‘Charity Case’.  Every single one of those preppy trust fund babies knew who I was, the school’s latest pet project; an intruder their precious red-carpeted classrooms thanks to a government stipend and the school’s latest marketing stint.

Before my thoughts could take a darker turn, I left the stall to fix up my uniform.

“Jesus,” I swore, seeing my own reflection.  

I have this mass of black hair that kind of shines gray depending on which angle the light was hitting.  Someone once called it ‘charcoal gray’.  That’s a nice way of putting it, I personally think it's another way to say 'old'.

My mirror-self had these gaunt sunken cheeks, definitely not from dieting.  No, my type of skinny came from too much fast food with too much time in between, sporadically sprinkled with candy and chips. I was permanently marked with the hungry look of a kid who never got enough to eat.  My eyes were dull black at the best of days, today they were simply lifeless, the dark circles underneath desperately hanging on for life.

Ignoring my mirror-self’s pitying stare, I wet my hands and tried my best to wipe the yellow stains off of uniform.  The collar never seemed to stay white and I swear the sleeves were magnetic to graphite and ink.  In the end, my uniform just ended up splotchy with wet marks.

Well, at least it looked like I tried.

Small wins, I guess.

“Jain Hallow, report to the Principal’s office.”  The intercom repeated.

“I’m going, I’m going.”  I gathered my things, which included my pink ‘Girl Power!’ backpack (don’t ask) and the lunch tray before heading out.

This was literally the worst possible time that I could’ve been called.  It was near the end of lunch period when everyone would be coming out of the cafeteria.  I tried to stick near the walls, keeping the lunch tray hidden as much as possible.  Pretty sure everyone saw though, but most of them were too well-mannered to say anything about it to my face.

The moment I entered the cafeteria, I saw them.

There’s always a couple of them at schools and they flock together like crows, eager to peck at the fringe members of society like me.  They’re usually good-looking, infuriatingly so.  The girls post bikini pics and the guys always have a yacht photo on their profiles.  Sports like tennis, rowing, and golf are the norm and none of them, and I do mean none of them, are ever ever anything less than fashionable –even in gym sweats.

You know what I'm talking about.

They were all seated around the table, a couple of the more outgoing guys sitting on it instead of the chairs.  When they saw me, one of the guys pointed at me and said something.  There was an actual observable physical phenomena of laughter rippling out from him, spreading to the others.  Then much to my dismay, Kevin Sloan jumped off the table, gathered all their trays and walked towards me.

“Hey, Jain.”  Without waiting for an answer, Kevin Sloan stacked the trays on top of mine.  “You wouldn’t mind returning ours too, right?”

“Godammit,”  I had to juggle my tray, their tray and my bookbag which was slung only over one shoulder (the other strap snapped).  There was one mind-numbing moment where I almost dropped them but I hugged them close at the last second.

If the pompousness of Charter Academy was anything to go by, I’m pretty sure there’s a subscription based magazine for private schools like this one.  Kevin Sloan belonged on the cover.  He was handsome, blonde-blonde and a star tennis player.  If rumors were to be believed, he also had straight A’s and fancy lawyer parents too.

I glared at Kevin and he flashed his picture perfect teeth at me.

Kevin raised an eyebrow.  “Hey, c’mon.”  He punched me on the shoulder, a little too hard to be good-natured, and I almost lost control of the precariously balanced trays again.

He continued, his voice low so that no one else could hear, “We let you eat in the bathroom in peace, don’t we?”

If you grow up like me, there’s one thing you learn: picking your battles.

Right now, wasn’t it.

Besides, as pathetic as it was, he was right.

If they really wanted to, Kevin and his cronies could make my life a living hell.  Even more so than it already is.  Right now it is like, level one of Dante’s Inferno hell.  Kevin could bring me straight to the bottom if he wanted to.

So I walked over, dumped all the rich kid’s trays and left as quickly as I could.

On my way out, I heard someone whisper ‘Welfare Rat’ and multiple tables exploded in laughter.

“Welfare rat,”  I sighed trying not to let it get to me, “Never heard that before.”

Jesus.  Welfare Rat.  Who comes up with these insults?

Kids with too much time on their hands, that’s who.

It’s not like I could say anything back to them either.  Girls like Lucy Montgomery and Ashley Marin could destroy me with a single crocodile tear, bringing down the entire wrath of the school teaching staff and holy PTA.  

Guys like Kevin Sloan and Brad Caprio?  Tacks in my shoes, ruining textbooks, kicking around my backpack and hiding my gym clothes.

Even worse, dumping water on me in the bathroom stall while I ate lunch.

Oh, you know.  The usual.

It’s not like this is anything new.  I’ve been the subject to the torment of cruel and petty children my entire life.  Believe it or not, rich kids attend public schools too; especially in a city like Manhattan where the economic disparity was a stronger discrimination factor than skin color.

In the 21st century, the biggest divider isn’t race.  It’s what clothes you wear, what your parents do and who you know.

Coming to Charter Academy, I had the smallest of hopes: that uniforms would be the greatest equalizer.  Who knew that necktie pins and tailored pants (or the lack thereof in my case) would make me stick out like a wolf in sheep’s clothing?  Or, I guess, the metaphor should be somewhat inverted to fit my case.

I made my way to the principal’s office and his secretary waved me in.  I knocked on the door, opened it a smidge and peeked in before entering fully,  “Mr. Smith, you called for me?”

“Mr. Hallow.  Please, come in and take a seat.”

The first and last time I’d been here was when I got transferred.  I’d been to a lot of principal’s office but I never saw one with a fireplace and ten-feet-tall windows before.  It was decked out with a four piece couch set, an expensive looking glass coffee table and a fireplace built into the corner.

The Principal and I weren’t alone, we had a visitor.

He was tall.  Tall enough for me to notice it even though he was sitting down.  I noticed that he wore a three-piece navy suit with a chain for pocket watches clipped to his vest button –the proper way.  I belatedly realized he was Asian, though something about his features told me he might be mixed.  He smiled at me, running his hand over his pomade absently.

“Jain, this is Mr. Lin.”

“Emyrith Lin." He paused a second, "Esquire.  At your service.”  He half-rose out of the seat and reached out for a handshake.

“Jain Hallow, Student.  At your service.”  I copied his tone, even the tiny pause he added.

The instant my words left my stupid mouth, I regretted it.  Most adults don’t take it kindly when I make casual jokes like that.  I eyed the principal and his mouth was already pressed into a thin line of disapproval.

To my surprise, Emyrith Lin’s green eyes twinkled.  “Quick.  Good.”  His voice was mellow, like someone who was used to being listened to, never really having to raise it.  No hint of the boroughs in his speech either, so not bridge and tunnel.  Which meant Manhattan; which also meant money.

A fancy lawyer then. Not one of those necktie-flinging, ambulance-chasing ones on TV.

The principal cleared his throat.  “Mr. Lin, perhaps it’s best we go straight to the point.”

The lawyer nodded once; sharp.  Then he asked without preamble,  “Mr. Hallow, how well do you remember your parents?”

The question punched me in the gut.

“Not really.  I was six.”  I said then quickly followed it up with, “When they died I mean.”

Along with that answer came the age old pang of pain that rang hollow in my chest.  This sense of loss that  was a dull ache on the best of days and a sharp laceration on days like this.  Yet, it was this same pain that floated small memories into my head.  My dad’s calloused fingers that always showed me a card trick using my mom’s tarot cards.  My mom tucking me into bed, using her crystal ball and pretending to see things inside, telling me stories about knights, monsters, princesses, and castles.

“And you remember how they passed?”  Mr. Lin’s question brought me out of my thoughts.

“No.”  I answered, “They went missing.  Took a walk and never came back.  The police said it might be kidnappers.  Or… maybe animals.”  I took a breath, giving him the automatic explanation I gave everyone else when they inevitably asked how and why.  “We were Carnies.  It wasn’t weird for them to disappear for a few days for a job.  They left me with a family friend.  By the time we realized they were missing...” I shrugged.

He nodded, “Mr. Smith, would you mind giving us the room?.”

The Principal hesitated, “He needs an adult with him.  School policy.”

“Perhaps you can leave the door open?”  Emyrith suggested.

I could see the Principal’s internal struggle.  He looked at me, seeing the dirtied uniform then Emyrith’s well-fitted Italian suit.  Eventually, his lack of concern for me collaborated with his desire not to get on the lawyer’s bad side.  One didn’t become principal of Charter Academy by disappointing powerful men, even if it was his first time meeting him.

I mean, I could see why.  Emyrith had this charm about him, something that couldn’t be put into words.  Even I wanted to make a good impression and usually, I hated pompous well-dressed rich assholes.  Not that Emyrith was an asshole, that’d be an unfair assumption.

So far.

Once the principal left, Mr. Lin smiled at me.  “You don’t like him much, do you?”

I thought about lying then shrugged.  “As much as I like anyone else.” 

“Fair answer.”  He steepled his fingers, leaning back on the sofa.  “I’m here to talk about your parents.”

“I know.  But why–”  I began then stopped.  

A hundred different thoughts bloomed to life, a mental plethora of whole new possibilities.  Could my parents be alive?  Did they find something?

Were they… coming for me?

Even before this painful gleam of fantasies could take on a life of its own, Emyrith’s grimace sent it to a dark place where all dreams eventually go.

“What I am here to talk about is their Will.”  Emyrith placed emphasis on the word, like it meant something else.

He paused, waiting to see if I'd say anything.

"Perhaps it would be better if we could talk in private after all." He said.

Then he did something strange.

He lifted a finger and I could’ve sworn that it glowed.  Not like a flashlight, but more of a firefly glow.  Not for long either, just enough for me to notice but so brief and casually done that it could just as well have been my seventeen year old imagination.  With that finger, he made strokes midair, writing.

“Jie,”  Emyrith whispered, his eyes unfocused.

There was a sudden pressure, against my ears, eyes, nose and my skin.  I found it a little bit harder to breathe.

The visitor's eyes danced.

“Now, we can talk.”