Page 52 of The Commons

“I’m borrowing it. It’s not mine.”

“Uh-huh, borrowing it from who? It smells dangerously sexy and it’s huge, so I assume whoever owns it is way over six feet! Obviously a guy.”

“Zia, give it back!” I tackle her to the ground.

“Ow! You’re not answering my question, Shantavia. Who gave you this? Is it a Patron?”

“It’s none of your business!” I grab it from her, securing it inside my safe box. “Plus, I can’t say. I’m sworn to secrecy. But that’s beside the point. Why did you steal my key?”

“Just promise it’s not Zavish.”

“No! Puke, of course not.”

“Okay, okay, I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

“Whatever! Just don’t go through my stuff.”

“You’re so full of secrets.”

“It’s just a sweater.”

“Whatever… but whoever it is must really like you, like an insane amount. That sweater is a limited, custom-made piece for the Common Elite. My dad bent over backwards to try to snag one, and he never did. It’s owned by Patron Lenon’s exclusive common brand. Even Patrons can’t get a hold of one of those pieces. I doubt Zavish even can, but someone in his family most likely can; they usually wear Vicuña wool though. Don’t ask me how I know.”

“What makes it so special?” I sit back down, eyes darting to the mirror.

“Well, first, it’s Patron Lenon. And second, it costs like two million dollars for one! The material it’s made from is also insanely rare and was only recently discovered. This one even looks like it would be worth five million, easy. Trust, I know stupid old money when I see it.”

“You’re joking!”

“No.”

Why the heck did Pesh give me a sweater that costs two million dollars... at least?

Good grief! I have to give this back.

“Anyways, it doesn’t matter. Back to your hair!” She grabs a hair straightener and unravels the cord.

“Zia, you know you don’t have to help me. I got it⁠—”

“The only time you ever straightened your hair was in first grade, the day you met your sister for the first time. That was you and her thing. I’m not her. But I’m sure you miss her since she’s doing the study abroad.” That’s what everyone thinks. “And moreover, I’ve been waiting for this moment since the day I met you,” she admits. “Doing hair is therapy for me. I can’t sleep anymore. I keep having nightmares about my tests. Here, I’ll take this side with my wand. You take the other. Your hair is huge and long. It’s going to take more than one person to get it done in time.” She drives her hands through my strands.

“Tell me about it. Good luck,” I reply, sarcastic.

“Why do you hate straightening your hair so much anyway?”

“I don’t hate it. I just… despise it.”

She bursts out in laughter. Suddenly, she covers her mouth with her hands.

“Shh, it’s 2 a.m.!”

“Sorry!” She takes a section of my hair and straightens it.

“Have you ever thought about going blonde?”

“No.”

“Oh.”