Page 3 of Devils' Day Party
At least today, the guys have something real to be mad about.There are only two schools in our county. One is over an hour away via a bus that starts picking up kids in our area at around six in the morning. My mothers—yes, they’re lesbians and I have two—didn’t want that for me. Instead, Mama Jane, who grew up wealthy, liquidated what was left of her trust fund and prepaid four years at Crescent Preparatory Academy.
It’s a nice school, much nicer than Devil Springs High, the public school that struggles to get a fraction of the funding that the Crescent enjoys. But it’s also in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere—and that’s no accident. It used to be called Crescent Reform School for Boys. Back in the 1800s, any wealthy family east of the Rockies with a troubled son could send their kid there, either to get rid of them or to … fix them. Today, the school functions in much the same way, though not officially. No, now Crescent Prep is where wealthy families send any kids—boys and girls—that they want to disappear. We have pregnant senator’s daughters, disgraced heiresses running from leaked sex tapes, and teen boys too wicked with privilege and hate to fit into high society.
And for three years now, I’ve gone to school with all of them. Outclassed, outmatched, outspent.
The only friend I had at Crescent Prep before our newest addition—a girl named April—enrolled here, was my bestie, Luke.
Luke, who describes herself as a pansexual, genderfluid otaku, has highfalutin fucking asshole parents who can’t handle their kid’s identity. They basically tossed her into the backwoods of Arkansas, so she wouldn’t embarrass them in front of their fancy friends.
“You did what?!” Luke—born Lucille, which is hilarious if you know her—chortles as I narrow my eyes and tap my red and black nails against the side of the rock I’m perched on. “I can see the headline now: three-hundred-thousand-dollar Aston Martin crushed by shitty yellow VW bug with eyelashes. What a glorious start to Devils’ Day!”
“You’re not helping,” I murmur, turning to the third member in our little group of outcasts. April Iseman, the heavily pregnant sophomore that enrolled at Crescent just four months prior, stares back at me, pushing her glasses up her nose and huffing a sigh. Her mom is a state senator for Louisiana with big ambitions, and a pregnant fifteen-now-sixteen-year-old does not fit into her carefully laid plans. “Can you back me up here? There’s nothing good about this. Today is Devils’ Day, for fuck’s sake. Calix and his minions don’t make life easy for me on a normal day. You think today, of all days, was the right time to stage a coup?”
“Well, why did you do it then?” April asks, tilting her head to one side, long, brown hair cascading over her shoulder. She sits primly on another rock, dressed in our school uniform—royal purple skirt and white dress shirt, her tie loose around her neck, Mary Janes polished to a shine. Despite her official status as an outcast, April is leagues apart from the rest of the students who attend Crescent Prep—even me. She’s punctual, studious, respectful … which is why she had little choice but to team up with me and Luke.
“I … don’t remember,” I say, reaching up to rub at my sore head, my hand coming away with a bit of dried blood. The excuse sounds lame, even to my own ears, but it’s true. Something about the way I hit my head must’ve knocked my brain around a bit. No matter how hard I try, how hard I concentrate, I can remember driving down the street toward the gas station and then nothing else until the pain of impact. “But I know I’m not stupid enough to start shit on Devils’ Day.” With a long sigh, I glance up toward the towering sides of Crescent Preparatory Academy.
This area is rife with German influence, brought over by early pioneers, and our school reflects it. The damn thing looks like the fucking Matterhorn entrance at Disneyland, with wood shutters painted with tiny flowers, white stucco walls, and decorative half-timbering.
I’ve never hated a single locale more.
Glancing back at Luke, I find my painted lips pulled down into a severe frown. She’s still laughing at me, stuffing a powdered donut between her lips and grinning.
“Regardless of why you did it, or whether it’s a good idea, it’s still funny. I can just imagine Calix’s stupid face all squinched up with rage. How dare the poorest girl in school stand up to him and his ultrarich friends?” Luke rolls her brown eyes and stands up, stretching her arms above her head. Despite her preference for pants—shorts, actually, even in winter—the school forces Luke to wear the girl’s uniform, complete with pleated wool skirt. “Well, are you going to sit here and sulk all day? Or are you going to stride in those doors like you own the place? I mean, you started the day off with a bang. Don’t disappoint me, Karma.”
