Hey, Mister Marshall (St. Mary's Rebels 4)

Not that I can see much of anything.

For a variety of reasons.

The very first one is that I can’t see. Not without my glasses, and I am only now realizing that I left them in my room.

And secondly because I’m crying.

I’m crying because I’m angry. And I’m frustrated and because I’m trapped here.

In this strange mansion. And in this strange town.

With a strange man who doesn’t even talk to me.

And that’s because my mother is dead.

She died in a car crash three weeks ago while on her way to an impromptu vacation in Florida. A vacation I had no clue about.

It wasn’t unusual, you see.

Her jetting off to vacations and exotic locations.

Because my mother is – was – Charlie Blyton.

Yeah, the Charlie Blyton.

The famous daytime soap opera actress.

And so her schedule has always been busy.

Too busy. At least for me, her daughter.

She’d leave for places, and I’d find out about it days later. And this time I found out about it when they called the house with the news of her accident.

And now I’m stuck here in this town that I know nothing about when New York has always been home for me and I want to go back.

God, I want to go back so badly.

So so badly that standing here, crying and blind — also getting drenched because it’s been raining pretty hard since yesterday; the third reason I can’t see much — a new plan forms in my head.

About running away.

Yes.

Maybe I should simply run away.

Run back to New York and figure all the details out later.

I mean, I wanted to do this the right way, okay?

That was the whole point of my prank yesterday. That was why I wanted to get his attention.

So we could talk.

So I could make him understand that this is not the place for me. I don’t belong here. I belong back in New York. The amazing city that I grew up in.

So he needs to let me go.

Sniffling, I squint through the rain, trying to see the clearing that surrounds this place. It’s a blur right now, through tears, rain and poor eyesight. But I know that the clearing is a vast carpet of green. And then there are thick woods that border this whole property. I’m not sure how dense these woods are but I’m pretty sure I could find my way through them if I wanted to.

I could do anything I wanted to.

“You’re a badass, Poe,” I say to myself, wiping my tears off; not that it matters in the rain, but still. “You’re a fucking badass. You can do this. You can go back to New York. How hard can it be to navigate a bunch of trees really?”

“That’s the wrong way.”

At the sudden words coming from behind me, I jump and whirl around, my hand on my chest, my back pressed against the concrete railing.

And there, standing at a distance from me, is the man I’ve been constantly thinking about.

Every second of every day, for the past two and a half weeks.

Ever since I heard his name.

Alaric Marshall.

Actually, Alaric Rule Marshall.

“What kind of a name is that?” I remember asking Marty, my mom’s lawyer. “Rule.”

“Well,” he said, shifting in his seat, inching up his glasses, “it’s his name.”

“It’s a bullshit name,” I said, sitting across from him in my mom’s office back home. “Who the fuck is he?”

His white bushy eyebrows went up at my curse but he did reply, “Well, uh, he lives in Middlemarch, the town Charlie grew up in. And from what your mother has mentioned, the Marshalls were close to the Blytons, your grandparents. They were family friends. Now, your grandparents are dead, and your father’s whereabouts have always been unknown. So in her will, Charlie has indicated that if something should happen to her, the Marshalls are to have custody of you. Specifically a Mr. Theodore Marshall. This was a very far-fetched thing, you understand. No one was expecting this to happen, Poe. Least of all your mother, and well, she had to name someone and no one else —”

“If I’m to be in the custody of this Theodore Marshall,” I spoke over him, “then I’m going to ask you again: who the fuck is this Alaric Rule Marshall? What, his older, more boring brother? Father?” Then, after a second or two, “Grandfather?”

He could be a grandfather.

Because the name sure sounded like it belonged to a ninety-year-old man with a mop of white hair and gold-framed glasses like Marty.

Marty inched up those glasses again. “Well, Mr. Theodore Marshall is not capable of handling your care anymore. He’s been indisposed for a couple of years. Health reasons. And all his affairs and responsibilities have been taken over by his son. Alaric Marshall is the son.” When I went to interrupt him again, Marty went on, “But rest assured, I have checked and double-checked all the details. I remember Charlie mentioning that she went to school with Mr. Marshall and that they were sort of friends, and he has agreed to…”