TUESDAY/THURSDAY/2nd FRIDAY:
Homeroom: Mrs. Felton, Room T112
Period 1: AP Chemistry, Room SB1
Period 2: Art, Music, and Dance, Room MM1
Lunch Period
Period 3: Government, History, and Civics, Room CH3MANDATORY FOR ALL FIRST YEARS:
Physical fitness and health class is held in the gym every other Monday after school unless the student is participating in team sports. Absences require a coach’s written approval. This is compulsory beginning the second week of class.Tucking my schedule in my pocket, I follow Miranda to our shared homeroom class on the twelfth floor of the first of the four towers I saw in the courtyard this morning. Based on my own life experiences, I’m already dreading walking up twelve flights of stone steps. But once we get inside the ancient looking stone structure, it’s all modern luxuries: including an elevator.
An elevator, in a high school. Wow, so this is how the other half lives? Of course, if it were up to me, I’d scrap the elevators and offer the money needed for their maintenance and installation to more scholarship students, buuuuuut that’s just me. Guess I’m in the minority. After all, I am the only scholarship student in the entire school.
Between these families, there’s literally billions of dollars floating around, and they can’t be bothered to search out a dozen qualified students to lift out of poverty. Fantastic.
“Shit,” Miranda mumbles as we file into the elevator, our bookbags held in front of our short skirts. I’m starting to learn that when the wind blows, and a Marilyn Monroe moment is imminent, the bookbag’s to be used as a shield. Oh, and also, I need to seriously invest in better panties. The ones I’m wearing currently are plain cotton, and an embarrassing shade of baby pink. From what I’ve seen—and I’ve seen a lot on the walk between the chapel building and what the students call Tower One—everyone else is wearing lacy thongs and silky scraps. “Tristan’s coming this way.”
“Out of the elevator, Charity,” he tells me, a smirk curving his lips as he slams a palm against the closing doors and halts them in their tracks. “You’re new, so I won’t have you flogged for the infraction, but get the fuck out.”
“First off, the name is Marnye. Second, there’s plenty of room in here for all of us,” I start, but Miranda’s already grabbing me by the arm and dragging me back out into the lobby. Tristan’s gray eyes track my movements like a predator just waiting for his prey to slip up. I can imagine that if I fell, he’d be at my throat in an instant.
“Idols ride first, and they ride alone,” Miranda says, but that’s just before Tristan herds the trio of smirking girls behind him into the elevator. He watches me as the doors closed, but his expression is far from pleasant. It’s like he’s trying to drink in my suffering, no droplet too small to lap up. “Unless, you know, they want company. Day one and he’s already gathered himself a harem. Typical.”
“How is he already an Idol if he’s a first year?” I ask, and Miranda sighs, waiting for the elevator to tick up to the top floor before it starts to come down again. “Is there a legacy bonus for that, too?” I do my best not to eye roll, but the scores I needed to get into this school had to be forty percent higher than some of the other students because of their ‘legacy bonus’, i.e. points on their application granted to them simply for having family members who attended the school before them.
“Well, not technically, but reputations do carry. Tristan Vanderbilt’s been a big deal since he started going to preschool on the junior campus.” The doors to the elevator open, and Miranda waves me on. We stand side by side, our shiny black loafers identical from heel to toe.
Pursing my lips, I decide to keep the rest of my commentary to myself. My day hasn’t even officially started yet, and I’m already in a world of trouble.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open, revealing a classroom beyond the likes of anything I ever could’ve imagined. Even the website and the brochures didn’t prepare me for this.
“Holy crap,” I whisper, looking up at the chandelier above our heads. It’s clearly new, but designed with the time period of the building in mind, little flame-shaped bulbs where candles would’ve stood once upon a time. Instead of desks, there are three tables set in a U-shape, their mahogany surfaces gleaming.
Ms. Felton sits in the center at a small, but ornate desk of her own. Most of the chairs are already filled, and I realize that everyone’s looking our way, waiting for us to sit. Miranda and I take hasty seats in the last two available spots, and I’m relieved that she is sitting next to that Gregory guy, and I’m not.
