Chapter 8 The Great Brain Cell Evacuation

• Solomon spent three days pacing his apartment floor. He stared at his phone, ran his hands through his unwashed hair, and muttered to himself.
• The fight with Chardonnay rang in his ears, but he pushed it aside. In his mind, the truth was simple. Freya still loved him. Atticus had used money and power to trick her. Solomon decided he had to rescue her from his own father.
• ​He called three of his best friends over to brainstorm. They sat around his coffee table surrounded by empty soda cans and cold pizza boxes.
• ​"What about skywriting?" Greg asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Big letters. Freya, I'm Sorry."
• ​"Too small," Solomon said, waving his hand. "She needs something massive."
• ​"A marching band!" Mark shouted, slapping the table. "With trumpets and drums!"
• ​"Or a hot-air balloon," Todd suggested. "You could float down onto the lawn like a hero."
• ​"Doves," Greg added. "Fifty white doves."
• ​Solomon slammed his fist on the glass table. "We do all of it. Moderation is for cowards. We start with a flash mob right outside her window."
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• ​Later that evening, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of orange. I sat curled up in an armchair in my bedroom, holding a paperback novel. The house was quiet. Solomon had vanished for nearly a week, and I enjoyed every second of the peace.
• ​Then the quiet shattered.
• ​Synthetic bass notes blasted through my window, vibrating the glass panes. Heavy drums thumped against the exterior walls.
• ​I dropped my book and rushed to the window, throwing the glass open.
• ​More than twenty or so dancers in matching silver jackets shuffled into formation across the manicured lawn. Portable speakers stacked three feet high shook the flowerbeds. Smoke machines blew thick white clouds over the grass. Two men unrolled a giant red banner that read: FREYA, COME BACK TO ME.
• ​"You have got to be kidding me," I muttered, pressing my hand against my forehead.
• ​Headlights flashed down the street as neighbors leaned out their front doors, holding up smartphones to record the spectacle.
• ​The bedroom door pushed open behind me. Atticus walked into the room, holding a champagne flute in one hand. He stood beside me at the window, staring down at the silver-jacketed dancers doing synchronized kicks.
• ​"Is that a flash mob?" Atticus asked softly.
• ​"It appears so," I said, pointing at the banner.
• ​He watched for ten seconds, taking a slow sip from his mug. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, pressing speed dial.
• ​"Yes. Security," Atticus said into the receiver. "There appears to be a coordinated disturbance on my property."
• ​He paused, watching a dancer pull off a clumsy backflip.
• ​"And apparently in my airspace," Atticus added. "Clear them out."
• ​He tapped the screen to end the call. Within five minutes, three security vans pulled up onto the grass. Red and blue lights flashed as police cruisers arrived right behind them. Sirens squawked.
• The dancers scattered like ants, tossing their smoke machines into the bushes and running down the driveway.
• ​The mob collapsed into complete chaos. But Solomon was not finished.
• ​While the guards chased the dancers toward the main gate, a wooden ladder scraped against the side of the house. Metal rungs clinked against the brickwork just below my windowsill.
• ​I leaned over the ledge and looked down. Solomon scrambled up the ladder, his shoes slipping on the wooden steps.
• ​"Freya!" Solomon shouted, clinging to the ladder as it wobbled sideways. "Listen to me!"
• ​"Why are you on a ladder?" I yelled back.
• ​"Because love requires sacrifice!" he screamed, wiping sweat from his eyes.
• ​"You're trespassing, Solomon! Also, this is your house?! What the heck is wrong with you?"
• ​"None of that matters right now!" he yelled, taking another shaky step up. "I'm coming to save you!"
• ​Solomon reached the top rung, his face lighting up as he saw his father. "Dad! Move out of the way!"
• ​Atticus rested his hand on the window frame, raising the flute high into the air. "Good evening, son."
• ​He tipped the glass upside down.
• ​A heavy stream of cold champagne poured straight over the window frame, landing squarely on Solomon’s head. The liquid soaked his hair, splattered across his forehead, and ran down his neck into his open shirt collar.
• ​Solomon sputtered, coughing and wiping his eyes as the ladder creaked violently beneath him. "Dad! What are you doing?!"
• ​"It's raining wealth, son," Atticus said calmly. He let go of the empty flute, dropping it into Solomon's wet hands. "Catch."
• ​Atticus reached out and pulled the window shut, latching the lock with a quick flick of his wrist.
• ​I dropped to the floor, clutching my stomach as wild, breathless laughter tore through my throat. Solomon’s muffled shouts rattled the glass from outside before a loud crash signaled the end of his ladder climb.
• This house was more interesting than I thought.