SAINT-VÉRAN

THE GOLDEN BOY

By the end of my first day at Saint-Véran, I have learned one important thing.

Everyone knows Lucien Valmont.

By the end of my second morning, I have learned that everyone has an opinion about him.

By lunchtime, I have heard enough stories to wonder whether Lucien is actually a person or some elaborate academy legend that has been growing for generations.

He is captain of the rugby team.

He has won national fencing competitions.

He boxes.

He is apparently one of the highest-ranked students in the academy despite having the alarming habit of sleeping through study periods.

He comes from one of the oldest families in France.

His grandfather has a portrait hanging in the administration building.

His father sits on some board that I don’t understand.

His family owns vineyards, hotels, estates, and businesses scattered across Europe.

Someone tells me the Valmont name has been associated with Saint-Véran for more than seventy years.

Someone else tells me that isn’t true.

It’s apparently more than a hundred.

I stop listening after that.

I am sitting at a corner table in the dining hall with a bowl of soup I haven’t touched.

The dining hall itself is larger than the cafeteria at my old school.

The ceiling is vaulted, with dark wooden beams crossing overhead.

Tall windows overlook the mountains.

Long tables stretch across the room, covered in white linen.

There are silver cutlery settings.

Actual silver.

I still haven’t gotten used to that.

At my old school, we had plastic forks.

Here, there are three different forks depending on what you’re eating.

I am currently holding the smallest one because I am too embarrassed to ask which one I am supposed to use.

“That’s the dessert fork.”

I look up.

The boy sitting across from me is grinning.

His name is Étienne, and I met him in mathematics.

He seems to have adopted me because, according to him, “everyone needs someone to explain the weirdness around here.”

I put the fork down.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He takes a sip of water.

Then his eyes drift toward the entrance.

His eyebrows lift.

“Oh.”

I turn without meaning to.

Lucien has entered the dining hall.

The room changes.

Not dramatically.

Nobody stops eating.

Nobody announces his arrival.

But something shifts.

Heads turn.

Conversations dip and then resume.

People make space without being asked.

Lucien walks through the room with two members of the rugby team behind him.

He isn’t wearing his blazer.

Instead, he has his white school shirt tucked into dark trousers, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows.

His tie hangs loose around his neck.

His hair is still damp.

Probably from training.

He looks tired.

Or bored.

With Lucien, I’m beginning to realize those expressions are almost identical.

“He looks like he wants to murder someone,” Étienne whispers.

“He always looks like that.”

“Not always.”

Étienne leans closer.

“He smiled once.”

I glance at him.

“Once?”

“Once.”

“When?”

“Three years ago.”

I almost laugh.

“You’re joking.”

“I wish.”

Lucien passes our table.

His eyes move across the room.

Then stop.

On me.

My stomach tightens.

He doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t wave.

He simply looks at me for a moment before continuing toward the rugby table.

I look down at my soup.

“Interesting.”

I glance at Étienne.

“What?”

He gives me a knowing look.

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t a nothing face.”

“It was absolutely a nothing face.”

He takes another sip of water.

Then whispers, “Why does Lucien Valmont know your name?”

I freeze.

“I don’t know.”

“You met yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“You must have done something.”

“I dropped my books.”

Étienne stares at me.

“You dropped your books?”

“Yes.”

“And he helped you?”

“He picked one up.”

“Lucien picked something up for someone?”

“I don’t understand why that’s strange.”

Étienne looks genuinely fascinated.

“He once watched a teacher drop twenty papers down the stairs.”

“And?”

“He walked around them.”

I stare at him.

“Maybe he was in a hurry.”

“He wasn’t.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

I glance toward Lucien again.

He’s sitting with the rugby team.

One of them says something.

Lucien barely reacts.

Then someone laughs.

Lucien doesn’t.

He simply eats.

Calmly.

Quietly.

As though there isn’t an entire dining hall subtly watching him.

I look away.

I don’t want to be involved.

I’ve spent my entire life learning how to stay unnoticed.

It isn’t difficult.

There are rules.

Don’t speak unless necessary.

Don’t interrupt.

Don’t argue.

Don’t attract attention.

Don’t give people reasons to remember you.

At Saint-Véran, those rules seem more important than ever.

Because everyone here has something.

Money.

Connections.

Names.

Influence.

I have a scholarship.

That’s it.

My place here depends on my grades.

So I don’t need distractions.

Especially not one named Lucien Valmont.

By our third class, I have managed to convince myself that yesterday was an isolated incident.

Lucien has no reason to care about me.

He probably doesn’t even remember me.

The fact that he looked at me across the dining hall means nothing.

I repeat this to myself while walking toward history.

It works for approximately thirty seconds.

Then I enter the classroom.

Lucien is already there.

He’s sitting at the back.

His chair is tilted slightly backward.

One arm rests across the back of it.

He looks half asleep.

I stop in the doorway.

There are plenty of empty seats.

Good.

I choose one near the window.

Far away from him.

I sit.

Take out my notebook.

Open it.

The teacher enters.

“Good morning.”

Everyone settles.

I begin taking notes.

Five minutes pass.

Ten.

Then someone pulls out the chair beside me.

I look over.

Lucien.

Of course.

He sits down without asking.

I stare at him.

He opens his notebook.

“You’ve taken my seat.”

I look around.

“Your seat?”

“Yes.”

“This was empty.”

“It was.”

“So?”

He looks at me.

“Now it’s not.”

I blink.

I’m not sure what that means.

“Do you want me to move?”

“No.”

“Then why did you say that?”

He looks toward the board.

“I wanted to see if you’d argue.”

I stare at him.

“I don’t argue.”

“I know.”

There is something strange about the way he says it.

Like he knows much more than he should.

The teacher begins discussing nineteenth-century European politics.

I try to focus.

Lucien doesn’t take notes.

He doesn’t even appear to be listening.

Then the teacher asks a question.

Nobody answers.

I know the answer.

I keep my hand down.

The teacher waits.

Finally, I raise mine.

“Mr. Morel?”

I answer.

The teacher nods.

“Correct.”

I lower my hand.

Beside me, Lucien speaks quietly.

“You’re good.”

I look at him.

“At history?”

“At everything.”

I don’t know how to respond.

So I don’t.

He looks amused.

It’s barely visible.

Just the smallest movement at the corner of his mouth.

Then he turns back toward the board.

I stare at my notebook.

My handwriting has suddenly become terrible.

At lunch, I hear more.

Apparently Lucien has been offered a place at three different universities.

Apparently he turned down two.

Apparently he has no idea what he wants to do.

Apparently his father already knows.

Apparently he is expected to take over the family business.

Apparently he doesn’t care.

Apparently he cares too much.

Apparently he once broke a student’s nose.

Apparently the student deserved it.

Apparently Lucien has never lost a fight.

Apparently he once fought three older students behind the gym.

Apparently he won.

I eventually ask Étienne:

“Does anyone actually know him?”

Étienne thinks about it.

“Probably.”

“Who?”

He points across the courtyard.

Lucien is standing beneath an old chestnut tree.

Alone.

He has a book in one hand.

His other hand is in his pocket.

He isn’t talking to anyone.

People pass around him.

Nobody approaches.

“That’s the strange part,” Étienne says.

“What’s strange?”

“Everyone knows him.”

He pauses.

“But nobody knows him.”

I look at Lucien.

He turns a page.

For a moment, he looks less like Saint-Véran’s golden boy and more like an ordinary eighteen-year-old who happens to be standing alone beneath a tree.

Then he looks up.

Our eyes meet.

Again.

This time, he doesn’t look away.

Neither do I.

I don’t know why.

I should.

I know better.

But something holds me there.

His eyes aren’t cold.

That’s what surprises me.

They’re tired.

Almost sad.

Then someone calls his name.

The spell breaks.

Lucien looks away.

I look down.

My heart is beating too quickly.

I tell myself it’s because I’m nervous.

Nothing more.

After afternoon classes, I head toward the library.

I need to finish my reading before dinner.

The library is my favorite place at Saint-Véran so far.

It’s quiet.

Warm.

Nobody cares where you come from if you can find the right book.

I find a desk near the window.

Lake Geneva is visible through the glass.

The mountains are beginning to turn pink beneath the setting sun.

I open my textbook.

Thirty minutes later, someone drops into the chair opposite me.

I don’t look up.

I already know.

“You’re following me.”

Lucien says nothing.

I finally raise my eyes.

He’s wearing his black blazer again.

His hair is dry now.

He has a small bruise across one knuckle.

I stare at it.

“What happened?”

He looks at his hand.

“Nothing.”

“That doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Then don’t look.”

I immediately look away.

“Sorry.”

His expression changes.

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Apologizing.”

I don’t know what to say.

He reaches across the table.

Takes my pencil.

I watch him turn it between his fingers.

“Why are you here?”

“Studying.”

“Every day?”

“That’s what students do.”

“Not everyone.”

“I noticed.”

He looks at me.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughs.

It’s quiet.

Barely there.

But it’s definitely a laugh.

I stare.

He notices.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“Sorry.”

His eyes narrow.

“I just told you to stop apologizing.”

I close my mouth.

He smiles again.

This time, I definitely see it.

It’s small.

But it changes his entire face.

For a second, I understand why everyone talks about him.

Then he pushes my pencil back across the table.

“You always did that.”

I freeze.

“What?”

He looks like he realizes he’s said too much.

His expression closes.

“Nothing.”

I stare at him.

He looks away.

Outside, the last sunlight disappears behind the mountains.

The library suddenly feels colder.

I look down at my book.

But I can’t read anymore.

Because I know one thing now.

Lucien Valmont isn’t simply interested in annoying me.

There is something else.

Something I can’t understand.

Something about me that he seems to recognize.

And I have no idea what it is.

That night, I return to the dorm.

I unlock the door.

The room is empty.

For some reason, I’m relieved.

I put my books on my desk.

Take off my coat.

Then I notice something on my bed.

A small piece of paper.

I pick it up.

There are only four words written on it.

Stop getting lost, Scholar.

I stare at the handwriting.

I know exactly who wrote it.

I look toward the empty doorway.

For reasons I can’t explain, I smile.

Then immediately stop myself.

This is a bad idea.

Lucien Valmont is trouble.

I know that already.

And someone like him has no business becoming important to someone like me.

I fold the note.

Put it inside my textbook.

And tell myself I won’t keep it.

I know I’m lying.

Because I’ve already decided I will.