“You fucking suck!” some guy shouts, but I ignore him. If there’s anything I’m good at, it’s school. This is where I shine. If I could, I’d be a professional student for the rest of my life. Taking a deep breath, I turn and face the class. My eyes catch on Tristan’s gray glare and sharp frown before sliding over to Zayd’s emerald green irises and derisive smirk. I won’t let anyone beat me down, not ever again.
“My inspiration for this piece comes from J.K. Rowling’s The Tales of Beedle the Bard,” I start, projecting my voice toward the audience. I had to do this to win the Cabot Scholarship Award, too, give a speech. What makes this any different? The thing is, I’m definitely not going to be spilling my guts to the Burberry Prep students. No way in hell. “As a child, it was not only my favorite book, but it also gave me my favorite memory. That’s something I’ll forever be grateful for.” Pausing, I run my fingers over the shiny surface of the canvas, marveling at the colors. It wasn’t easy to get the effect I was looking for, this rainbow balayage that fades from violet at the top to red at the bottom.
“Isn’t that a faggot flag?” the asshole guy asks, the one who shouted at me. “Did you make a frigging Pride flag for art?” The laughter that follows his statement is dark and threaded with violence, a sound that’s echoed in the chuckles of those around him. Zayd and Tristan aren’t laughing, but they seem to be enjoying my pain, letting their followers do the dirty work for them.
“Mr. Hannibal, would you like to go to the office with me and discuss your treatment of LGBTQ individuals?” Mrs. Amberton’s lips are pursed, and the way she looks at John Hannibal is less than pleasant. He’s in the Inner Circle, that much I have memorized. Know thy enemies and all that.
“Go ahead and take me in. You know my father’s stance on that stuff.” Mrs. Amberton frowns, but she doesn’t say anything else. I decide then that even if I do like her, she isn’t strong enough to protect me in here. John Hannibal’s father is a conservative senator from Tennessee, and built his platform on keeping gay marriage off the books in his state. Of course, that’s null and void now with the Supreme Court ruling, but I’d bet my life that his views have remained much the same.
“The warm memories from that time in my life have filtered through a child’s mind and turned into a prism of color,” I continue, feeling my palms start to get sweaty. I can feel the eyes of the Idols on me, especially Tristan and Zayd. The latter has one brow raised, his tattooed fingers tapping a rhythm out on the arm of his seat. The former … he’s got a slight quirk to one edge of his mouth now, like he’s just thought of something horrible to do to me. “Turning the words of that book, and the memories of that time, into a piece of dynamic art was a cathartic experience. I lived my best childhood memories with each and every stroke.”
“That’s what she said,” Harper purrs, and the class erupts with laughter.
Mrs. Amberton sighs heavily, but none of the teachers does a damn thing.
Classism holds sway in every corner of the world, I guess. Not even art and academics are safe.
“Thank you,” I say, leaving my piece on the stage and heading back to my seat. Nobody claps for me except Miranda and the teachers, all the more humiliating for the way it echoes in the giant lecture hall. Mr. Carter moves my piece aside, and calls the next name on his list.
On my way back up the steps to my seat, someone puts their foot in the aisle and trips me. I go down so hard that my chin slams on the floor and my mouth fills with blood.
I spend the rest of the day in the nurse’s office with a migraine.
When I get back to my dorm later on that afternoon, there’s a bunch of rainbow flags taped to my door, and a lesbian porno Blu-ray on the floor. I pick it up with a sigh, and pull all but the biggest flag down, leaving it to hang proudly on my door. I’m as straight as they come, but I’m also a fierce ally. I have no problem letting my Pride flag fly.
The rest of the flags, I tuck into my nightstand drawer for safe keeping.
If the students at Burberry Prep want to break me, they’ll have to try much, much harder than that.“This week wasn’t so bad, right?” Miranda asks, sitting on the edge of the table in the library and kicking her legs. Her skirt is so short today that I can see that she’s wearing a garter belt and thigh-highs instead of just tights like I’d thought. I wonder about that, but I don’t feel like we’re good enough friends to ask. A part of me thinks she might be dating Tristan Vanderbilt, but it’s such a horrible thought that I don’t want to put words to it.
