The Orphans (Orphans Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

For Charlie, the
prospect of losing his mind was exponentially more frightening than losing any particular memory itself. His eyes nervously searched for anything that might offer proof that what he was experiencing was an isolated incident and not the onset of a much larger problem. They quickly found their shot at salvation: his Biology textbook.

Charlie snagged the book from his desktop and tore it open. He flew through all of the chapter review quizzes; testing himself on cellular structure and reproduction, plant and animal life cycles, photosynthesis, natural selection, and so on.

After he had recited the answer to his final quiz question, Charlie sighed his lungs empty. He had nailed every single question. He still remembered it all. Soothed by the fact that it was just the one specific event that had escaped his memory, Charlie convinced himself it wasn’t as big of deal as he had initially thought. He reasoned that, if anything, holding onto the memory of his parents’ last night would only serve as a distraction, and it was better to save his brain space for something else, like the last Biology chapter that he still needed to read.

Charlie checked the time on his computer. It was 11:15. He had been asleep for less than an hour, but thanks to the adrenaline rush, he felt like he had slept a solid eight. Charlie knew that if there was one good thing about nightmares, it was the resulting jolt to the system. It was comparable to drinking a pot of coffee and chasing it with a couple energy drinks. Charlie wiped the nightmare from his thoughts, turned to the page where he had left off in his textbook, and got back to business.

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By seven o’clock the next morning, Charlie had plowed through nearly all of his homework, including multiple assignments for Civics and French. Only his four-page paper remained incomplete.

Charlie stared at the blank Word document on his computer screen. The flashing cursor was both taunting him and lulling him into a hypnotic state at the same time. He had been trying to start his draft for the past hour and change, but the furthest he had progressed was an opening sentence, which he deleted almost immediately after he finished typing.

Charlie’s blaring alarm clock roused him from his trance. It was time to get ready for school. He would have to put his paper on the back burner once more and hope that the answer would come to him later, maybe when he least expected it. The odds of that happening, as rare as they were, seemed better to Charlie than his odds of figuring it out on his own.

Charlie silenced the alarm and then headed to the second-floor bathroom. He studied his face in the bathroom mirror: Dark, heavy bags had started to form under his bloodshot eyes. He figured it was nothing a piping-hot shower couldn’t fix.

Charlie took a quick shower, got dressed, grabbed a bowl of cereal, and made it to the curb outside of his house just in time to catch the chartered bus that Atherton Prep provided for its privileged student body.

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Charlie joined the throngs of students as they flooded the gates of their elite institution. While short on close friends—he didn’t have the time to cultivate such relationships—Charlie did have many acquaintances, which he rationalized as a necessary exercise in networking. All of his acquaintances, and even his non-acquaintances, were surprised to see him back so soon. But their astonishment paled in comparison to the confusion of his teachers, who didn’t even get the chance to inform Charlie that he would have all the time he needed to turn in his assignments before he was already handing them his completed work.

Only Charlie’s Language Arts teacher, Mrs. Gamlen, was able to offer the extension, which Charlie eagerly accepted while still attempting to explain his reasons for not having his paper completed. Mrs. Gamlen stopped him. She told him it wasn’t necessary. She understood.

Any feeling of relief Charlie received from Mrs. Gamlen’s empathy was exhausted when she handed him his most recently graded writing assignment. At the top of the paper, in bright red ink, was a big, fat B. There was no plus, either, just the miserable, lonesome B. It was the first grade below an A that Charlie had received all year, and the first grade below an A- since three years before. It was also the only thing on Charlie’s mind for the rest of class.

Once the period ended, Charlie approached his teacher with the intention of arguing his way to a better grade. While he didn’t feel good about doing it, he knew his best bet was to play the emotional card. Charlie cited his parents’ deaths and the enormous stress that he was under, and how it had clearly affected his writing.

“I couldn’t be more sorry about your parents,” Mrs. Gamlen said, “and I will definitely take that into consideration on your next paper. But you do realize the paper I handed back was turned in over two weeks ago, right?”

Charlie froze, busted. He had been so confident in what he considered his ace in the hole that he never imagined his teacher would challenge the timeline. He attempted to free himself from the bind he had tied. “Uh, I know,” he stuttered. “But, like, I had other things going on, too. Other problems at home.” Charlie couldn’t believe he just attempted to cover his lie with another lie, but his mouth had just said the words without ever asking his mind to sign off of them.

Mrs. Gamlen had heard the rumors about what might have “caused” the Kim’s crash, and took Charlie’s words as confirmation of their truth.

Charlie, meanwhile, took Mrs. Gamlen’s noticeable softening as an opportunity to close the deal. “I just really need an A in this class,” he said, unknowingly overplaying his hand by switching the topic from his paper grade to his class grade.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Mrs. Gamlen said. “There’s still plenty of time to pull your overall grade up. Just make sure to put your maximum effort into the next paper.”

That was the last thing Charlie wanted to hear. He was struggling with his assignment enough. Extension or not, he didn’t need the added pressure. Before Charlie could respond, students began pouring into the room for the next period.

“I need to get ready for class,” Mrs. Gamlen said. “But if you ever want to talk about anything besides your paper grade, I’m always available.”

“Great. Thanks,” Charlie said, but he was really thinking the opposite. His little plan had failed miserably, and he was stuck with the damn B.

As Charlie exited the classroom, he could feel his forehead beginning to throb. He went to his locker and popped a couple ibuprofen tablets. He closed his locker, and then retrieved his Moleskine from his pocket and turned to the back page.

Charlie had a secret that he hadn’t divulged to anyone. While his notebook full of goals was common knowledge, what wasn’t known was that his notebook recorded more than just his goals. Starting on the last page and working backwards, Charlie had documented all of the failures that he accumulated.

So far, his defeats had only been minor. Just stumbles here and there. Never big enough to curtail his overall plans, but they all left their own little scars. Every time Charlie was reminded of one of his failures, he would get angry. He used that anger as added motivation. He believed that it helped him refocus and gave him the edge that he needed.

The most recent notation on Charlie’s list of failures was getting cut from the junior-varsity soccer team. It was one more thing—on the growing list of things—that he had hidden from his parents. Charlie had even gone as far as staying after school and making up stories to keep up the guise of being on the team. When his parents inquired about attending a game, Charlie just told them that they were playing a weak opponent and it would be a blowout, but that he’d let them know when there was actually a good matchup that was worth attending.

Charlie jotted down his disappointing paper grade and then pocketed the notebook. He started to head to his next class, but stopped as his name was blasted over the loudspeaker. His presence was requested at the principal’s office.

Charlie reluctantly made his way down the locker-lined hallways. He had never been called to the principal’s office before, and had no idea what to expect. When Charlie arrived at the office, Principal Salner was waiting in the doorway. Standing behind her was a stout police officer.

Charlie immediately recognized the officer. His name was Lieutenant Carter. He was the same policeman that had informed Charlie of his parents’ accident. Charlie also recognized the pensive look on Lieutenant Carter’s face—it was the same pained expression that the officer had worn the night that he had showed up to Charlie’s house.

CHAPTER SIX

After a couple
uncomfortable seconds, it was apparent that neither the principal nor the policeman were interested in being the first to speak. Charlie did them the favor of breaking the silence. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I am so sorry,” Principal Salner said, her sympathetic eyes attempting to comfort her student in addition to her words.

The principal’s pity provided no answer to Charlie’s question, only the confirmation that what he was about to hear wasn’t going to be good. “For what?” he demanded.

Principal Salner glanced at Lieutenant Carter; it was his turn to speak, whether he wanted to or not.

Lieutenant Carter swallowed hard before breaking the news to Charlie. “Walter Sowell suffered a massive heart attack last night. By the time the paramedics arrived, it was too late.”

Charlie’s face stayed blank as thoughts shot across his mind like bullets on a battlefield, with similar results. He couldn’t believe that Walter was really gone, and to a heart attack, of all things. Sure, Walter wasn’t exactly the epitome of good health—he’d never heard of an exercise he liked, much less tolerated—but he was just forty years old. And he had been at Charlie’s house only hours before, and had seemed perfectly fine.

Charlie felt the opposite of fine. He felt similar to how he had felt when he found out that he had lost his parents, except worse. All of the feelings that he had worked so hard to repress resurfaced as his emotional recall pulled him back to that night. Charlie was hit with the loss of his parents and the loss of Walter all at once, like a tsunami of suffering. His lungs grew heavier by the second, as though they were filling up with mercury instead of oxygen, and his tear ducts continued to swell as Lieutenant Carter filled in the rest of the details.

The officer explained that around midnight, a neighbor had noticed that Walter’s car lights were left on. When the neighbor stopped by to inform Walter of his oversight, they found the front door cracked open and Walter lying on his living-room floor, unconscious. The coroner estimated that Walter had been deceased for close to an hour before his body was discovered.

This time, Lieutenant Carter spared Charlie any details pertaining to the speed and pain associated with Walter’s passing. Maybe it was because he had learned his lesson, or maybe it was just because he couldn’t make the assertion with any real certainty. Whatever his reason, he left it out. Instead, he simply reaffirmed the principal’s sentiment and then waited for Charlie to acknowledge what he had told him.

Charlie was close to giving the confirmation the officer needed in the form of a full-on emotional explosion. But just when Charlie’s chest and eyes felt like they might burst like water balloons filled beyond capacity, Charlie’s fingers found his trusty notebook, and his focus shifted back to his plan. Instantly, the pressure in Charlie’s chest disappeared, and he regained his breath. He wiped the yet-to-pop tears from the corners of his eyes with his shirtsleeve and swallowed the mucus that had pooled in the back of his throat.

“Is that it?” Charlie asked, seemingly unaffected.

“Uh, yeah,” Lieutenant Carter stammered, not expecting Charlie to respond in such a manner or to be so casual in doing so. He shared a look with Principal Salner, who was equally perplexed.

“All right,” Charlie said. “Then I guess I should probably get back to class.”

“Are you sure?” Lieutenant Carter said. “I told Principal Salner that I could give you a ride home if you need it.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ve already missed enough class as it is. Plus, midterms are coming up, too.” He nodded to Principal Salner. “But I will take a pass from you.”

“Huh?” Principal Salner said, still too consumed by confusion to process what Charlie was requesting.

“I’ve never done this before, but I’m assuming I’ll need some kind of pass, since I’m gonna be late to class. Mrs. Hasbrouck is pretty strict about tardiness.”

“Yes. Of course. I’ll get that for you right now.” Principal Salner fumbled her pen as she filled out Charlie’s excuse slip.

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Throughout the rest of the school day, whenever Charlie’s thoughts began to drift toward Walter or his parents, he would reopen his notebook and skim over his list of goals, and then his failures. The thoughts would cease, and his concentration would refocus the very second his eyes landed on his paper grade.

The grade was still on the top of Charlie’s mind when he returned home. He kicked pebbles and muttered words that started with the letter B while he trudged up the concrete driveway. “Bull blank. Butt bag. Bass bucket—” Charlie cut off his little rant as his feet came to a stop just before a manila shipping envelope that had been left on the front porch welcome mat.

Charlie reluctantly retrieved the envelope. It was the first package that had been delivered to their house in months, maybe years. Alan and Mary had always made sure to send everything to their office; it was the only way they could sign for things. But this package left on the doorstep had required no signature, and much to Charlie’s surprise, it wasn’t addressed to his parents—it was addressed to him. Even more shocking than that was who had sent it.

Charlie’s eyes practically stretched out of their sockets when he read the black return-address label. Abbadon Capital was printed in dark red letters, just like it was on Terry’s business card. Adrenaline shot through his body and washed away any thoughts of his paper grade.

Charlie knew there was only one thing the package could be. It had to be an offer letter for his summer internship. While that would have required a much faster response time than the average person could have ever expected, Charlie knew that successful people like Terry didn’t become successful by operating like the average person, or by resting on their laurels. They acted quickly, decisively, and frequently. Charlie remembered that Terry had said so himself in one of his newspaper interviews. Charlie was so fond of the quote that he not only highlighted it, he also did his best to live by it. But as much as he had liked the quote when he first read it, he appreciated it even more now that he was on the receiving end of its application.

Charlie swelled with pride, knowing that he must have impressed Terry so much that Terry considered it imperative to get his offer in writing before someone else beat him to it. Even before Charlie had ripped open the envelope and plunged his hand inside, he was already plotting his next move. It was the obvious play: He would have to counter Terry’s offer. Charlie was well aware that you must always counter any first offer, especially if it’s a good offer. That was another Terry quote. Terry would have to expect Charlie to do the same, to counter regardless. He might even rescind his offer if Charlie didn’t.

Charlie’s visions of advanced negotiations vanished—along with most of the wind in his sails—when his fingers failed to find an offer letter or even any type of letter. All he came up with was a nondescript flash drive. While it wouldn’t have been out of the realm of possibility that Terry would put his offer on a flash drive, Charlie had a feeling that wasn’t the case, as the drive didn’t have the slightest hint of Abbadon’s company colors. It was royal blue with splashes of yellow.

Charlie examined the drive in his palm. The color scheme seemed vaguely familiar to him. He flipped the drive over, checking the other side. A decal read
pega systems
.

Charlie realized why it had looked familiar. It was from a company that his parents and Walter had started and sold no more than five years ago. Charlie even had the matching business card in his bedroom desk. He never kept the flash drives, though. That was all Walter. Walter loved to pilfer all of the old promotional electronics, particularly the flash drives. “You can never have too many flash drives,” Walter would always tell him. Charlie had heard the line so many times that it was still as fresh as the day Walter had first said it.

Charlie repeated the line to himself. That’s when the truth hit Charlie like a Mike Tyson uppercut. The package wasn’t from Terry—it was from Walter.