Page 19 of Bound By Fury

Though the school was once divided by sex, it is now coed. It seems, however, that one thing has withstood the test of time: Everywhere I look is a monotony of porcelain—ivory, pale, pearl—in the class photos, in the room I’m in now.

I stick out like a drop of blood in the snow.

As we’re waiting in line, I’m drawn to a display that sits at the back of the large room. I approach it, my fingers grazing the navy velvet rope that shields a wall of class photos dating all the way back to the 1920s, when the final Biltmore heir married into the Matsoukas family, and they decided that all this land and ornate architecture would better serve as a school.

It’s funny, the things that get buried beneath a friendship. We never talked about the fact that Lucas was adopted, we never talked about my dad, we never talked about Malachi’s leg or how the boys were heirs of the school that centers our universe. But it was there, languishing beneath it all. That imbalance of power. The knowledge that they fit here in ways I never would. They were the heart and soul of BMA, of Earnest, of my hopes and dreams.

I shuffle along, taking in the rest of the wall. A large plaque continues to explain the lore of the school, most notably how the opening of Black Mountain Academy followed the unfortunate demise of Western North Carolina’s first school for colored youth—a converted one-room style schoolhouse that mysteriously burned down.

Goose bumps sprout on my arms.

In the photo: a wooden building with a steepled tower and a bell, white peeling paint, and a worn footpath leading to the steps. The schoolhouse was there even before Biltmore was built, and it looks like a lone relic standing guard against the massive construction efforts that surround it.

I’ve seen this school before. Only it was engulfed in flames.

My dream. The men. The witches.

Apparently, in the aftermath of the fire, the family was able to build Lee Chapel and open the gates of the estate, expanding down into the valley, continuing to bring in jobs for the community through the expansion of the institution.

I’m not sure why, but I take out my phone and snap a picture of the display.

“There’s an amazing history to be learned about this campus,” someone says from behind me.

I jump, hand flying to my chest as I turn, taking in the tall, broad-shouldered man. Recognition immediately floods me. His once deep-red hair has further darkened with age and is now peppered with gray near the temples, but flashes of summers past come to mind.

“Mr. Matsoukas!” I squeak. “I didn’t realize you were behind me!”

Alastair Matsoukas’s eyes crinkle at the edges as he clasps his hands behind his back. “Harper,” he says, “it’s good to see you. I’m so happy that you decided to accept our invitation to the school.”

Confused, I look up at the man I’ve barely known for nearly all my life. I take in his tan slacks that are pressed down the middle, and his navy polo with a marigold crest on the shirt pocket. This is a strangely spirited outfit for student check-in day. I know the family is proud of this school and all, but yikes.

At first Alastair seems confused by my confusion, but then he laughs uncomfortably.

“Oh, that’s right! Your award letter was sent out before I officially took over for Mr. King,” he says, scratching at his half-gray stubble. “I’m the new headmaster,” he shrugs sheepishly, his mouth pulling to the side conspiratorially, like we’re both in on some secret I’m not yet privy to.

My stomach churns at the familiar expression.

Integral to the community of Earnest, the Matsoukas family claims to have been here before the first road was carved into the side of Black Mountain, but Gigi used to say that was a load of hogwash.

She said us Black folk were here first. That the Biltmores came and ruined their town, and the Matsoukas family followed shortly after.

Maybe that’s why she always hated the Matsoukases. With their “backward morals and Bible thumping history revisionism” or whatever, and though she never quite approved, at least she looked the other way as the boys and I grew close over the years, in direct defiance of both sides of the property line.

She didn’t like it, and she never failed to tell me so.

But nothing could have kept us apart.

The brothers—Alastair and Josiah Matsoukas—were active at town hall meetings and seasonal events, just like Gigi. That’s how I met Malachi and Lucas. Running amok outside Lee Chapel while the grown-ups argued over what order the upcoming festival floats should be in. Malachi and Lucas have always been the kind of cousins that are more like brothers, both of them often found doting over Malachi’s much younger sister, Alexis.

My chin begins to wobble when her face unwittingly pops into my mind.

Erase it, I think. Don’t think of her, don’t think of her.

“Oh,” I say, “congratulations.” I glance back at my mom who is still waiting in line.

“When a generous donation came in for the arts department, I knew I had to suggest that the spot go to one of the most talented young artists I know,” Alastair says, his chest puffed out with pride.

My cheeks heat. Alastair had always been the calmer of the two elder Matsoukas men, though I never got that good at telling them apart. He was the one to cut us slack when we got caught weaving through the forest separating the two properties. The one to always sneak us fruit snacks and Capri-Suns.