Because It Is My Blood (Birthright #2)(12)

“I’m trying to avoid making a public spectacle of myself these days, Mister … Uh, Syl,” I said.

“Understood,” he said. “Though I wonder…” Syl furrowed his brow. “You are known, for better or for worse, and that’s power, my friend. If you’ve got a chess set, why play checkers?” Syl offered me his hand, and I shook it. “Perhaps I’ll be seeing you again someday, Anya Balanchine.”

I doubted that very much.

*   *   *

“I didn’t think that place was right for you anyway,” Mr. Kipling said as we walked back to his office. There was a light rain, and Mr. Kipling’s bald head was shiny with mist. “No letter grades. And that weird smell. And what kind of headmaster doesn’t have any furniture?” We stopped to wait for a walk signal. “Don’t worry, Anya. We’ll find a school for you. A far better one than that.”

“Honestly, Mr. Kipling, if Leary Alternative doesn’t want me, what school will? There isn’t a school in the city that has a reputation for being more liberal than Leary, and even they think I’m damaged goods. And they’re probably right.” I was standing on a street corner at one thirty in the afternoon on a Monday, and I didn’t want to be. I wanted to be at Trinity. I wanted to be pretending to fence or complaining about tofu lasagna. I hadn’t realized how much of my identity was wrapped up in that uniform, in that school. I felt as if I belonged nowhere. Despite my resolution to count my blessings, I was starting to feel very sorry for myself.

“Oh, Annie. I wish I could make this easier for you.” Mr. Kipling took my hands in his. The rain had picked up, and the traffic light had turned, but neither of us moved. “All I can say is that this, too, shall pass.”

I looked at my longtime adviser. If he had a weakness, perhaps it was that he loved me too well and expected the rest of the world to conform to his opinion. I kissed him on his bald head. “Thank you, Mr. Kipling.”

Mr. Kipling blushed a deep scarlet. “For what, Annie?”

“You always believe in me. I’m old enough to appreciate that now.”

Back at Mr. Kipling’s office, we were joined by Simon Green, and the three of us went over my options. “As I see it,” Simon Green said, “there are still a handful of other schools in Manhattan we could try—”

I interrupted him. “But don’t you think the others are even more likely to have the objections that Leary Alternative had about me?”

Simon Green took a moment to consider this. “I’m not a mind reader, and of course, I’m not saying I agree with them, but yes, I do.”

“Maybe that hippie headmaster was right,” Mr. Kipling said. “You could take a year off—”

“But I don’t want to take the year off!” I protested. I’d be practically nineteen when I graduated and that was dangerously close to twenty, i.e., ancient. “I want to graduate with everyone else.”

“So, we look at schools outside New York,” Simon Green suggested. “People won’t know who you are there. Finishing schools in Europe, college-prep programs, even military schools.”

“A military school! I…” I couldn’t even complete the thought.

“Simon, Anya is not going to a military school,” Mr. Kipling said softly.

“I was only brainstorming,” Simon Green apologized. “I thought that a military school might be liberal about admittance after the semester had started. Even considering Anya’s … history.”

My history. Naïvely perhaps, I had thought the worst of this would be over once I had served my time at Liberty, but that wasn’t turning out to be the case. I walked over to the window. Kipling & Sons had a view of Madison Square Park. After dark, all the chocolate dealers hung out there. I’d gone with Daddy when I was a little kid. You could get just about any kind of chocolate there—Belgian, bittersweet, baking, and of course, Balanchine. That was when chocolate had been my favorite flavor in the world and before it had taken away almost everyone I loved, and ruined my life. I rested my temple on the glass. “I hate chocolate,” I whispered.

Simon Green put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t say that, Anya,” he said gently.

“Why shouldn’t I? It’s brown, ugly, altogether aesthetically unappealing. It’s unhealthy, addictive, illegal. It’s bitter when it’s good and too sweet when it’s cheap. I can’t honestly understand why anyone bothers with the stuff. If I woke up tomorrow and the world had no chocolate in it, I would be a happier person.”

Mr. Kipling put his hand on my other shoulder. “You can hate chocolate today if you want. But I wouldn’t make a policy of it. Your grandfather was chocolate. Your father was chocolate. And you, my girl, are chocolate.”

I turned around to face my lawyers. “Look into all the options for schools, bearing in mind that I really can’t leave Natty. If we don’t find anything, maybe I’ll get a job.”

“A job?” Simon Green asked. “What skills do you have?”

“I have no idea.” I told them we’d talk later in the week and then I headed out the door.

I was still waiting at the bus stop when Simon Green caught up with me. “Mr. Kipling says I’m to accompany you home.”