Good as gold, p.1
Good as Gold, page 1
Copyright © 2023 by Disney Enterprises, Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Buena Vista Books, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 77 West 66th Street, New York, New York 10023.
First Edition, June 2023
Designed by Tyler Nevins
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022951495
Hardcover ISBN 978-1-368-09025-4
eBook ISBN 978-1-368-09625-6
Visit www.HyperionTeens.com
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Ninteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For Grandma Essie, who told me our histories and encouraged me to keep them in the light
To my writing buddy, Mister. You were so loved.
PROLOGUE
The beam of his flashlight scanned the tree line, casting spindly shadows against the dark woods. I held my arms close to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible as I hid behind a large spruce. My chest rose and fell in short spurts, my breathing harried. The sound of water thundering through the dam dominated the air, but I covered my mouth with my hand so that he couldn’t hear me.
I crouched there for a while, waiting for the searchlight to shift focus to the other side of the woods. Then I sprang up and took off in the direction of my car. The old coins clinked in my full pockets, making me sound like a rattled piggy bank. I pressed my hands against my sides to silence them.
“Get back here, Casey!” he howled.
His footsteps came quickly behind mine as I ran through the patch of trees, his flashlight in a tailspin as he matched my hurried steps. Leaves and twigs snapped and snarled beneath his swift footsteps. The light grew brighter. He was faster than me, and he was getting close. Too close.
I shoved my hand in my pocket and grabbed a fistful of coins, then tossed them over my shoulder, praying that it would slow him down—that he would drop to his knees and search the forest floor for my treasure.
But he didn’t stop. He didn’t want the coins. He wanted to know what else we’d found buried in the depths of Langston. He wanted to know exactly where to find it.
And then he wanted to silence us forever.
A gunshot sliced through the noise of the dam, through my ragged breathing, through my pursuer’s footsteps. I fell to the ground with a thud.
ONE
Old Colonel Langston loomed large in all of our lives. Prominently placed on the pristine lawn of the roundabout in our community’s hub, his marble statue was hard to miss. He towered above his pedestal atop a horse mid-canter, his chest puffed up proudly as he gripped the reins with his famed hands—hands that a hundred years ago had transformed the abandoned mining town of Toulouse into a lakeside retreat named after him. His inscrutable gaze followed you, or at least that’s what people said. But that was just something for the tourists to eat up.
A family posed for a selfie in front of the statue, angling their camera so that they could capture the colonel and the gleaming country club behind them. I often wondered why visitors wanted to snap a picture with a confederate officer. It was weird. Sure, local lore claimed that Langston was different from the others, that he had atoned for his sins through various charitable acts. But maybe that was yet another thing for the tourists to eat up—after all, their business was the lifeblood of our Blue Ridge Mountain economy. Maybe we were just lying to ourselves.
I dodged the tourists and hurried across the street, my eyes darting to the colonel’s before returning back to the Gatsbyesque facade of the club. Framed by bowers of ivy climbing up crisscrossed lattices, the marble entryway had an imposing yet enticing feel. The hallway gave way to a large foyer, paneled in mahogany with gilded frames featuring old photos of the town’s construction—Colonel Langston inspecting marble stone and overseeing the building of the town; even a frame of the original deed to all of the surrounding land hung there. It was part of our history, the pride of Langston lined up in a row for all to admire. Nonmembers could access the hall to view this makeshift museum, but they weren’t allowed to cross the velvet rope into the rest of the club.
I’d crossed that threshold countless times, never really seeing the splendor. And now that my family had lost its membership—along with almost everything else—I missed those lazy days lounging on the deck, watching the sunset over the veranda.
But those days were over. I wasn’t here to kick up my feet. I was here to work.
Taking one last glance at the front of the club, I walked along the unevenly laid path to the back of the restaurant, where tree roots had pushed up the brick pavers in jagged directions and opportunistic weeds had sprouted up between the gaps, standing in stark contrast to the club’s carefully curated facade. The glitz of old Langston was more muted in these unkempt back shadows, because members didn’t venture here. I didn’t even know this entrance existed before I got a job here. But Langston was two-faced like that.
I’d used every ounce left of my family’s goodwill to land this job, and I was lucky to have it. Admittedly, it was weird waiting on tables at which I used to sit, but the alternative was even scarier. With graduation on the horizon and my college fund bare, I needed the money to help pay for books and moving expenses.
Sure, I could mope around the house like my dad often did, or complain like my mom always did, or completely check out like my sister had. But I was choosing to pull myself up and make my life happen—grasp on to opportunity before it passed me by.
I was a doer, after all.
Pushing through the service entrance, I wove through the crowded hallway, sidestepping serving carts and beverage crates, navigating like a pro. After living in my grandma’s old house for three months, where the rooms were chock-full of my family’s furniture and hers, I was getting good at cramped spaces.
The only thing Grandma Bernie left me in her will was her ruby ring, which arguably should have gone to her daughter, my mom. I didn’t know her reasoning behind that, and now that she was gone, I’d never know. But I wore it almost every day, even when I was in my server’s uniform. She’d always told me that Black women had to dress and act beyond reproach—a Black woman had to be flawless. This bezel-set ruby, with its halo of diamond baguettes, her crowning glory, certainly was flawless.
Hopping over a misplaced mop bucket, I walked through the steamy dishwashing station and into the side galley, where I grabbed an apron off the door hook and hastily tied it around my waist. I pulled my coils into a high bun, just as the manager, Ms. Harold, liked it, adjusting my pearl-studded hair comb so that it wouldn’t get tangled. Before I could get my hair into the hair-tie, a broad shoulder slammed into me.
“Watch it.” B glared at me, her thick eyeliner barely visible through her bushy bangs. Her thinly veiled disdain for me rippled off her shoulders as she carried two entrées balanced on her forearm to a table in her section.
Ms. Harold glided quickly across the dining room, nodding her head with a polite smile at each table she passed. A man held up his hand, wiggling his fingers to catch her attention. She leaned over his table, and nodded at something he said, then her head snapped up, her sharp gaze fixed on me.
“A moment please?” She waved for me to join her, pursing her lips as she watched me weave through the half-full dining room. I fidgeted with my fingers, already running through a dozen excuses for why I was two minutes late, but Ms. Harold ticked her head toward the wineglass in front of the man seated next to us. “This gentleman has been trying to get your attention for a while now. To order another glass of pinot.”
“Uh.” I tilted my head to the side. “I’m sorry, but I just started my shift.”
“Oh.” The man squinted as he peered up at me. Slowly, he nodded his head and drawled, “Now that I think on it, I believe it was the other Black one. Sorry, hon.”
I nearly choked on my tongue as I tried to swallow the string of curse words fighting to break free. I opened my mouth to push back, but Ms. Harold cleared her throat.
“We’ll get your server ASAP. And that glass of wine is of course on the house.” She raised her eyebrows at me. “Send Barbara to me, will you?”
“Okay.” I nodded, barely concealing an eye roll as I turned on my heel. My feet faltered as I darted to the back of house. I felt like such a chickenshit—I should have said something. Better yet, Ms. Harold
I was in a huff by the time I made my way to the time stamp station. I leaned against the wall separating the tearoom from the kitchen and clocked in. A throat cleared behind me.
“I spy somebody late.” A familiar voice came from the private dining room, closed to patrons unless specially reserved. I poked my head through the doorway to find Tanner standing over the glassware steamer, his gloved hands holding a wineglass over the vapor.
“Yeah, because of the asshole at table fourteen,” I grumbled under my breath. I slicked a loose curl into my bun and checked the schedule scrawled onto the wall calendar near the time stamp machine. I was also scheduled for dish duty with Tanner, likely for the large private dinner party later in the evening.
My elbow grazed his arm as I rummaged through the linen cabinet for a spare pair of gloves, and my heart rate ticked up. I yanked my arm away and shut the cupboard, intent on ignoring my body’s reaction just as I did every time he brushed past me in the kitchen or waved at me in the dining room. The fire wall between us remained intact at school, but he was unavoidable at the club.
I’d never spent much time with him before I joined the staff at the club—he was always just another server in the dining room, a vaguely recognizable face at Langston Academy, our private school where he was on scholarship for the swim team. But he was from downstream, near the side of the lake where noise from the dam dominated the air, where all the bumpkins lived. I should know—I currently lived there in my grandma’s old house, but I wasn’t from there and neither were my friends. That was a key distinction.
He didn’t mix with my crew, and I didn’t mix with his.
Sure, he was funny, even charming sometimes. But guys like him would end up right where they started—right here, serving tables for the rest of his life, smoking joints outside the service entrance without an ounce of ambition. Definitely nothing much to entice me.
There was of course that one time I went to a swim meet, because my friend Fatima was crushing hard on Ian Jemmings. And, well, let’s just say Tanner looked great in a Speedo.
He nudged my shoulder, and I nearly screamed. If he could hear my thoughts right now, omg.
“Do you think I got all those pesky fingerprints off the glass?” He held the wineglass up between us, and I could see his playful grin in the reflection of the glass. The corners of his gray eyes crinkled as his smile widened. “Because you know the charmies want only the very best.”
Charmies—that’s what they called us. The charmed ones, born with silver spoons in our mouths. I used to think the name was harmless, but now I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. The downstreamers had a way of adding an edge to it.
His gloved hand reached for a water goblet in front of me. He was so close, I could feel his breath brush across my face. My cheeks started to heat. Good grief, I wished he didn’t have that effect on me. I flinched and slid farther away from him.
“You’re jumpy today.” He hovered the glass over the steam, looking at me in the corner of his eye. “What’s got you all riled up?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I deflected, batting my eyelashes suggestively. I’d rather him think I was late because I was off doing something interesting—not at home, playing referee between my parents and their never-ending feud over the state of our dwindling finances.
“Now I am curious.”
I rolled my eyes and took a step farther down the countertop, maintaining a safe distance.
Squid skidded to a stop in front of the expediting station, wiping his hands against his white uniform before sneaking a fry out of the fryer basket. He was always on the hunt for food, maybe because he had such a high metabolism, or maybe it was because of his rigorous job as the towel boy—or client services specialist, as he preferred to call it. His wiry arms and gangly legs were always in motion as he carted piles of towels to and from the laundry room.
“Hey,” he said to Tanner through a mouthful of fries. He held a plate just beneath his chin to catch any scraps escaping his lips. “You working at the shop tomorrow?”
“Yeah, why?” Tanner sighed and set his goblet into the row of clean glasses.
“Because I was thinking we could get another poker game going.”
“Not a chance.” Tanner ran his gloved fingers through his messy brown curls, shaking his head. “I lost too big last time. And you know I’m saving up.”
“Don’t miss out on a chance to double your money.” Squid raised his eyebrows, his hopeful eyes widening.
“Ron hates when we crowd the store. Why can’t you get a game together at your place?”
“Because my grandmother is sick, bro, and she hates gambling.” He bobbed his head from side to side, looking to the ceiling as he thought more about it. “And loud noises.”
“Yeah, well if she hates loud noises, she should maybe check right under her roof—”
“Shut up about that, dude.” Squid’s brows furrowed, and his eyes flitted to me, like he was worried I’d overhear their conversation. But he wasn’t exactly being stealthy, and it’s nothing I didn’t know already. I knew what they all did on the mountain near the old mine. Shooting bottle rockets and getting high. I could hear it from my house.
Like I said—that’s what downstreamers did.
B strolled in. Her fingers tapped quickly across the touchscreen as she put in a long order from memory. She never seemed to write down any of her orders. Maybe that’s how she’d forgotten that guy’s glass of wine.
I said, “Ms. Harold wants to speak to you ASAP.” I held my chin up, bracing myself for B’s ire, but she only gave me a fleeting glance before returning her attention to the screen without a word of acknowledgment.
I’d count that as one of my more successful interactions with her.
“Hey, chica.” Chef Alessandra leaned her elbow against the steel expediting rack, waving a fork in our general direction. Her eyes honed in on B, ticking her head toward a plate of short ribs resting on the counter. “I need your taste buds for a sec.”
The scowl slid from B’s face, leaving a sly grin in its wake. She stepped away from the register, her hand raised toward Chef’s fork, but Squid sidestepped in front of her. His greedy eyes were fixed on the short ribs.
“Not you.” Chef Alessandra waved her hand, shooing him away.
“Sorry, Chef.” Squid bowed his head, properly chastised.
B elbowed his side and pushed past him, then dipped the fork in the beef. It sliced through easily.
“Mmm. That’s dope.” She closed her eyes, sighing with satisfaction. “What is that?”
“You tell me.” Chef raised an expectant eyebrow.
“Brown sugar and red wine reduction. White onions.” B speared another forkful and brought it to her mouth. She shook her head. “No, those are shallots. And butter, obviously.”
“Lots of it.” Chef pursed her lips, nodding at B’s assessment. It appeared that her informal training had served her eager student well. She looked over B’s shoulder at Squid, who was still eyeing her new dish. “Fine, you can have some. But get from behind the line.”
Squid wiggled into the tight space behind the counter and reached for the fork, but B snatched it away. She took another bite, ignoring his grumbles over her shoulder.
“And . . . citrus. Maybe orange?” B said, passing the fork to Squid’s impatient fingers.
“Very nice.” Chef snapped her fingers and threw her head back with a laugh. She beamed at me and Tanner. “This is my future sous chef here.”
“Yeah, right.” B shook her head dismissively. “Like I can afford culinary school.”
“You’ll find a way like the rest of us did.” Chef ticked her head down the line at the cooks working beside her. With a hopeful smile. “And then maybe one day I’ll be working at your joint.”
“I think that red wine is getting to your head.” And then B flashed one of those rare smiles, one that reached her eyes, mirroring the hopefulness in Chef’s. And I couldn’t help but be curious about the side of B that allowed herself to dream. I’d like to know that B. But she wouldn’t even talk to me.
“So, poker?” Squid turned his attention back to Tanner, his hopeful eyebrows upturned.
“I’ll play you.” B looked over her shoulder, her mercurial gaze locked on Squid. “Heads-up style, Vegas rules?”
