Paolo eyed the broad stripe of blue that stretched through the Outer Peristyle garden, toward the Doric pillars at the far end of the fake Roman villa. Maybe if he could immerse himself in that glassy, turquoise water, he’d be able to shift the anxiety that seemed to have settled on him since that horrible night in Malibu Canyon. He fumbled with the leaflet they’d been handed at the start of Van Buren High School’s tour. It was the first activity of a summer school program he’d promised his parents he’d join. They didn’t want their son to spend 100 percent of his time training for the tennis tournaments in July, and while Paolo still had ambitions aside from being a tennis pro, he had to go along with what they wanted. Or else his parents might stop funding his emancipated lifestyle—the last thing he wanted them to do. John-Michael had gamely agreed to join him in a college-prep course enticingly titled “Art History—Beauty Meets Brutality.” He wasn’t obligated by any kind of parental edict—John-Michael’s funds came directly from an inherited trust fund that was set up to pay for his education and living costs until he was twenty-five.
